“Never!” retorted Godfrey O'Toole, with a scowl; “I'm on to your curves! You want to give Marty O'Malley a better show. But if the butter-fingered muffer wants you, he must not only win you with his fielding, but with the stick.”
CHAPTER V
Terry Devine wasn't in the box for the Shantytowns. With his head on the seven-up table, he snored on, watched over by the faithful barboy Jack. He still yielded to smoked glass and gave no sign of life.
“Curse him!” growled Umpire Mulcahey hoarsely beneath his breath “has he t'run me down? If I thought so, the world is not wide enough to save him from me vengeance.”
And the change pitcher took the box for the Shantytowns.
Marty O'Malley, the great catcher of the Shamrocks, stepped to the plate. Dennis Mulcahey girded up his false heart, and registered a black, hellish oath to call everything a strike.
“Never! never shall he win Gwendolin O'Toole while I am umpire!” he whispered, and his face was dark as a cloud.
It was the last word that issued from the clam-shell of Dennis Mulcahey for many a long and bitter hour; the last crack he made. Just as he offered his bluff, the first ball was pitched. It was as wild and high as a bird, as most first balls are. But Marty O'Malley was ready. He, too, had been plotting; he would fight Satan with fire!