“Don’t be so cocksure about that. You oughter know the rules and regerlations of the league. The manager or backers of any team can’t negotiate or dicker with a player who is negotiatin’ with any other team in the league.” “What of it?” “What of it!” croaked Mike Riley, twisting his thumb into the glittering infant logging chain that spanned his waistcoat. “Just this: I may have a claim on Tom Locke myself, on the ground of first negotiation with him.” Cope rose to his feet. He was perspiring freely, and the expression on his usually mild face was one of deepest indignation. “Looker here, you man,” he cried. “Just because you’re manager of a bullyin’ baseball team you can’t come here and bully me. I’ve got a pitcher that can make monkeys of your bunch o’ players, and you realize it, so you want to gouge me outer him somehow. But it won’t work, Riley――it won’t work. You never heard o’ Tom Locke in your life till you heard of him pitchin’ for Kingsbridge. You never saw him till you saw him right here in this town. Now you come round and make a bluff that you’ve got a previous claim on him. That’s your style, but it don’t go in this case.” “I acknowledge,” admitted Riley coolly, “that I never heard of Tom Locke before that time.” “Ha! I knowed it!” “But,” said the Bancroft manager, having removed the cigar from his mouth, “I have heard of Paul Hazelton, of Princeton, and I hold fust claim on him, ’cordin’ to the rules of the Northern League!” Riley had shot his bolt, and, judging by appearances, it had struck home. Henry Cope stood dumfounded, his mouth open, some of the color aroused by his wrath slowly leaving his face. His expression was as good as a confession that the Bancroft manager had made no mistake in naming the man. Fancy Dyke chuckled with satisfaction. The corners of Riley’s thick lips were pulled down; his eyes bored Cope mercilessly. After a time, the Kingsbridge man caught his breath, fumbled for his handkerchief, and mopped away the cold perspiration on his face, his hand not quite steady. “How――how’d you ever git that idea?” he asked weakly. “What ever give ye the notion that his name was Hazelton?” Riley was thoroughly satisfied; he knew beyond a doubt that he had hit the nail on the head. Returning the cigar to his mouth, he said grimly: “Did you have a notion you could wool me, old boy? It’s my business to know ’bout ball players, and when I don’t know it’s my business t’ find out. I was negotiatin’ with this man Hazelton last December. I s’pose he used my offer to pry a bigger one outer you, which is just what the league rule coverin’ the point was made to prevent. That rule was adopted so players couldn’t work one manager agin’ another; likewise, so one manager couldn’t bother another by monkeyin’ with players he was arter. We’ll fix this up; Kingsbridge can transfer Hazelton to Bancroft.”