This unusual and expensive suggestion startled us wide awake, but we were only too glad to acquiesce in anything which tended to raise his spirits or ours. Dog tired but smiling we rose; Byram, in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders, wearing his silk hat on the back of his head, led the way, fanning his perspiring face with a red-and-yellow bandanna.
“Luck,” said Byram, waving his cigar toward the new moon, “is bound to turn one way or t’other—like my camuel. Sometimes, resemblin’ the camuel, luck will turn on you. Look out it don’t bite you. I once made up a piece about luck:
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“‘Don’t buck Bad luck Or you’ll get stuck—’ |
I disremember the rest, but it went on to say a few other words to that effec’.”
The lighted door of the inn hung ajar as we crossed the star-lit square; Byram entered and stood a moment in the doorway, stroking his chin. “Bong joor the company!” he said, lifting his battered hat. 184
The few Bretons in the wine-room returned his civility; he glanced about and his eye fell on Kelly Eyre, Speed’s assistant balloonist, seated by the window with Horan.
“Well, gents,” said Byram, hopefully, “an’ what aire the prospects of smilin’ fortune when rosy-fingered dawn has came again to kiss us back to life?”
“Rotten,” said Eyre, pushing a telegram across the oak table.
Byram’s face fell; he picked up the telegram and fumbled in his coat for his spectacles with unsteady hand.
“Let me read it, governor,” said Speed, and took the blue paper from Byram’s unresisting, stubby fingers.