THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
mittent glowing above the crater. Hadn't she called it the Pipe of Vulcan? He could not see the outlines of the great, sinister heap; all that was visible was the dull glowing. It was exactly as if some giant stood over there in the east, smoking his pipe in the dark.
Slowly he set his step toward his hotel, his head down, his broad shoulders bent. Why, he ought to be the happiest man in the world. Never any more worry about his pay-envelope; free to come and go as he pleased; and the great world ready for his explorations; a fine dream about to be realized. And now a woman must enter his life and spoil it all. Somewhere he had read that for every desire fulfilled another appeared in its place.
He was destined to be jarred out of these melancholy thoughts. At the hotel the manager approached him affably.
"You received the package all right, Mr. Grogan?"
"Package? What package?"
"Why, the package you sent for about an hour ago."
"The wrong Grogan. I haven't sent for any package."
"But you must have," protested the manager, his air of affability vanishing and one of perturbation taking its place. "Besides, I have your note or order. I was very careful to compare your signature with the authorized slip which you signed upon taking the room."
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