THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
protested, as the gondola nosed up to the hotel's marble steps, awash with the rising tide.
"You're better?" He had to ask her that.
"Oh yes. Just a bit tired and fussy, perhaps. I'll be all right to-morrow. You know we are all going out to Murano and Burano to see them make glass. So don't get lost … brother!"
"I'll take care of William," he laughed. "There won't be anybody jumping on my back in Venice, unless they can walk on water."
"Jumping on your back? What do you mean?"
William succeeded in retrieving his blunder. "Why, everybody's been warning me not to go out alone nights for fear of robbers. But they haven't worried a nickel out of me yet. Say, I think I'll jog around to the hotels and see if I can't pick up Camden. It's only half past nine. This bargee talks a little English, and I can say albergo without biting my tongue off. Good night."
Noiselessly the gondola slipped back among the painted piles into free water, and presently its lantern went bobbing up the Grand Canal. The girl watched the flickering yellow light until a steamboat cut across it. Then she went inside.
William lighted a cigar and slumped down against the cushions.
"Where, Signore?" asked the gondolier, touching his hat.
"Anywhere for an hour; the Grand Canal and back."
William did not care where the gondolier carried him. He wanted leisure to think, to reconstruct
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