"What's he got to do with it? Ain't you king?"

"He's got a lot to do with it, you blithering boob."

"Besides," drawled Peter Snipe, the novelist, picking doggedly at the
calloused ridges on one of his palms, "some of the women object to
moving in the dark of the moon. They say it's sure to bring bad luck."

"There's quite a mixup about it," observed Flattner. "Part of 'em claim
it's good luck. Madame Obosky says she never had any good luck moving by
the light of the moon, and Careni-Amori says she doesn't blame her for
feeling that way. Sort of cattish way of implying that the fair Olga
could get along without any moon at all. Professional jealousy, I
suppose."

"I was speaking to Miss Clinton about it today," remarked Michael
Malone.

"What does she think about it?" from Percival.

"I don't know. She asked me what I thought about it."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I told her I wasn't a woman, and that let me out. Being a man, I'm not
entitled to a vote or an opinion, and I'd be very much obliged to her
if she'd not try to drag me into it,--and to answer my question if she
could. Whereupon she said she was in favour of moving by the light of
the sun, and payin' no attention at all to the moon. Which I thought was
a very intelligent arrangement. You see, if they move in the daytime the
damned old moon won't know anything about it till it's too late and--"

"You're the first Irisher I've ever seen who wasn't superstitious,
Mike," broke in Fitts, with enthusiasm. "It takes a great load off
my mind. Now I can ask you why the devil you've never returned that
pocket-knife of mine. I thought you had some sort of superstition
about it. A good many people,--really bright and otherwise intelligent
people,--firmly believe it's bad luck to return anything that's been
borrowed. I suppose I've owned fifty umbrellas in my time. The only man
who ever returned one,--but you know what happened without my telling
you. He got caught in a sudden shower on his way home from my apartment
after making a special trip to return it, and died some three years
later of pneumonia. Sick two days, I heard. So, as long as you're not a
bit superstitious about it, I'd thank you--"

"I'd have you know that I never keep anything I borrow,--that is, never
more than a day. It's against my principles. Don't ask me for your
dommed old knife. I lent it weeks ago to Soapy Shay."

"You did?" cried Fitts, incredulity and relief in his voice. "Much