THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
By the time it was full morning he could pull one foot up as far as his knee, but beyond that not an inch, nor could he free the foot. The rogues had made a very good job of it.
Naturally there came a period of self-reviling. He had been warned against prowling off by himself at night, especially here on the threshold of the Orient. But he would do it; and here he was, a prisoner with a battered head and a burning thirst. What were they holding him for—ransom? Pity they hadn't broken his fool head completely. … The Ajax! He sucked in his cheeks for a bit of saliva. The Ajax was sailing at three that afternoon, and from the looks of things it was going to sail without William Grogan. He forgot his caution, forgot how little strength he possessed, and fought his bonds as a tiger fights the hunting-net. Snarling and cursing, he sawed his feet and pulled at his wrists. He desisted quickly enough. The sparks began to fly again and the full flood of pain returned. He sank back against the pillar, gasping.
"What a fool! What a fool!"
He had promised Ruth faithfully to return to the hotel as soon as the fights were over. He had broken his promise; and she was all alone. He began hiccoughing, as much in rage as in pain.
Far above a door closed carelessly. William raised his head, listening tensely and trying to strangle the hiccoughs. But the sound of footsteps did not follow the banging of the door. It might have been the wind. Yet, even as he was about
195
