“Twenty-five minutes after,” he said. “What time do the stores close here? I might be able to catch the old fox in his den.” “Go for him,” urged Fancy Dyke. “That’s the stuff! If there’s a chance to do it, it’s up to you to protest Locke. If you can’t take him away from the Kinks, mebbe you can stop him from pitchin’ in the league, and that would do the business. Shall I come along?” “You may as well. If this thing really comes to a meetin’ to decide on a protest, I may need a witness to the conversation that’ll pass between Cope and me to-night.” Hutchinson was on his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I presume it’s fully understood that my name is not to be mentioned in the matter. You’ll say nothing of your visit to me?” “Aw, sure not,” promised Riley. “We’re not lookin’ to get you fired; we would ruther see you stay right here as manager of the Kinks. Don’t worry, Hutch; it’s all right. Let’s hike, Fancy.” CHAPTER XXII RILEY SHOOTS HIS BOLT Henry Cope had a habit of closing his store at night himself. On this particular night his clerks had left, and he was lingering in his cramped little office to straighten out his books. A single swinging oil lamp burned dimly in the front of the store. The old man betrayed annoyance as he heard the front door open, and the sound of heavy footsteps came to his ears. “Now, who wants anything at this hour?” he muttered. “Hello! Who is it? What d’ye want?” He pushed the spectacles up on to his forehead and leaned back from the desk to peer out through the rather dingy office window, seeing two dark figures approaching. “Evenin’, Mr. Cope,” saluted Riley, his ample form filling the narrow doorway. “Don’t git up. I’ve just dropped in to have a few words with ye.” “Good evenin’, Mr. Riley. This is a surprise. What’re you doin’ in Kingsbridge at this hour? Howdy do, Dyke?” “Come up special to see you on ’portant business,” returned the Bancroft manager, without loss of time. “It’s about your pitcher, Locke. Would you mind lettin’ me see the date on your contrac’ with him?” “Hey?” exploded Cope, decidedly startled. “Let you see the contrac’? You’ve got a nerve! If I had a reg’lar written contrac’ with him, I wouldn’t show it t’ _you_. What’re you drivin’ at?” “Then you haven’t a contrac’?” “I didn’t say so; I said a written contrac’. Of course, there’s an agreement between Locke and me. ’Tain’t necessary for it to be in writin’.” “When did you enter into this contrac’?” “That’s _my_ business. Hang it, man! d’you think I’m goin’ to tell you my business? You’ve got another guess comin’.” Henry Cope was decidedly warm and wrathy. “Keep y’ur shirt on,” advised Riley. “Mebbe you’ll state when you fust entered into negotiations with Locke?” “Mebbe I will――and, then again, mebbe I won’t. What’s that to you? You ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”