THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
He was thinking strongly. Held up and robbed as easily as though he had been a child! It was galling. What made him furious was not the loss of his wallet; it was the thought that he hadn't been able to strike a single blow. He rubbed his back tenderly and massaged the under side of his knee. Helpless as a babe in a cradle!—he, who had always taken pride in the agility of his legs and the ability of his fists! He was a bit vain of his strength, being Irish; and the blow to his vanity was a severe one. It was not a braggart's vanity, however; it was based upon a hundred and ninety pounds of splendid bone and muscle and the knowledge of how to manipulate these scientifically.
A jab in the kidneys, a kick back of the knee, and then, good night! He knew that it had not been accidental. The man had known just where to place those blows; and it was this fact that interested him. He had heard vaguely of the Japanese science called jiu-jitsu, but through ignorance had regarded its usefulness contemptuously. It did not occur to him at that moment that he had been treated to a very good example of its efficacy.
He sensibly did not waste any time prowling about. The play was over; the audience could go home. Whoever had robbed him was in safe quarters by now. So he limped to the companionway and went down to his cabin. He found his ancients asleep, so he moved about carefully. He wasn't up to any Shalmaneser to-night. He
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