THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Three years? Why, you're old friends, then!"
"Well, you wouldn't exactly call it that. What you might call a passing acquaintance." William considered that very good. "She's a school-teacher around the corner from my shop. I had no idea she was going to make the trip; and she was surprised to see me." Inwardly he communed, "William, you're some Ananias, take it from me!"
What was his purpose in these half-lies? It was too remote, too vague for him to define. He was doubtless endeavoring to throw some kind of protection around the lonely girl by letting the world at large know that William Grogan's two fists were hers for the asking. In a sense it was primordial, the ancient male idea, the warning off of all other males.
"I did not quite get the name," said Camden.
"Grogan—William Grogan," said William, a sardonic grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"I mean the young lady's name."
"Oh!" William eyed the racing foam below speculatively. "Miss Jones; not very hard to remember."
"You can't remember anything you don't hear distinctly. Will you have a cigarette?" asked the man Camden, offering his case.
"I roll a Durham once in a while, but no dope for mine. Say, I wonder if there's any professional gamblers on board? Signs are hanging up in the smoke-room."
"Professionals on a trip like this? Good Lord,
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