The Luck of the Irish. Harold MacGrath

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СКАЧАТЬ huh? Well, Bertie, I eat 'em alive when they call 'em that. I want to see your boss."

      "Nothin' leakin' in these offices," flung back the boy, observing William's hands and sniffing the faint odor of gasolene.

      ​"My name is Grogan," said William, giving the honors to the boy because he was in a hurry.

      "Oh! Middle door; Mr. Bell," said the girl, her eyes full of sudden interest.

      The boy shuffled to the door and opened it. "Mister Grogan," he announced, with fine irony.

      "Show him in at once."

      As he was passing through the doorway, William turned and lightly blew a kiss toward the boy, who, thorough sportsman that he was, recognized this red-head as a brother.

      "Mr. Grogan?"

      "Yes."

      "Be seated." Mr. Bell was a middle-aged man. "You had an uncle in St. Louis?"

      "Ye-ah; Michael Regan."

      The lawyer nodded. "Your mother's name?"

      "Amelia. Michael was her brother."

      "Have you absolute legal proof that you are Amelia Regan's son?"

      "Sure!" William produced the marriage certificate, pleased that Burns had suggested bringing it.

      Mr. Bell adjusted his glasses. "This is Amelia Regan's certificate of marriage, but that doesn't prove you're her son, Mr. Grogan."

      "Turn it over," advised William, wetting his lips and stretching his neck out of his collar, which had grown suddenly tight.

      "Ah!"

      On the reverse side of the certificate was the date of William's arrival into this mortal coil, ​briefly witnessed by the doctor, the parish priest, the father, and two neighbors.

      "That's legal enough for anybody. We knew all about you, Mr. Grogan, but the legal end of it had to be satisfied. You're the man we're after."

      "Say, what am I up against?" asked William, huskily.

      "Your uncle died a month gone. He left his lumber business to his partner, but all his ready cash he willed to you unconditionally. Through us he kept track of you, your work, and your habits. I am, therefore, empowered to turn over to you the sum of twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-six dollars and thirty-one cents. And I have the certified check in my safe at this very moment." Mr. Bell beamed upon his client, awaiting the outburst of joy.

      But no outburst came. William's mouth opened and his derby hat slipped from his hands and wabbled about on the floor at his feet.

      The dinosaurus has been dead for some time; but if one had poked its head through the window at that moment and yammered at William, he wouldn't have been surprised; he would have accepted its advent as a part of the nightmare.

      ​

CHAPTER II

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      ALL the years of unremitting toil came back to him in panoramic fragments. He had always managed to clothe and feed himself, with a little left over for amusements. At half past six in the morning, summer and winter and spring, he was up and off for the day's work (with that cheerful and optimistic spirit which has been at once millstones and eagle wings to the Irish). … A fortune! Was he really awake? Wait a moment. He stared at the slate-colored doves that were sailing over and about the church spires near by, at the broad silver highway by which the great ships went down to the sea, at the blue mists of morning still hanging against the Jersey heights. Up from the street, deep down below, came the dull thunder of the Elevated. There was not the least doubt of it; he was wide awake; he could see and he could hear. Twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-six dollars and thirty-one cents!

      "Say, would you just as soon say that all over again—slow?" he asked in a voice which he knew was his, because he could feel it coming out of his throat; beyond that it was wholly unrecognizable.

      Mr. Bell laughed happily as he reached for ​William's hat and placed it upon the dazed young man's knees. He was thoroughly enjoying this scene; he wasn't a bad man at heart; he was only a lawyer. When he put the magical slip of paper into William's trembling hand his joy was complete. He had imagination; he knew what was going on in William's head.

      "Don't pinch me, I might wake up. … And thirty-one cents!"

      "What are you going to do with it?" asked Mr. Bell, curiously.

      William suddenly recalled Mr. Burns's warning relative to lawyers.

      "Well, I don't know," he said, doubtfully. "I suppose I'm liable to raise hell with this thirty-one cents. The Great White Way, huh? Why, I can make the Subway blasts sound like bursting paper bags. Nix on the glow-worm, Lena! This dough is going to be old-age stuff, believe me. No over-the-hills for William Grogan. Every dollar is worth exactly one hundred and four cents. I've got eight hundred in the bank, and I know."

      "That's the proper spirit. If you want any help regarding investments, come to me," said Mr. Bell. He was having a fine time; he felt that glowing satisfaction which is always warming up the hearts of good fairies.

      "What's this cost me?"

      "Nothing. All the fees have been paid."

      "From the dollar-sign, then, to and including the thirty-one cents is mine?"

      "Absolutely. And I wish you good luck with ​it. At four per cent. it will yield you something like eleven hundred the year."

      "Some little old world!" William admitted as he fingered the check, turned it about and stared at it with ever-increasing wonder. "And yesterday I was wondering how I could hit the high places at Coney without going broke for the rest of the week!" He laughed weakly.

      "Have a cigar?"

      "Well, say!"

      It was the first perfecto William had ever stuck between his teeth. His extravagance in this direction consisted of "three for a quarter" every Sunday.

      He went down the elevator expecting every moment to "roll out of bed." He became obsessed with the idea that he was sleep-walking. He pinched himself literally and thumped his chest, which seemed filled with champagne bubbles. Oh, he was awake; and he was standing under the far-off end of a rainbow and the pot of gold lay at his feet! Out in the street he walked on silver flagstones, and the air he breathed was evaporated wine and honey. He was rich; no more worry, no more drain-pipes, bath-tubs, kitchen sinks. No more pothering over sums on the back of his pay-envelope, Saturday nights: so much for board and extra meals at noon, so much for washing, so much to lay away in the bank; no more that vain endeavor to stretch a short, limp five-dollar note over seven long days—spending-money. He was rich.

      A wild desire seized him to go forth and spend ​some of this fortune, just to prove to himself that it was true. But he buttoned his coat tightly over the check and hurried for the Subway. William was patently Irish, but there must have been a strain of Scotch blood in him somewhere.

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