THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
battled in vain to turn his face to windward; each attempt left him blind and breathless. His strength was of paper. The swoop of the wind sucked the air out of his lungs—zip!—like that; and he had to bury his face in the crook of his arm to get anything like a full breath. He was beaten, beaten at the start, and he knew it. And yet he laughed. His body was weak, yes, but God Himself had not loosed the wind that could put fear into the heart of William Grogan.
He slipped around again to leeward, where he took in deep, sobbing breaths. His lungs stung as in zero weather after a hard run for a street-car. He was drenched, too. Forward there was a ceaseless volleying of deluges, and when they struck they hurt.
"You win!" he cried, strangling and laughing. "I can lick my weight in wildcats and near-champions, but I know the real article when I see it. Zowie!"
But he had felt the tempest in the roots of his hair, and that was what he had come out for. He was never going to be bothered with headaches again. If he could get to the rear of the smoke-room there might be a chance to see what was going on without risking his life. He made the distance without mishap. Midway aft the deck-houses there was but little wind. He shook himself and wiped the water out of his eyes. Once more he laughed. Only an hour or so back there had not been a ripple on the oily swells, and now all hell seemed broken loose.
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