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!
As the ball sped by, far above his head, Marty O'Malley leaped twenty
feet in the air. As he did this he swung his unerring timber. Just as
he had planned, the flying, whizzing sphere struck the under side of his
bat, and glancing downward with fearful force, went crashing into the
dark, malignant visage of Dennis Mulcahey, upturned to mark its flight.
The fragile mask was broken; the features were crushed into complete
confusion with the awful inveteracy of the ball.
Dennis Mulcahey fell as one dead. As he was borne away another umpire
was sent to his post. Marty O'Malley bent a glance of intelligence on
the change pitcher of the Shantytowns, who had taken the place of the
miscreant Dermis, and whispered loud enough to resell from plate to box:
“Now, gimme a fair ball!”