THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
sailors. They'd get into trouble on shore leave. You've heard of jiu-jitsu?"
"Sure."
Camden's admiration turned into keen interest.
"Well, Mr. Grogan, tell us what happened."
"I've told you," replied William, stubbornly.
"Jiu-jitsu all right. Toe and toe, there's not a man on board could beat you if you had any kind of a show."
"No credit to me," replied William, anxious to steer this keen-eyed sawbones off the track. So it had been jiu-jitsu? "I was born this way. My old man could carry a street-car rail with his bare hands. When I was younger I wasn't afraid of a rough-and-tumble."
"Had you been drinking?"
"Who, me? Nope."
Camden laughed.
"Oh, I've heard 'em laugh before, bo," said William. "But you can't lead me to it by laughing. Old John Barleycorn and me don't travel in the same 'bus. Hops on a Saturday night, once in a while, but I never wade in deep. No oath on mother's death-bed stuff. I don't like the smell of red-eye. Maybe I know the game too well. You see, I'm healthy; I'm full of life as a bull-pup! It's a fine thing to take a deep breath in the morning without feeling a kink in the small of your back. That's the reason I don't touch the stuff. I'll tell you," he went on as he dressed. "I'm Irish and red-headed, and fusel-oil's a bad thing under the vest of that breed. Take it from me.
83
