THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
The boy disappeared. Later the street door banged.
"Well, what do you know about that?" asked William, addressing his shoes. "Not a sound out of him! Not a blink! Well, it's up to me to climb out of this and climb quick. … Hell!" he cried as a stabbing pain pierced his eyes.
The window was eight feet above the floor. In a corner stood a smoothly worn plank of teakwood, which had evidently been used as a chute for boxes or bales from the outside, perhaps cotton bales, as there were tufts of cotton here and there about the corners. From this point of view this was a complete inventory. William hitched sideways; the other half of the cellar was as bare as his palm. But in turning he made a discovery which at the time suggested nothing—a spike in the stone pillar, a foot above his head. The outlook was not at all promising. His jailers would probably keep him confined until night, when they might safely liberate him—that is, if it was not ransom. Well, they hadn't struck much oil, and wouldn't. Four sovereigns and a watch which had two values, sentimental and intrinsic, one hundred minus ninety-eight, if you reckoned pawnbroker style; for two dollars marked the high-water rate of exchange at Uncle Mose Cohen's over on Eighth Avenue.
Bang! It was the outer door again. The boy returned with two Syrian oranges. He squatted at William's side, split the fruit, and solemnly poked the scarlet slices into the yawning mouth
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