“It is fortunate,” said Locke grimly, “that I fancied this meeting might be called on short notice, and made preparations for it.”
“Hey? You’ve made preparations?”
“Yes.”
“Whut sort o’ preparations?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cope; I shall be ready for them, I think.”
“Then you’re dead sartin old Riley ain’t got no holt on ye?”
“How many times,” asked the young pitcher impatiently, “must I tell you so, Mr. Cope?”
“You know it’s got round somehow that you’ve denied p’int-blank that you’re Hazelton, and some folks—they’s alwus that kind in ev’ry town—are sayin’ they reckon you lied,” stammered the grocer. “You ain’t never denied that your name’s Hazelton, have ye?”
Tom Locke frowned, but made no answer to the question.
“As fur’s I’m concerned,” said Cope, “when they’ve tried to corner me, I’ve dodged or refused to answer. It’s too bad, boy; I’m mighty sorry it’s all goin’ to come out who ye be, but ’twarn’t my fault. I’ve kep’ my part of our agreement.”