THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
dusty road had a peculiar way of sinking and rising like the waves of the sea.
He was in the native quarters; but none hindered his advance. They knew, these experienced brown men, that it was not wise to trifle with red-headed drunken men. Some children tagged along at his heels, however, shrilling insults and ribald jests, knowing themselves to be immune from any attack more serious than a chance smack of the hand or a boot's end. By and by they desisted; the sport was too tame. I doubt if William saw or heard them.
He had picked out a spot in the sky and was marching toward the world directly under it. That whistle had come out of there somewhere, and nothing should deter him from reaching that somewhere. A wild compass to steer by. He had neither sea-lore nor wood-lore; he had not the least comprehension of what a range meant, yet he found the railway.
When he came around to a clear understanding of time and place—for he had made this remarkable journey in a semi-delirious condition—the night wind was roaring in his face and ears, and the desert, endless reaches of dull silver under the touch of moonshine, was racing past. He was crouching among the heavy folds of canvas which partially covered a box-car in a long goods-train, speeding in what direction only God knew.
At four o'clock in the morning the train drew into a small town and thence out onto a long cement pier south of which lay a broad stretch of
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