“If I should tell them so,” said Hutchinson, “I’d mighty soon get orders to go out after other pitchers.”
“Where are ye goin’ to get them—now? It’s too late; they’ve all been gobbled up—all the good ones. And even if you should happen to know of one that was all right, you wouldn’t have to sign him. You could try plenty of ’em no better’n Deever and Skillings, able all the time to explain, if the town kicked, that good pitchers couldn’t be had. What d’ye say?”
“I’m not saying a word,” replied Hutchinson, with another glance in Dyke’s direction.
In a way, although it was far from satisfactory, Riley accepted this as a tacit agreement to his proposal.
“I’d like to know,” he growled, after drawing hard at his cigar, “where old man Cope ever found that fellow, anyhow.”
“You’re not the only person who is curious about it,” said the Kingsbridge manager. “One chap seems to think he knows. A young fellow by the name of King came to me about Locke. He’s got an idea in his nut that the boy is a Princeton pitcher by the name of Hazelton.”
Riley started as if shot, almost dropping his cigar.
“What’s that?” he cried. “Hazelton, of Princeton? Great smoke! It can’t be possible!”
“Why not? I should say the youngster is a college man.”
The manager of the Bancroft Bullies gave his thigh a resounding slap.