The Third Ligh

NZ Truth, Issue 1152, 29 December 1927, Page 4

The Third Ligh

Mulligan lauglied. And Mulligan's laugh was scorn. "Don't be a blithering idiot. Come off that talk, now. War's over, thank God! Superstitious bunkomb. . . . here, light up. . . third match, be jiggered. Light up, come on." He held a nickering match with which he had lighted his own cigarette, that of Pug Morgan, but, no, not Williams. Williams was dissenting. "No, I saw too much of it at the front. The third light theory was pretty correct; remember Jeffries, good old materialist? A shell took his head off as he was lighting his cigarette — the fatal third. Heavens! I've seen a lot of it, too; superstition or no superstition, it's not for mine." He extracted his own match-box and carefully' lit his own cigarette. Pug: and Mulligan surveyed him almost contemptuously. Pug said: "You ought to deal In spirit photos — spooky things. Say, did you ever hear of a woman's premonition that DIDN'T come true? They don't tell you about those. Well, all superstition is like that. It's only the coincidences that Stick out in your mind. The veriest moonshine. . . tripe. . . rot. It makes a man sick. . . Here I've been PURPOSELY making myself the third man on one match to explode this mad theory." "Can't help it," said Williams, "that's a streak in us that can't be accounted for." ". . . Ought to l>e tucked in -when you go to bed for fear bogeys get you," mumbled Mulligan as they moved down towards the gymnasium. Half Q.n hour later, they smoked again. The dissenting Williams lit his own, and with a smile on his lips, passed the lighted match to Mulligan and then, deliberately, applied it to the cigarette of Pug Morgan. They all smiled. Morgan tore the edge of a telegram and read it. Suddenly he bit his lip, turned red, smiled, looked serious again, then, with a wild whoop, threw his hat high in the air. "F'r the love 'f Mike . . . f'r th 1 love 'f Mike .... Gee • . . . drinks for the crowd . . . drinks for the street . . . drinks for the whole damn city . . . I've — struck Tatts! . . . first prize . . . f'r the love 't Mike, read that . . . read it, don't be a damn pair of fools, blinking in the sun, read it! Read it!" Pug was hilarious He pummelled his companions good naturedly. "Third match, remember. Me, the third match. Do y'u call THAT bad luck? You mutt, you half-boiled, stupid, grandmotherly, senile, superstitious old codger. Who says a third match means bad luck . . .?" He stepped off the curbing on to the road to pick up his cap . . A grinding of brakes . . .a trio of high-pitched warning voices. They picked up poor old Pug Morgan a*nd carried him into a chemist's. In one hand he held his cap. In the other, that wonderful telegram. But Pug Morgan was dead. — L.B.F.