There has been good material wasted in Donovan. Properly environed and taught the language, though he doesn't depend on language very much, he could have been presiding officer of the French Chamber of Deputies--and presided. It was the ninth inning, last half, tie score, two out, three on, with two and three on the batter. In other words, the precise moment when the fictionist is allowed to step in. Moxey up. He fouled off a couple, the coachers screeched; the umpire, who was also stakeholder, dripped a bit freer and hoped Donovan would stick around for a few seconds longer. The pitcher took a short wind-up and the ball, which seemed to start for the platter, reached Moxey in the neighborhood of the heart. He collapsed. They rallied round the umpire. "He done it on purpose--the sheeny--he done it on purpose, I tell you--he run into it----" "Naw, ye're a liar!" "Prove it." "It's a dead ball--take your base--come in there, youse," waving to the man on third. "We win. Give us our money." All participated but Moxey, who lay moaning on the ground by the home plate. Donovan strolled out to the debate and smiled his magic smile. "Take yer base," bawled the emboldened ump, and waved the run in. Al got five dollars for the day's playing and three dollars for the day's betting, and the Prairie Views walked off, bats conspicuous on shoulders, yelling, "Yah!" at the enemy. "Chee," said Moxey to his playmates when they reached the family entrance, "me for the big irrigation." And it was so. Moxey shifted his foot, called his little circle around him close and then inserted his dark, fleshless talon into his baseball shirt. "That gave me an awful wallop what win the game," he said; "if I hadn't slipped me little pad in after the eight', it might a' put me away, understand." He took out his protection against dead balls, an ingenious and inconspicuous felt arrangement to be worn under the left arm by right-handed batters. And all present felt again that there had been injustice in the preference of McClaughrey. Whenever they asked Moxey where he lived, he answered, "West," and let it go at that. He always turned up for the next game, no matter how often plans had been changed since he had last seen any of them. That was all they knew about him. He caught for them, often won for them, drank beer with them and then disappeared completely until the next half-holiday. Perhaps Al was his most intimate friend, and Al was the only one who learned his secret. "Say, Al," he blurted out almost fiercely one evening, "your folks is Irish, ain't they?" "Irish-American," corrected Al. "Well, mine's Yiddishers, and the most Yiddish Yiddishers y'ever see." Moxey seemed very bitter about it and Al waited for more. "My old man, well----" Moxey swallowed. It seemed to Al as if he would not go on, but finally it came out with a rush. "He pushes a cart--yes, sir--honest to God, he pushes a cart--I thought maybe I ought to tell you, Al."