THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
All night William wandered up and down the decks. But for the ability to ease the pressure by sighs, his heart must have cracked. Whether his eyes were open or closed, he could not shut out the infernal picture. No matter where he looked into the night, he saw her terrified face, he heard her cries, saw her outstretched hands. He saw the man laugh as she struggled in his arms, her hair down, her dress torn at the throat. … She was calling, and he could not go to her!
If only he had warned her about Camden! He had let her walk straight into the trap. It was all his fault. He should have told her; and all the time he had believed he was saving her needless worry! He had lived straight, he had lived clean, he had acted honorably all his life; and yet God could shoot this bolt into his heart, mercilessly! He could not understand it. It wasn't a square deal.
Round and round the deck-houses he walked, mile after mile. He was unconscious of time or place. Every half-hour he visited the wireless man; but there was always the same answer to his inquiries—nothing. By and by he began to see her as day by day he had seen her, his school-teacher! She was reading or sewing or chatting, and once she was lying in his arms, drenched, her hair blowing into his face, her heart beating against his. And there she was, back yonder, calling, calling; and he couldn't go to her!
Each step he took said, "Hurry, hurry!" Would dawn never come? Hurry, hurry! Never
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