under a dead-slow bell this minute. We've reached the
rendezvous--we're waiting for the German fleet to deliver the coal;
and oh, man, man, if we're caught by a British cruiser we'll lose the
ship! They'll confiscate her, chief. Wirra! Wirra!" he cried, breaking
into the forgotten wail of his childhood. "How can I ever face Matt
Peasley and Cappy Ricks after this? Reardon, man, they'll think we
stood in with the Germans and let them do it. We're both Irish--they
know we're both pro-German--"

"What's that you said?" Terence demanded sharply. "Me pro-German. Me?
I _was_ pro-German--yis--wanst!"

Fell a silence.

Now, for the benefit of the uninitiated, be it known that there is a
certain curse employed by the Irish and by no other race on earth.
Whenever you hear an Irishman employ it, you know instantly--
provided, of course, you are Irish yourself--just what kind of Irish
that Irishman is. You cannot mistake it. There is no possible chance.
It is only brought forth with the dust of the centuries on it, so to
speak, to grace a fitting occasion. Terence Reardon felt that such an
occasion was now at hand. As naturally, as inevitably, therefore, as
the suds ran down the speaking-tube, that curse climbed up it--softly,
distinctly, and with a wealth of feeling in the back of it:

"God put the curse av Crummle on thim!"

Mr. Reardon, of course, referred to the late Oliver Cromwell. Any one
who has ever read the sorry history of Erin knows what the amiable
Oliver did to the Irish. Consequently such an one will have no