THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Chair broke loose, maybe."
"Oh, it's nothing to fuss over. It 'll be all right by night."
"Well, we'll take the safe side. I'll put a little liniment on it and give it a turn with the bandage."
"Aw!"
"I'm running this," retorted the doctor, reaching into the medicine-rack.
William submitted, but with poor grace.
Camden, a mixture of admiration and puzzlement in his eyes, stared at the Irishman. By and by a little pucker formed above his nose. The Irishman was lying, and lying clumsily.
"I say, Grogan, what really happened to you last night?"
"Huh?"
"You didn't stumble over anything last night, not with that kind of a bruise as the result," declared Camden, with conviction. "You're hiding something. What's the object?"
As for that, William himself was not quite sure what his real object was. He possessed the innate Celtic reluctance to whine over something which could not be remedied. He might start an investigation and sing hullabaloo, but doing so would not restore his wallet nor take away the pain in his knee-joint. Had money changed his point of view? he wondered. Was he too proud to admit that thirty dollars was to him a large sum? He smiled inwardly. A few weeks since he never would have permitted an affair like this to sink into oblivion for lack of effort on his part.
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