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Mullaney stowing the money away in a big wallet which was stuffed with newspaper clippings. He hurried in to the bar, gulped down a drink, and then went to the office desk and examined the hotel register. Anger and zest for revenge were stimulating in him a lively interest in that meeting which Farr seemed to be promoting. Mr. Dodd did not care especially what kind of meeting it was.
The nephew found Detective Mullaney in the alley behind the auditorium, and the young man's air of discomfiture and the sagging shake of his head told the story of his errand without words. "If they're getting too mean in their old age to hand me a fair price for a good job then let 'em get licked," declared the detective. "You stuck to our original figure of five hundred dollars, didn't you?"
A man who had been hidden by an adjoining rack of newspapers was now leaning forward, jutting his head past the ambuscade. He was an elderly man with an up-cocked gray mustache, and there was a queer little smile in his shrewd blue eyes. Dodd knew him; he was one Mullaney, a state detective. "What are you doing here practicing your sneak work?" demanded the young man.
That made eight strikes square over the plate that inning. What magnificent control! It was equaled by the implacable patience of those veteran Bisons. Manning hit the next ball as hard as Carl had hit his. But Mullaney plunged down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl, then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz.
Mullaney, you've drawn your salary for two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can't run on it well, all right, but I put it up to your good faith. I've played the game and I know it's hard to run on a sore foot. But you can do it. Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I know now, can you run?" "Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready to go in," replied Ashwell. "Raddy, how about you?"
It was Maggie McNamara who led the Brooklyn Female Burnishers' Association in 1868. It was during the sixties that Kate Mullaney was leading her splendid body of Troy laundresses, and twenty years later we find Leonora Barry, another Irish girl, as the leading spirit among the women of the Knights of Labor.
"You have the reputation of knowing all the pretty girls in the state," whispered Mullaney, drawing Dodd's attention with a nudge. "Who is that up there in the gallery, front row, fifth from the aisle; blue feather, and so handsome she hurts my eyes?"
"I promise swear it," Mullaney agreed. Dodd returned the money, and the detective started out on the trot. "You come, too, and I'll tell you on the way. Time is short. You'd better help me," he advised Dodd.
As a state official he did not entertain a high opinion of the free-lance organization to which Mullaney belonged. "I'm here reading a paper supposed it's what the room is for," returned Detective Mullaney. "But excuse me I'll get out. Room seems to be reserved for prize-fighters." "You keep your mouth shut about that that insult." "I never talk it would hurt my business."
The Eastern League clubs were pretty evenly matched; still I continued to hold the lead until misfortune overtook me. Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was out of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle and Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he could not get up his old speed.
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