"Stop saying 'you' when I say 'youse'—it was youse, and the whole country knows it too! You and that thief! Sittin' there free as a bird, when he oughtta be in Sing Sing!"
Now the General's decorations flashed into view as he raised himself from behind the desk. Wearing the ribbons and stars of a courageous lifetime, he was impressive as a ship's figurehead—and of course he was still a powerfully built man, with a chest on him that might have been hooped around like a barrel. Indeed, the three men gathered together in the room looked as though they could have held their own against a team of horses, if they'd had to draw a brewery truck through the streets of Tri-City. No wonder that the day before, the mob that had pressed right up to his chin had fallen back from Mike the Mouth as he stood astride home plate like the Eighth Wonder of the World. Of course, ever since the murder of his child, not even the biggest numskull had dared to throw so much as a peanut shell at him from the stands; but neither did his bulk encourage a man to tread upon his toes.
"Gamesh," said the General, swelling with righteousness, "no umpire in the history of this league has ever been found guilty of a single act of dishonesty or corruption. Or even charged with one. Remember that!"
"But—my perfect record! He ruined it—forever! Now I will go down in the history books as someone who once lost! And I didn't! I couldn't! I can't!"
"And why can't you, may I ask?"
"Because I'm Gil Gamesh! I'm an immortal!'
"I don't care if you are Jesus Christ!" barked the General. "There are Rules and Regulations in this world and you will follow them just like anybody else!"
"And who made the rules?" sneered Gamesh. "You? Or Scarface over there?"