THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
There was a row of shoes at the left of his fat suit-case, the only piece of luggage he had brought ashore. He had purchased a pair of patent-leathers, a pair of stout tans, a pair of low calf, and the pair of walking-shoes he had on. The stout tans were among the missing. He looked under the bed, behind the bureau, and under the chairs. The tans were gone. Then he laughed. A sneak had pinched a pair of his shoes!
"What do you know about that, Isobel? A pair of shoes, brand-new, at four-fifty! Well, say!"
He sat down and began to chuckle. He took out a cigar, but he did not light it. His gaze, having traveled again to the gap in the alignment of shoes, traveled a little farther and became focused upon the lock of his suit-case. It dangled by a single screw.
Immediately a fountain of wool and linen and what-nots filled the air. His letter of credit had been in that suit-case, and it was now nowhere to be found. Two thousand and six hundred dollars, all gone to glory!
He had mounted the stairs three at a bound; he went down scarcely touching any of them. He was fighting mad, but cool.
"Anything missing, Mr. Grogan?" The manager was plainly worried. The hotels along the Corso seldom encountered difficulties of this character.
"Ye-ah. A pair of shoes and my letter of credit are missing."
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