Page:MacGrath--The luck of the Irish.djvu/208



ILLIAM never saw the hand that struck him down. Whether he had one or ten assailants was likewise to remain in the limbo of mysteries. He always recollected this adventure with the keenest regret. To sink down under the avalanche, fighting to the last moment, accounting for two or three among the many, was never considered a disgrace by any Irishman William knew. He was proud of his strength, and to pass into the land of coma without being permitted to exercise the functions of his hands and feet was galling to the memory.

As he left Madame Rene's dance-hall, so far as he could see the alley was deserted except for himself. Still, there were a dozen black doorways behind him and beyond. The last thing he remembered, he had taken out his old silver watch, not with any idea of ascertaining the time, but rather in surrender to that mechanical impulse common enough in men—when in doubt, look at your watch. Right there the top of heaven fell out.

Hours must have passed before he finally opened his eyes and sensed realities. The blow had been brutal, and doubtless would have permanently