THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Lor' lumme, if it ain't some white hope out for a lark!" jeered the man at the rail. "Move on, and none of your lip. You hear me? I'll give you twenty-nine seconds to sheer of."
"Hotel," growled William, sitting down. The man above had two distinct advantages—height and right.
The veneer with which we solemnly incase ourselves consists mostly of the observance of certain formalities of conduct; under stress of emotion this veneer is not impervious; it cracks. We don't listen at windows or peek through keyholes, ordinarily. William was perfectly well aware of this fact. But it was not idle curiosity, this act of his. Subtilely he construed it as merely reconnoitering the defense of an enemy, dim, nebulous, but none the less menacing.
"Here, what's the row out there?"
A head appeared at one of the saloon ports. The face was dead black against the yellow light behind it.
"A tourist snooping about, sir," called down the seaman in answer.
"Bid him clear out."
"I'm clearing out," said William, as the gondola shot forward. "If I've scraped off any of the frosting from that angel-cake of yours, charge it to Cook."
He heard an order shouted, but he was now too far away to gather its import. About two minutes later a blinding flash of light struck his face, for he was looking over his shoulder. He ducked, pulling
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