THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
forth into these frenzied flights. The doctor was wise, and he had a fairly good idea of the hell William was passing through. The night before arriving at Hong-Kong he spoke decidedly to the captain, who had gone over to the majority with his opinion.
"On my soul, I believe Grogan has the right of it. I can spot a good woman when I see one."
"We all believe we're able to do that," said the captain, dryly.
"Well, you and I have jogged up and down these seas long enough to know that in the East men do things they would not dream of doing over in the West. There's something in the damned lazy, good-for-nothing air that puts a sag in the moral fiber. Camden, I know, was a periodical champagne drunkard. I helped jack him up one morning. You know what booze does over here. Well, I hope to God the Irishman finds him; and, more than that, I'd give a year's pay to be sitting in a front seat."
The captain smoked on, offering no comment.
"The psychology of love is the most interesting thing I know of. The lad has never breathed a word to the girl," continued the doctor. "Felt that he wasn't good enough for her. Oh, he's told me everything by degrees. Used to watch her go past his cellar window, and never saw her face until she came aboard. And he's going through this hell not because he has any hope of winning her—which isn't likely if you've taken the trouble to watch her as I have—but because he's got to go
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