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Updated: May 24, 2025
Old Johnny Hardluck socked it to me, same as usual. Gosh a'mighty! The liquor died in me after a while, and I went sound asleep in the saddle, and woke up with a jar to find myself right in the middle of old Frosthead's gang; the drums "boom-blipping" and those forty-odd red tigers "hyah-hayahing" in a style that made my skin get up and walk all over me with cold feet.
I makes for it, gits close enough for my Aleut to recognize it it ain't an easy place to forget for one who has eyes an' then we're blown south, an' we git into ice an' trouble. The Aleut dies, an' I lose my ship. But I was close enough to get the reckonin' of that island. "Finally I land at Seattle, broke. I meet up with the man they call Hardluck Simms.
As Harold was helping to unhitch the team the girl came around and studied him with care. "Say, what's your name?" "Moses," he instantly replied. "Moses what?" "Oh, let it go at Mose." "Hain't you got no other name?" "I did have but the wind blew it away." "What was it?" "Moses N. Hardluck." "You're terrible cute, ain't you?" "Not so very, or I wouldn't be working for my board."
Pratt was a wizened little woman, so humped by labor and chills and fever that she seemed deformed. Her querulousness was not so much ill-natured as plaintive. "He says his name is Mose Hardluck," Harold heard the girl say, and that ended all further inquiry. He became simply "Mose" to them.
There's lots of hard-luck stories that you've got to hear anyhow. The fellow that can keep his to himself is the fellow that's likely to get there." "Get there?" the vicar murmured reflectively, and Selden chuckled again. "Get where he started out to go to the White House, if you like. The fellows that have got there kept their hardluck stories quiet, I bet.
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