THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
But he knew how to love, which is my warranty for telling his story.
At Assuan he lost his two old archeologists. It was the first heart-tug he had known since his youth. There was something in his soul that went out to those old graybeards, something communicable but inexpressible, which his friends recognized in his hand-shakes and his blundering, lingering farewells.
"Sister, I hate to see those old geezers go. We rowed the first two or three nights, and I used to make fun of them; but after Gibraltar I got to loving them. Kind of funny, huh? An ignorant boob like me cottoning to a couple of book-sharks like those two. Search me why. Think of 'em starting out to-night, with half a dozen camels and a couple of umbrellas! I wish I'd had the right kind of start. I'd have gone with 'em, sure. And in three or four months little Willie Grogan will be back in his cellar. … No! What do you know about that? I'd forgotten all about my being a partner in Burns, Dolan & Co.'s But that was only Irish luck."
"Who was Praxiteles?" Ruth interrupted, whimsically.
"He was the Greek bootblack across the street from the shop. Aw! You know I'm not good at remembering those guys. I've enough names in my head to start a city directory, and all blamed strangers."
"I was only in fun. What do you care? You're learning something fine and splendid every day.
177
