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!”