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Updated: June 24, 2025
It was a source of growing unhappiness with Willie that the Madden's Hill boys were always beaten by the other teams of the town. He really came to lose his sadness over his own misfortune in pondering on the wretched play of the Madden's Hill baseball club. He had all a boy's pride in the locality where he lived.
Madden's hand suddenly gripped the engineer's arm as they were about to step forth from the shadow to cross the street to the saloon. "There he is," the sheriff whispered. Vorse had pushed open the slatted door of his place and stepped outside. In the moonlight his figure and face were clearly visible: his thin whip-cord body and predatory face, and bald head as shiny and hard as a fish-scale.
Smith seemed to put his mind to Madden's question with an effort. "Which what did you say?" "Which way?" "What do you mean?" "The dragons, man, the dragons!" "Dragons right here!" Smith beat his broad chest, then waved his long arms about. "Everywhere don't you smell it?" The idea of smelling dragons confused the American. "Smell what?" "The whiskey!" shivered Caradoc.
The American kept trying to twist the German's arm and make him drop his blade, but the fellow had thrust his left hand under Madden's arm pit and reached up and caught him about the forehead. The result was a back half nelson, and put Madden's neck under a terrific strain. In return he choked his adversary, but Madden's mastoid muscles slowly gave way before the German's punishing hold.
While Madden was talking there had again crept into his eyes that look which tells that a man's mind is wandering to other thoughts. Again, with a start, he brought his gaze back to Madden. "A thousand dollars? An option?" He shook his head. "No." "Why, man, are you crazy?" Madden's look hinted that Madden half believed he was.
In the vivid light, he saw the steering wheel turning, apparently of its own accord, and he knew that someone was manipulating the hand grips from the bottom side. From those slight signs of preparation, Madden's attention was suddenly whipped back to his business, by the sight of two figures climbing on over the prow of the Vulcan.
So that Willie's knowledge of players and play, and particularly of the strange talk, the wild and whirling words on the lips of the real baseball men, made him the envy of every boy on Madden's Hill, and a mine of information. Willie never missed attending the games played on the lots, and he could tell why they were won or lost.
Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at Harris. "Put one over, you freckleface! I 've been dyin' fer this chanst. You're on Madden's Hill now." Muckle evidently was not the kind of pitcher to stand coolly under such bantering. Obviously he was not used to it. His face grew red and his hair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball straight at Bob's head. Quick as a cat, Bob dropped flat.
The whole interior of the pontoons looked gutted; empty kegs, barrels had gone overboard, boats had been washed away, the big coal pile was scattered like pebbles and some half of it lost. And one odd trifle gripped Madden's heart the fresh paint over which the crew had toiled so patiently looked old and dingy.
Nowadays, thanks in a great measure to Mr. Madden's book, the "Diary of Master William Silence," it is beginning to dawn on us that the Cotswolds are more or less connected with the great poet of Stratford-on-Avon. Mr. Blunt, in his "Cotswold Dialect," gives no less than fifty-eight passages from the works of Shakespeare, in which words and phrases peculiar to the district are made use of.
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