THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
scrap, though, believe me—some … little … scrap!"
He sat down on the bed and held his head in his hands. He was groggy and a bit sick at his stomach. He had had nothing to eat since morning. One of his small ribs hurt badly; an eye was closed; his tongue found a loose tooth. It they had come at him once again and the teak stand had failed to stop them! …
The next thing he knew she was standing at his side, one arm around his head, and a cool towel was being tenderly applied to his burning, throbbing face.
"I wasn't worth it!" he heard her say. "I wasn't worth it!"
He looked up.
"Aw, sister! It's all over. That rat 'll never bother you again."
"That isn't it." And then she told him the whole sordid story.
It was not a very coherent tale, but he understood. To him there was nothing sordid in it. It was human, every-day temptation.
"Aw, what are you worrying about? Don't we all stumble around most of the time? Aren't we all good and bad in spots? Sure. Some time or other everybody gets the idea that the easy route's the only one left. The thing is to get back in time. You did that."
She tied the towel around his forehead and stepped off a little way.
He was as broad in the mind as he was in the
295
