“Hey? What is it?”
“A letter from Mike Riley, received to-day noon.”
“Oh, is that so?” snapped Cope, instantly deciding that he knew something as to the tenor of that letter. “Well, what’s that bullyraggin’ bluffer got to say? Lemme see it.”
“I’ll show it to you later, when we’re not quite so conspicuous. I can state the gist of its contents accurately, for I’ve read it over several times. Riley asserts that, according to Rule Fourteen of the by-laws of the Northern League, he holds first and undisputable claim to the pitcher who has been working for us under the name of Tom Locke.”
“The dratted snake!” rasped the storekeeper. “He can’t gull me! There ain’t nothin’ to it, Hutchinson, so don’t you let him git ye on a string.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing to it? He demands that we surrender the man to Bancroft at once, and says he has already notified you of his claim.”
“Oh, yes, he’s notified me, in a way; and I practically told him where he could go. It’s a put-up job to gouge us out of a pitcher that’s got the whole o’ Bancroft scared pea green. We’ve got ’em goin’, and they’re afraid they can’t beat us on the level, so, arter their usual style, they put up a job to weaken us by stealin’ our pitcher. That’s Bancroft out an’ out, and Mike Riley’s a good tool to work the trick for them; but he can’t work it—he can’t, I tell ye!”
“Doubtless you know more about the merits of the case than I do,” said Hutchinson calmly; “for you signed this man who calls himself Locke. Riley says Locke is a Princeton College pitcher by the name of Hazelton. How about that?”
“Riley thinks he’s wise,” returned Cope evasively, “but mebbe he don’t know as much as he’s got a notion he does. Anyhow, whether Locke is Hazelton or not, I’m dead sure Bancroft ain’t got no legal claim to him.”
“I hope you’re right, of course, for Locke seems to be a fairly good pitcher.”