THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
The Japanese consul, aged seventy, would be the last person to jump on his back. Doubtless he had been robbed by some deck-hand. Thirty dollars was a lot of money to lose, but whining wouldn't bring it back. So he came to the conclusion for the second time to let the matter drop.
I forgot to mention that every afternoon, from tea-time to bugle, William went to school, as it were. He learned quickly—the things that interested him; and his teacher thoroughly enjoyed the labor. It never occurred to him that he was having a lesson every day. But by and by it dawned upon her that she could hold him only when she described some great warrior or some tremendous battle. As for art, architecture, and general literature, William listened dutifully, but the information went into one ear and out the other. But battle—"the spot where So-and-so whaled the daylights out of Watchamacallem!" Cæsar, Hannibal, Alexander, Napoleon, Cellini, and John L. Sullivan—those were the boys!
She tried to get him interested in Morte Arthure, but failed signally.
"Aw, nobody ever talked like that. I'd be a fine false-alarm, wouldn't I, if I went up to a man, took off my lid, and bowed and gave him that kind of con. 'Noble sir, it pains my eyesight and my heart sorrily, but I am about to hand you one in the slats.' And what would he be doing while I pulled that line of talk? Good night!"
"I don't suppose Nick Carter ever talked like that," she said, ironically.
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