DARLING, I fear that man! The cruel guy can from his place as umpire do you up.”

It was Gwendolin O'Toole who spoke. She was a beautiful blonde angel, and as she clung to her lover, Marty O'Malley, they were a picture from which a painter would have drawn an inspiration.

“Take courage, love!” said Marty O'Malley tenderly; “I'm too swift for the duck.”

“I know, dearest,” murmured the fair Gwendolin, “but think what's up on the game! Me brother, you know him well! the rooter prince, the bleachers' uncrowned king! he is the guardian of me vast estates. If I do not marry as he directs, me lands and houses go to found an asylum for decrepit ball tossers. And to-day me brother Godfrey swore by the Banshee of the O'Tooles that me hand should belong to the man who made the best average in to-morrow's game. Can you win me, love?”

“I will win you or break the bat!” said Marty O'Malley, as he folded his dear one in his arms.