difficulty in estimating the precise proportions of bad luck Terence
Reardon prayed might be the immediate heritage of the crew of the S.S.
_Narcissus_.

Michael J. Murphy blinked rapidly, for all the world as if Mr. Schultz
had entered at that moment and struck him a terrific blow on top of
the head. A more dazed Irishman than he never threw an ancient egg or
a defunct cat at an alleged Celtic comedian with green whiskers. He
was absolutely staggered--but not for long. The Irish come back very
quickly.

"Shame on you, Terence Reardon!" he declared. "And you with a Masonic
ring on your finger."

"Glory be!" cried the delighted Terence. "Sure are you wan av us?"

"One of you!" Mike Murphy fairly shrieked. "The minute I'm out of this
room you'll apologize or fight for thinking I'm a renegade."

"_Naboclish!_" laughed Terence Reardon, slipping into the Gaelic and
out again. "The divil a Mason am I! Sure that ring ye saw on me finger
that day in the office av the owners belonged to me second assistant
in the _Arab_. He'd lost it in the engine room, an' a mont' afther
he'd left I found it. Not knowin' what ship he was in, 'twas me
intintion to take the ring over to the Marine Engineers' Association
an' lave it for him wit' the secreth'ry; and to make sure I wouldn't
forget it I put it on me finger--"

"Well, you knew, Terence, that with the likes of me round you'd not be
liable to forget it," Mike Murphy laughed.