was the matter with Lefty. "He throw-a da bat! I knock-a da block off-a da sneak-a!"
His cigar gone, his hat smashed, his collar torn awry, Mike Riley succeeded in reaching Hoover.
"You infernal idiot!" he puffed. "Didn't you know better? What made ye do it?"
"Bah!" retorted Jock with contempt and courage worthy of a better cause. "These barking curs won't do anything. Give me a show, and I'll break that left-handed dub's face. He hasn't got the courage to give me an opportunity right now—here. He's a" The concluding epithet was a repetition of the insult he had hurled at Locke along with the bat.
"No man can swallow that!" muttered Larry Stark. "Somebody must fight that miserable rowdy."
"Give me the chance," said Tom Locke, "and give him the same even show, without interference. Let the crowd keep back." They marveled at his calmness.
Some of Hoover's friends sought to rush him off, against his will, and the vociferous, twisting, lunging mass of humanity swept over to one side of the diamond, where Bent King had his hands full in the task of restraining his fretting span from plunging forward and trampling some of
