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For a long moment or two that mutual inspection endured; then the boy's lips moved open with a smile that was far graver than his gravity had been and he started slowly across the floor toward the table. Hogarty half rose, one hand outstretched as if to halt him, but for some reason which the ex-lightweight scarcely understood himself, he failed to utter the protest that was at his tongue's end.
Domino poised in hand, Hogarty had turned in preoccupied resignation back to a perplexed contemplation of whether it would be better to play a blank-six and block the game or a double-blank and risk being caught with a handful of high counters, when Ogden reached out and clutched him by the wrist. "Shades of Miles Standish!" that silk-shirted person gasped.
All the smooth suavity disappeared from his speech just as chalk marks are wiped out by a wet sponge. And Hogarty came swiftly to his feet. "Maybe you were maybe you did make a bad mistake!" he rasped out in a dead, colorless monotone that scarcely moved his lips. "But no man ever came into this place yet, and went out again to say he didn't get his chance.
And because he knew how infallible were the habits of his patrons, Hogarty did not so much as lift his eyes to the practically empty gymnasium floor when a clock at the far side of the room tinkled the hour of eleven.
Hogarty smiled as he closed his office door, after he had seen Morehouse slip his hand through the crook of Young Denny's arm, in spite of Bobby Ogden's yelp of protest, and clear a way to the outer entrance with one haughty flip of his free hand.
I've told you I am going to pay Dennison off and pay him with the same coin that he handed me. Doesn't that mean anything at all?" He stopped short, crossed to the table and stood with his fingertips bracketed upon its surface. Morehouse knew Hogarty knew him as did few other men, unless, perhaps, it was those who, years before, had faced him in the ring.
That time, before Conway could swing, the gong saved him. Again it was Hogarty who was first through the ropes. Effortlessly he stooped and lifted that limp body and carried it across to the stool. They tried to stretch him back against the ropes behind him, and each time his head slumped forward over his knees. Old Jerry turned toward Morehouse and choked licked his lips and choked again.
"He's he's come where?" Where his facetiousness had failed him Morehouse's round-eyed astonishment, a little tinged with panic, was more than successful. Hogarty permitted himself to smile a trifle his queer, strained smile. "He is here," he repeated gravely, and the words were couched in his choicest accents. "He came in, perhaps, an hour ago.
It was like Jesse Hogarty or Flash Hogarty, as he had been styled by the sporting reporters of the saffron dailies ten years back, when it was said that he could hit faster and harder out of a clinch than any lightweight who ever stood in canvas shoes to refuse to transfer his place to some locality a bit nearer Fifty-seventh Street, even when it chanced, as it did with every passing year, that he drew his patrons at an alarmingly high rate per patron almost entirely from far uptown.
Hogarty himself, after a time, began to feel, vaguely, his uneasiness and lack of application to the matter in hand, and made evident his irritation by even longer pauses before each play.
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