Hutchinson fancied he saw, but he remained silent. “Of course,” said Riley, “you’ll make a bluff of workin’ the others, but the minute things look a bit hazy you’ll yank ’em out and run Locke in to save the day. Get me?” “And no man,” murmured Dyke, “can do that much pitchin’ and keep his flinger in condition to trim Bancroft.” “I see,” said Hutchinson frostily, “that you _do_ want to put me in bad here. If I overworked Locke that way I’d have the whole town howling like mad dogs. Already I’ve had instructions from old Cope to save the youngster for Bancroft.” “But you’re manager, ain’t ye?” rasped Riley. “Are you goin’ to run the team or let an old Reuben like him do it? What did they hire ye for?” “An inquiry I have put to Cope already.” “Y’u’re s’posed to know your business. When a game’s goin’ to the bad, whether you’re playin’ with Bancroft or any other team, it’s up to you to save it, if ye can, by changin’ pitchers. As I said, Locke’s the only man you can depend on to win games, so you’ll have to use him.” “If I should tell them so,” said Hutchinson, “I’d mighty soon get orders to go out after other pitchers.” “Where are ye goin’ to get them――now? It’s too late; they’ve all been gobbled up――all the good ones. And even if you should happen to know of one that was all right, you wouldn’t _have_ to sign him. You could try plenty of ’em no better’n Deever and Skillings, able all the time to explain, if the town kicked, that good pitchers couldn’t be had. What d’ye say?” “I’m not saying a word,” replied Hutchinson, with another glance in Dyke’s direction. In a way, although it was far from satisfactory, Riley accepted this as a tacit agreement to his proposal. “I’d like to know,” he growled, after drawing hard at his cigar, “where old man Cope ever found that fellow, anyhow.” “You’re not the only person who is curious about it,” said the Kingsbridge manager. “One chap seems to think he knows. A young fellow by the name of King came to me about Locke. He’s got an idea in his nut that the boy is a Princeton pitcher by the name of Hazelton.” Riley started as if shot, almost dropping his cigar. “What’s that?” he cried. “Hazelton, of Princeton? Great smoke! It can’t be possible!” “Why not? I should say the youngster is a college man.” The manager of the Bancroft Bullies gave his thigh a resounding slap. “Great smoke!” he exclaimed again. “If that’s right, that old rat Cope beat me to it. Why, I made a proposal to Paul Hazelton myself.” “You did?” “Sure. Biff Durgin, scout for the Phillies, told me about that kid last December; said he was a sure-enough comer. I wrote Hazelton a letter.” “Then,” said Dyke quickly, “accordin’ to the rules of the league, you had the call on this Hazelton, in a way. If Locke is the same guy, you’ve got somethin’ on Cope, and you can make some disturbance about it.” Riley lifted himself to his feet, pulling out his watch and looking at it.