“I didn’t say so; I said a written contrac’. Of course, there’s an agreement between Locke and me. ’Tain’t necessary for it to be in writin’.”
“When did you enter into this contrac’?”
“That’s my business. Hang it, man! d’you think I’m goin’ to tell you my business? You’ve got another guess comin’.”
Henry Cope was decidedly warm and wrathy.
“Keep y’ur shirt on,” advised Riley. “Mebbe you’ll state when you fust entered into negotiations with Locke?”
“Mebbe I will—and, then again, mebbe I won’t. What’s that to you? You ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
“Don’t be so cocksure about that. You oughter know the rules and regerlations of the league. The manager or backers of any team can’t negotiate or dicker with a player who is negotiatin’ with any other team in the league.”
“What of it?”
“What of it!” croaked Mike Riley, twisting his thumb into the glittering infant logging chain that spanned his waistcoat. “Just this: I may have a claim on Tom Locke myself, on the ground of first negotiation with him.”
Cope rose to his feet. He was perspiring freely, and the expression on his usually mild face was one of deepest indignation.