The awkward pause which followed was relieved by one of the playgoers who wanted to know whether it was true that to pitch a ball required more skill than to catch one.
“Sure! You must know how to peetch,” Jake rejoined with the cloud lingering on his brow, as he lukewarmly delivered an imaginary ball.
“And I, for my part, don’t see what wisdom there is to it,” said the presser with a shrug. “I think I could throw, too.”
“He can do everything!” laughingly remarked a girl named Pessé.
“How hard can you hit?” Jake demanded sarcastically, somewhat warming up to the subject.
“As hard as you at any time.”
“I betch you a dullar to you’ ten shent you can not,” Jake answered, and at the same moment he fished out a handful of coin from his trousers pocket and challengingly presented it close to his interlocutor’s nose.
“There he goes!—betting!” the presser exclaimed, drawing slightly back. “For my part, your pitzers and catzers may all lie in the earth. A nice entertainment, indeed! Just like little children—playing ball! And yet people say America is a smart country. I don’t see it.”
“’F caush you don’t, becaush you are a bedraggled greenhorn, afraid to budge out of Heshter Shtreet.” As Jake thus vented his bad humour on his adversary, he cast a glance at Bernstein, as if anxious to attract his attention and to re-engage him in the discussion.
“Look at the Yankee!” the presser shot back.