“There’s Bill McDonough,” he said in a low tone.
Burgess nodded.
“So I see. I wonder what he’s doing here. Old Fairchilds is daffy about close training.”
The man to whom they referred seated himself at a table near them and ordered vichy. Apparently one of his companions joked him about the drink, for he grinned broadly, showing a gaping hole in his upper jaw where two front teeth were missing.
“You betcher life it won’t be that ter-morrow night,” he said loudly. “After we’ve wiped up the ground with them dudes, training is broke, and it’s me for the beer can. Gee! I wisht I could have a schooner ter-night. I got a thirst a yard long.”
He was a big, burly, rough-looking fellow, with a bull neck and amazingly long arms. A jagged scar, running from the edge of his close-cropped, stubby hair almost to the corner of his hard mouth, gave a sinister expression to his unattractive face. It was not the face of a man one would care about encountering in a lonely place on a dark night.
While McDonough did not exactly live up to his tough appearance, there were yet vague stories afloat concerning him which were not the most creditable. Nothing had ever been proved against him, but where there’s smoke, there is usually some fire; and there was a general impression in Forest Hills that Bill McDonough would allow few things to stand between him and the accomplishment of a purpose.
He was one of the foremen at the Mispah Mine, the acknowledged leader of the mine boys, and the star pitcher on Orren Fairchilds’ baseball team.
There was a speculative look in Morrison’s dark eyes as he watched the fellow drink his vichy at a gulp and then call for more.
Then a sudden idea flashed into his mind, and he leaned toward his two companions.