Page:Lefty o' the Bush.djvu/27

 *ball with the decline of racing. His nickname came through his taste for flashy clothes.

"Don't you do it," said Dyke, vapory bits of bluish cigarette smoke curling from his thin lips as he spoke.

"Do what?" grunted Riley in surprise.

"Run in Prawley. You were thinking of letting Hoover squat on the bench."

"How'd you know that?" asked the manager, still more surprised.

"Saw it on your face."

"If my mug gives me away in that fashion, I'll trade it for another," growled Mike, in displeasure. "But why not pitch Prawley? He can swaller that bunch, one after another, without greasin'. This is our first game here, and Jock ain't so pop'ler in this town."

"What do you care about that? It's our first game here, and we want it, to hold first place. If they should happen to trim us to-day, they'd have us tied."

With the mutilated and lifeless cigar gripped in his coarse teeth, Riley pulled down the corners of his big mouth disdainfully. "Trim us—with that bunch of scrubs and has-beens! Why, they couldn't do it if I went in and pitched myself."

"Take it from me, 'tain't wise to be so cock