“And that,” exulted Mike Riley, “_does_ settle it! He’s Hazelton, and here’s a letter from him, dated December twenty-seven, last year, answering a letter o’ mine, in which I offered him twenty-five a week and board to pitch fer Bancroft this season, a-sayin’ he wanted forty ’n’ board. Take notice that he don’t say he won’t play for twenty-five, but that it’s jest a clever try to boost me t’ forty. I base my claim on that letter. “I cal’late this smooth guy, who’s had the nerve to stan’ up here an’ practically swear that he ain’t Paul Hazelton, used my offer to boost his value with Mr. Cope, who, I hear, is payin’ him outer all reason. Sneaky, underhand work, I call it. Such a man is dang’r’us, an’ I hope that he will be put on the blacklist so that he won’t be able to play on any team in the league. That’s the way to fix him.” “I would like,” said Locke, “the privilege of examining that letter.” “Let him see it arter the rest have seen it,” said Riley. “’Twon’t do him no good t’ destroy it.” “I have no desire to destroy it,” declared Tom, when the letter presently reached his hands and he had glanced it over. “On the contrary, I have a most powerful desire to preserve it carefully; for it is a miserable forgery, and it would give me no little satisfaction to see the scoundrels responsible for its production properly prosecuted for a criminal offense.” “Bah!” snarled Riley. “More of his bluffin’. He must think we’re fools t’ let him put over anything like that on us. He’s trapped, an’ he can’t wiggle outer it. Mr. President, I urge immediate action on my protest, and I hope the directors of the league will put Mr. Paul Hazelton on the blacklist.” Again Henry Cope tugged at Locke’s coat skirts; he looked pitifully downcast and disheartened. “You tole me,” he whispered dolefully, “that you had it on ’em somehow, but it seems t’ me that they’ve got it on you.” “Wait a minute, Mr. Cope,” was the cool reply; “this meeting is not over, and there is something mighty interesting yet to come.” He turned to the others. “Mr. President, I have some witnesses, waiting outside at my request, whom I ask leave to introduce. I will call them.” Stepping swiftly to one of the open windows, he thrust his head out and called. Directly footsteps were again heard on the stairs. The door was flung open to admit Sam Bryant, the bell boy of the Central Hotel at Kingsbridge, followed by a stranger, who did not seem more than twenty years of age. The entrance of the boy appeared, for once, at least, to jostle Bob Hutchinson out of his usual unemotional calm, and the manager glared at Sam, alarm and menace in his unpleasant eyes. “I have asserted that this letter,” said Locke, holding up the missive in question, “is a forgery. It is a rather clever imitation of my handwriting, a specimen of which was taken from my desk in my room last Sunday, together with a letter which the pilferer dared not present as evidence at this meeting.