“How are you, Mr. North!” he said, and John North halted suddenly.

“Oh, it’s you, Shrimp!  A nasty night, isn’t it?”

“It’s the suffering human limit!” rejoined Mr. Shrimplin with feeling.

As he spoke the town bell rang the hour; unconsciously, perhaps, the two men paused until the last reverberating stroke had spent itself in the snowy distance.

“Six o’clock,” observed Mr. Shrimplin.

“Good night, Shrimp,” replied North irrelevantly.

He turned away and an instant later was engulfed in the wintry night.

Having at last pointed Bill’s head in the right direction Mr. Shrimplin drove that trusty beast up to the lamp-post on the corner of High Street, when suddenly and for no apparent reason Bill settled back in the shafts and exhibited unmistakable, though humiliating symptoms of fright.

“Go on, you!” cried Mr. Shrimplin, slapping bravely with both the lines, but his voice was far from steady, for suppose Bill should abandon the rectitude of a lifetime and begin to kick.

“Go on, you!” repeated Mr. Shrimplin and slapped the lines again, but less vigorously, for by this time Bill was unquestionably backing away from the curb.

“Be done!  Be done!” expostulated Mr. Shrimplin, but he gave over slapping the lines, for why irritate Bill in his present uncertain mood?  “Want I should get out and lead you?” asked Mr. Shrimplin, putting aside with one hand the blankets in which he was wrapped.  “You’re a game old codger, ain’t you?  I guess you ain’t aware you’ve growed up!”

While he was still speaking he slipped to the ground and worked his way hand over hand up the lines to Bill’s bit.  Bill was now comfortably located on his haunches, but evidently still dissatisfied for he continued to back vigorously, drawing the protesting little lamplighter after him.  When he had put perhaps twenty feet between himself and the lamp-post Bill achieved his usual upright attitude and his countenance assumed its habitual contemplative expression, the haunted look faded from his sagacious eye and his flaming nostrils resumed their normal benevolent expression.  Taking note of these swift changes, it occurred to Mr. Shrimplin that rather than risk a repetition of his recent experience he would so far sacrifice his official dignity as to go on foot to the lamp-post.  Bill would probably stand where he was, indefinitely, standing being one of his most valued accomplishments.  The lamplighter took up his torch which he had put aside in the struggle with Bill and walked to the curb.

And here Mr. Shrimplin noticed that which had not before caught his attention.  McBride’s store was apparently open, for the bracketed oil lamps that hung at regular intervals the full length of the long narrow room, were all alight.

Mr. Shrimplin, whose moods were likely to be critical and censorious, realized that there was something personally offensive in the fact that Archibald McBride had chosen to disregard a holiday which his fellow-merchants had so very generally observed.