THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
Haven't I seen 'em hunting for trouble and shedding the briny when they couldn't find it? Sure. And then going home and beating up the old lady? Sure again. An Irishman when he's drunk is generally fighting drunk. So we don't speak beyond a mug of hops once in a while."
"I wish I could say that," Camden confessed. "Many's the morning I've had that kink in the back. So you won't tell us what happened last night?"
"Nope."
"But some one else may get into the same fix," protested the doctor.
"Then let some one else do the hollering."
"You're Irish, all right. Do you box?"
"Couple of times the week. But, believe me, I've a lot to learn in the fight game. I thought I had all the frayed ends. Jiu-jitsu, huh? Well, when I get to Japan I'll have a look at that stuff. It's good." William laughed. "I ought to know. Do you know anything about that game, Camden?"
"I? Lord, no! Feel of this arm."
William felt of it. "Pretty soft. But that's nothing. I've known pugs who looked soft and could hit with the kick of a mule."
"Don't ever point that fist of yours my way."
"If I do," replied William, "you beat it. I'm Irish, red-headed, and none too particular when I'm mad."
"I'll beat it," said Camden, seriously. "Come and have a pop while the doctor and I have our pegs."
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