THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
cracked a skull less solid. His initial impression was a curious one; he was nothing more than an enormous head, and all the aches known were fighting there for individual supremacy. His second impression was that he was sailing along at the tail of a comet, for no matter which way he looked he saw nothing but showers of sparks. It was when he felt a touch of nausea, thousands of miles away, that he knew for a certainty that his body was still attached to his neck. He attempted to reach up a hand to this freak head, only to learn that he was bound up as snugly as an Italian baby in the winter.
Too weak to struggle, he relaxed and lay back like a sensible but badly punished boxer between rounds. In time the vertigo passed away and slowly his body became normal. But he wisely allowed an hour or more to slip by before he began a serious attempt to free himself.
The damp, musty odor was familiar. He was in some kind of a cellar. A long distance away he was presently able to distinguish a square of dark blue in the jet black. It was a window. He was sitting with his back to a post of stone; he could feel the chill of it against his spine. And the damp of the clay floor penetrated his legs and thighs.
What time was it? Was it still midnight or was it well on toward morning? Before he wasted what little strength he had, he decided to wait for light. After what seemed hours and hours, the square of blue lightened and the velvet blackness
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