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.”