THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
not hear the steward's yell of warning, and he wouldn't have minded if he had. It took all his strength—twofold in this mad hour—to shut the door. He hung on to the knob—he had to.
"God! but this tastes good!"
He shifted his grip from the knob to the hand-rail which ran around the deck-houses and began to pull himself forward, all the while ankle-deep in the back-wash. The whole world was green, the sky and the sea, green like emeralds, green like the horse-chestnuts in the spring, and the white-caps were the blossoms.
From all directions came the crackling and slapping of canvas. The mysterious hum had now deepened. It took William's memory back to the Italian cathedrals where priests or choir-boys were eternally intoning. There was also an under-tone, but this was due to the vibrating wires and cables; the great diapason was the wind itself.
Some chairs had broken loose from their lashing on the starboard side, and a tangle of sticks and cane bottoms swirled about at the junction of the cross and port rails, for the deck was now constantly flooded.
William continued to pull himself along. He turned the corner finally. The full wind caught him and slammed him violently against the deck-house. His solid meat and bone were like so much straw. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he clung to the hand-rail, gasping. He
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