I murmur your holy name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.
THE BORROWED LOVER
BY L. FRANK TOOKER
Author of “Kerrigan’s Christmas Sermon,” “Under Rocking Skies,” etc.
’TIS this way with women,” declared Kerrigan: “some of thim will desave ye, and some will not, but ye will niver know which till ut ’s done; for they’re all alike in the use of their eyes and tongues, and the proof of the puddin’ ’s in the ’atun’. Mind thot, laad.”
It was Sunday morning, and Kerrigan was leaning over the rail, looking dreamily off across the waste of piled lumber to the spires and roofs of the city. The sun shone brightly; the yellow flood of the river lipped softly the barnacled piles of the wharf; the hush of the Sabbath lay over all. Nicolao had just gone over the side of the vessel for an all-day outing; but he turned at Kerrigan’s warning. He waved his hand airily.
“Tha’ ’s alla right,” he replied. “Eet ees the gamble, yas—what yo’ expec’. So-long! Adios!”
“Staay where ye arre,” commanded Kerrigan, sternly. “I’m goun’ wid ye. ’Tis a guardeen ye waant, ye light-mind child of misfortune. Wait till I change me clothes.”
Twenty minutes later they crossed the wharf and passed cityward, something of Kerrigan’s grandfatherly air of protection dropping away at every step.