“Besides,” drawled Peter Snipe, the novelist, picking doggedly at the calloused ridges on one of his palms, “some of the women object to moving in the dark of the moon. They say it's sure to bring bad luck.”
“There's quite a mixup about it,” observed Flattner. “Part of 'em claim it's good luck. Madame Obosky says she never had any good luck moving by the light of the moon, and Careni-Amori says she doesn't blame her for feeling that way. Sort of cattish way of implying that the fair Olga could get along without any moon at all. Professional jealousy, I suppose.”
“I was speaking to Miss Clinton about it today,” remarked Michael Malone.
“What does she think about it?” from Percival.
“I don't know. She asked me what I thought about it.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I told her I wasn't a woman, and that let me out. Being a man, I'm not entitled to a vote or an opinion, and I'd be very much obliged to her if she'd not try to drag me into it,—and to answer my question if she could. Whereupon she said she was in favour of moving by the light of the sun, and payin' no attention at all to the moon. Which I thought was a very intelligent arrangement. You see, if they move in the daytime the damned old moon won't know anything about it till it's too late and—”
“You're the first Irisher I've ever seen who wasn't superstitious, Mike,” broke in Fitts, with enthusiasm. “It takes a great load off my mind. Now I can ask you why the devil you've never returned that pocket-knife of mine. I thought you had some sort of superstition about it. A good many people,—really bright and otherwise intelligent people,—firmly believe it's bad luck to return anything that's been borrowed. I suppose I've owned fifty umbrellas in my time. The only man who ever returned one,—but you know what happened without my telling you. He got caught in a sudden shower on his way home from my apartment after making a special trip to return it, and died some three years later of pneumonia. Sick two days, I heard. So, as long as you're not a bit superstitious about it, I'd thank you—”
“I'd have you know that I never keep anything I borrow,—that is, never more than a day. It's against my principles. Don't ask me for your dommed old knife. I lent it weeks ago to Soapy Shay.”
“You did?” cried Fitts, incredulity and relief in his voice. “Much obliged. I haven't been able to look Soapy in the face for a month. Did he recognize it?”