quite see what it has to do with the curious fact that there's no effective Labour party in America."
"It's got this to do with it: Cassidy expects to be a capitalist some day—and he doesn't want any Russian coming round and knifing him when the time comes. See that?"
I did not even try to see it. The matter had ceased, for the moment, to interest me. My attention was fixed on the Irishman's name.
"Did you say Cassidy?" I asked.
"Yes. And if you look out you'll see that name on the list of first-class passengers on one of these boats pretty soon. He'll be down as having engaged a suite of rooms on B Deck."
"Was he by any chance called Michael Antony?" I asked.
"The men called him Mick," said my friend; but of course, that's common with all Irishmen. Now I come to think of it, I believe it was Michael Antony he wrote when he signed as an overseer. I made him overseer after he laid out the Russian."
"That," I said, "was probably last November."
"It was—sure. But how did you guess?"
"I happened to hear another part of the same story from his mother," I said. "It was Sonny she called him, but his real name was Michael Antony."
"Sonny or Micky," said my friend, "the name will be worth having on the bottom of a cheque some day soon. That little Irishman will make good! He's got grit!"
