“Hold on! Hold on!” sputtered Cope desperately. “I ain’t said you was right; I ain’t acknowledged Tom Locke’s name is Hazelton.”
“You don’t have to,” returned Riley; “I know it. You can send him down to us in the mornin’. Just to save argument, I’ll pay him the same sal’ry you’re payin’, though I reckon it’s more’n I offered him.”
He made a move to depart.
“Hold on!” cried Cope again. “You’ll never git him. We won’t give him up.”
“Oh, won’t ye? Then you oughter know what’ll happen. He won’t be ’lowed to pitch ag’in, and the games he’s pitched a’ready will be thrown outer the percentage count. You better think it over calm and reasonable, Cope. Good night.”
CHAPTER XXIII
LEFTY’S FICKLE MEMORY
They left him there, shaking with rage. He heard them laugh outside the door when it had closed behind them, and he lifted and shook both his fists in their direction.
“Ye shan’t have him!” he snarled. “I’ll never give the boy up! It’s one o’ Bancroft’s mean tricks. They’ll do anything to get ahead of Kingsbridge. It’s a measly shame they’ve tumbled to who the youngster is. I’d give somethin’ to find out how that happened.”
He stopped suddenly, a hand lifted, his head thrown back, his mouth open.