Elgin’s sigh of relief was unmistakable. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that,” he returned, his face clearing. “Your father is a clergyman of the old school, and I can quite understand his prejudice. But professional baseball to-day is very different from what it was in his time. There isn’t a cleaner, decenter sport going, or one more free from crookedness. Of course, there are people who look down on it. There are even players”――his voice took on a sneering tone――“who go into it under fictitious names, but they’re cads and bounders. I notice they’re not ashamed to draw their salary checks on the dot. I’ve played ball ever since I left college, and I can truly say, Miss Harting, that I’ve never once had reason to regret my choice of a profession.” For a moment there was silence. The girl’s cheeks were faintly flushed and she was plucking absently at the fringe hanging from the upholstered chair arm. “I’m sure you haven’t, Mr. Elgin,” she murmured presently. There was another momentary pause before she raised her eyes to his face. “I believe that what you say about a man’s playing under a false name is generally true, but don’t you think that once in a while there may be a perfectly good reason for it?” The pitcher shrugged his shoulders. “Once in a thousand times, perhaps,” he admitted. “It’s easy enough to invent a plausible reason, but I’ve noticed invariably that fellows do it because they’re ashamed, not of playing professional ball, but of having their friends know it. There’s an instance of this right here in the Hornet squad, a chap who graduated from Princeton the year after I did. He tried making his living as a lawyer, fell down hard, and then took up baseball. There isn’t an earthly reason why he shouldn’t use his own name, and yet he’s masquerading as Tom Locke.” “Locke!” the girl gasped, staring in startled amazement. “You don’t mean to say that Phil Hazelton is _here_?” Elgin’s jaw dropped most realistically, and he drew his breath sharply. “You――know him?” he faltered. “Of course I do. Why, he pitched all last summer for the Kingsbridge team. That’s where I’ve always lived, you know, until father’s health began to fail, and he was sent South by one of his wealthy parishioners. Philip Hazelton is a perfectly splendid fellow, and we’re great friends.” Elgin’s face was the picture of confusion. “I――beg your pardon, Miss Harting,” he stammered. “I――I had no idea――you knew him, or I should never have mentioned his name.” His expression was so contrite that the girl laughed merrily. “Of course you didn’t,” she returned. “How should you when I haven’t even told you where I lived? I’ll forgive you, though, for otherwise I might never have known he was here. I’m sure, Mr. Elgin, if you knew Phil Hazelton as well as I do you’d admit that he was the thousandth man you spoke of a while ago who has a perfectly legitimate reason for not playing under his own name.”