THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
turned on the lights. "Where'd you come from?"
"Rome yesterday. Got here 'safternoon. Lonesome 's hell! Old cabin empty; took it. Catch P. & O. boat at Aden. Grogan, it can't be done, it can't be done!" Camden swayed on his heels and William straightened him up. "Twenty years I've been fighting the Demon Rum, and all I can get 's a draw. Game called on 'count of darkness. What? I've fought the Demon all over the old top, and all I get 's a draw. Where'd I come from? A saloon on the water-front, where I swilled champagne with rough-neck sailors. Fine business, eh? Lot of drunken sailors, gentlemen of leisure. Well, you've stumbled on to the state secret. Periodical; got to have it just so often. You're right; keep away from it. It broke me; it '11 break any man in the end. You're a good sort, keep away from it. Periodical sot." Without troubling himself to undress, Camden flung himself into the bunk.
The labored breathing which immediately followed convinced William that there was nothing more for him to do. He gazed down with pitying contempt at the puffed face which alcohol had robbed of everything that made for good looks. He believed in personal liberty, but, on the other hand, he had no sympathy for booze-fighters. And so this was Camden's secret, a periodical boozer? William was familiar with the brand: they kept away from the stuff for weeks at a time, but when they broke loose they were beasts.
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