"No wine?"
"No—I'm not in the wine class."
"Who were you with?"
"You're the manager," said McCarthy quietly, although he was rebellious inwardly. "You may ask me anything you want to about myself or my actions—but you surely don't expect me to tell on anyone else?"
"I don't want you to tell on any ball player—but who were you with?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell."
"You needn't tell me—I know," said the manager angrily. "You got up out of bed to go there to meet Easy Ed Edwards—and you were with him while three of you drank four quarts of wine."
For an instant McCarthy clenched his hands until the nails bit into the palms, and a flood of angry color flashed into his face. With an effort he controlled himself.
"You've got everything backwards," he said at last, gazing straight at the angry manager. "I can't explain just now—but you'll find out some day—and apologize."
He turned without another word and left the room. Clancy, who had expected angry denials, threats, perhaps a personal encounter, sat gazing at the closed door, and then to himself he said: