THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
There was no pitching in the beginning; the wind bore down too powerfully for that. It lashed the water into ribbons of spume, however. He heard a crack like a pistol-shot. The canvas had been ripped off one of the life-boats. For a moment or two it clung to a davit, then whirled seaward like a gray bird of evil omen.
Strange thing, there was not the least fear in William's heart. On the contrary, he was filled with the wildest exultation he had ever known. He longed to go outside, to lay against that wind and laugh and shout and sing.
Over the starboard bow—for they were going into the gale almost head-on rose a thin sheet of water, so thin that William could see through it. It hung in mid-air for two or three seconds—a viper seeking for something to strike—then smashed upon the deck. He knew instantly where he had heard that sound before—when they sent sheet-tin down the cellar chute at the shop.
The shop! How unutterably far off that was! Wasn't that all a piece of a humdrum dream? Could he ever return and settle down ? Never had he felt so keenly and wonderfully alive as at this moment.
The bow of the Ajax went down, down, down, fathoms down. From the dining-saloon came the racket of crashing dishes. The potted palm on the piano fell with a crash. William laughed. Then the bow of the Ajax went up, up, up. He had to hang to the grip of the port to keep from sliding off his perch. The ship did not fall far
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