A fat, smiling woman in curl
papers, with a baby in her arms, and six youngsters in varying stages
of Sabbath cleanliness, hung upon the words of a man who sat in a
large, plush self-rocker, and read from a highly colored picture book.
In the head of the family Dillingham recognized Richard Sheeley, ex-
pugilist, and present proprietor of the Cant-Pass-It.
"Well, if it ain't Mr. Dillingham!" exclaimed Sheeley, throwing open
the door in answer to their knock. "Soaked through, ain't you? Little
somethin' to warm you up? Sure. Just come in and wait 'til I git on my
shoes and find an umbrella and I'll go over with you. Don't keep a
drop here," he added in a whisper, behind a hand so large that he
evidently regarded it as sound proof. "Missus won't stand fer it,
'count of the kids, eh?"
"That's him, Ma, the one I was telling you about," Richard Sheeley,
Jr.,--yclept "Skeeter"--tugged at his mother's sleeve, nodding his
head at Donald, who was making love to the smallest and shyest of the
daughters of the house.
"She ain't as meek as she looks!" Mrs. Sheeley was saying, as she
tried to get the child from behind her skirts. "She's got her popper's
temper along with his smartness.
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