"Faith, and so am I," said French.
The big man, for the first time in his life, felt knocked out. Never for a moment did he dream of giving in, but he was winded. Besides all the worries we know of, a number of small things had declared against him, culminating in his loss at cards. He felt that he was in a vein of bad luck, under a cloud, and that until the cloud lifted and the luck changed it was hopeless for him to make plans or do anything.
He took leave of Mead and returned to the Shelbourne on foot. The rain had ceased, and as he drew near the hotel the sun broke through the clouds.
As he entered the hotel he ran almost into the arms of a young man dressed in a fawn-coloured overcoat, who, with his hat on the back of his head, was standing in the hall, a cigarette between his lips and a matchbox in his hand.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. French; then, starting back, "Why, sure to goodness, if it isn't Mr. Dashwood!"
CHAPTER XI
"Come into the smoking-room," said Mr. Dashwood when they had shaken hands. "This is luck! I only came over by the morning boat. I'm coming down west. Oh, I'll tell you all about it in a minute. Come on into the smoking-room and have a drink."
Mr. Dashwood seemed in the highest of good spirits. He led the way into the smoking-room, rang the bell, ordered two whiskies and an Apollinaris and cigars, chaffed the Hibernian waiter, who was a "character," and then, comfortably seated, began his conversation with French.