Chapter III

You'll not fail me, Jack!” said Marty O'Malley to Jack, the barkeeper of the Fielders' Rest.

“Not on your sweater!” said Jack, “Leave it to me. If that snoozer pitches this afternoon I hopes d' boss'll put in a cash-register!”

Marty O'Malley hastened to the side of his love. Jack, the faithful barkeeper, went on cleaning his glasses.

“That hobo, Devine, will be here in a minute,” said Jack at last, “an' I must organise for him.”

Jack took a shell glass and dipped it in the tank behind the bar. Taking his cigar from between his finely chiselled lips, he blew the smoke into the moistened interior of the glass. This he did several times.

“I'll smoke a glass on d' stiff,” said Jack softly. “It's better than a knockout drop.”

It was a moment later when Terry Devine came in. With a gleam of almost human intelligence in his eye Jack, the barkeeper, set up the smoked glass. Terry Devine tossed off the fiery potation, staggered to a chair, and sat there glaring. A moment later his head fell on the table, while a stertorous snore proclaimed him unconscious.

“That fetched d' sucker,” murmured Jack, the barkeeper, and he went on cleaning his glasses. “His light's gone out for fourteen hours, an' he don't make no wild pitches at Marty O'Malley to-day, see!”

CHAPTER IV

Ten thousand people gathered to witness the last great contest between the Shamrocks and the Shantytowns.

Gwendolin O'Toole, pale but resolute, occupied her accustomed seat in the grand stand. Far away, and high above the tumult of the bleachers she heard the hoarse shouts of her brother, Godfrey O'Toole, the bleachers' king.

“Remember, Gwendolin!” he had said, as they parted just before the game, “the mug who-makes the best average to-day wins your hand. I've sworn it, and the word of an O'Toole is never broken.”

“Make it the best fielding average, oh, me brother!” pleaded Gwendolin, while the tears welled to her glorious eyes.

“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.”