It was a double door
with the upper parts in colored glass, on which was boldly lettered,
The CANT-PASS-IT SALOON.
In one of the windows a placard informed the famishing residents of
Billy-goat Hill that their thirst might not be assuaged until after
twelve o'clock on Sunday night.
As Donald stood in the doorway, an automobile turned the corner and
came to a stop, the lights from the lamps shining on the wet street,
and throwing everything outside their radius into sudden darkness.
A man got out of the machine and ran for shelter. He was coughing, and
held his collar close about his throat.
"Why, hello, Dillingham," said Morley, recognizing him. "How did you
get out here?"
"Joy-riding," said Dillingham with a curl of his lip. "Tried to make a
short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?"
"I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the
shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?"
Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a
short, sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory
puffs under his somewhat prominent eyes.
"Chilled to the bone," he chattered.
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