“Had to let my stenographer off for the game,” he said. “She made a bluff that she was half sick and had a terrible headache, but I knew what ailed her, and I cured her by giving her a pass. She’ll come back to-morrow feeling worse than ever over our licking.”
“Natural enough,” said Dyke, sitting down. “It’ll make the whole town sick.”
Riley’s chair cracked under his weight. “Ain’t got a swaller of somethin’ round here, have ye, Kilgore?” he asked.
The lawyer produced a “longnecker” and a dirty glass. “Running water in the back room if you want it,” he said.
But the manager, having no desire to dilute the amber liquid with which he almost overran the glass, and disdaining a “chaser,” took his “straight.” Dyke followed with a small “nip,” but Kilgore asked to be excused from joining them, and put away the bottle and glass.
Heavy steps sounded on the stairs. A tall, slim, sallow man entered, a puffing, red-faced, rolypoly individual toddling at his heels. These were Timothy Jorkins and Ira Butler, both financial backers of the team, and members of the Bancroft B. B. A.
“Here you are!” said Jorkins, in a deep voice pregnant with accusation, fixing his eyes on Riley.
“Yes, here you are!” gurgled Butler, likewise glaring at the manager.
“Yes, here I am,” rasped Mike, returning their gaze. “What about it?”
“What about it?” rumbled the tall man excitedly. “Do you say what about it? Have you the nerve to say what about it? We are the ones to say that. What about it, Mr. Riley; what about it?”