It’s the McCoy

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It was the last half of the seventh inning. The visitors were two runs ahead, and the heavy batting end of the home team was coming up. The crowd was at that emotional pitch when balls are greeted with cheers, strikes bring forth groans, and a foul ball has spectators jumping from their seats, straining their necks.

Paul Pry and Mugs Magoo sat in the grandstand directly behind the catcher.

Paul Pry was drinking a bottle of soda pop, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment. His entire thought processes concentrated upon the progress of the game.

Mugs Magoo, on the other hand, sat heavily on the pads which had been rented for the occasion to soften the hard contours of the grandstand seat. His slightly protruding eyes were masked behind a film which gave them the lack of expression commonly associated with the eyes of a fish. But those eyes missed nothing. Apparently dead, expressionless, inanimate, they were as efficient as the lens of a candid camera.

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