THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
had the Ajax moved so slowly through the water. When the gray east became suddenly slashed with crimson and gold, when the Oriental sun burst over the horizon, it did not mean to him that another day was come; it signified that he was a little nearer, just a little nearer.
He did not sleep ten hours during the voyage around to Hong-Kong. The doctor secretly drugged him, fearful that he might develop brain fever. The drug served to deaden his mind for a little while, but the doctor could not get him off his feet. He walked without sense of locomotion, mechanically, and, like a sleep-walker, continually bumped into passing objects. When he wasn't walking he was bending over the cutwater. He never saw the flying-fish, the porpoise, or the brilliant phosphorescence at night. He saw only so much water being left behind.
Once a day a wireless was received. It consisted invariably of two words—"No information."
Of course the gist of the story became ship's talk; but they were all very kind, and they encouraged him whenever they had a chance. But the kindest thing they did was to leave him alone. The children followed him about dumbly; he no longer knew how to play with them.
If a woman mysteriously disappears, rarely is she given the benefit of a doubt. The majority of those who knew her are first to dip into the black paint. It is not a question of charity or meanness—simply that it is human nature to
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