“What’s that?” he asked sharply. “Negotiating with Riley? What are you talking about? I haven’t been negotiating with him. What do you take me for, Mr. Cope? Do you think I would do a thing like that after entering into an agreement with you?” “I don’t mean that you’ve been dickerin’ with him since then, but before. You never told me that Riley had made any proposition to ye to pitch f’r Bancroft this season.” “Who says he did?” “He says so. He came here last night and stated that he had fust claim on ye, ’cordin’ to the rules of the league, which bars any manager from tryin’ to git a man another manager is negotiatin’ with.” Tom Locke was very wide awake now. “How could he make any such claim. It is preposterous, Mr. Cope, as you ought to know. I hope you haven’t let that man bluff you. Why, he doesn’t know who I am!” “Oh, but he does――that’s the thing of it. He came to my store, ’long with Fancy Dyke, and told me just who you was――called you by your right name.” The younger man sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, a startled expression on his face. For some moments he stared at the caller, as if at a loss for words. “I don’t understand how he got wise,” he finally said slowly. “Called me by my right name, did he?” “Yep; said he knowed you was Paul Hazelton, of Princeton, and that he was negotiatin’ with ye last December. Now, what I want to know is if there’s any truth in that statement. If there is, we’re in a hole. Did you git a letter from him? Did you write him an answer?” To the increasing surprise and alarm of Cope, the pitcher seemed to hesitate about replying. “Did ye? Did ye?” cried the older man impatiently. “Why don’t ye answer? You know whether you got such a letter or not, don’t ye? You know if ye answered it? What’s the matter? Answer! If you done that, we’re in a hole. They’ve got it on us. And to think of that, just when we was holdin’ the best hand over them! Speak up, boy!” “I am trying to think,” said Locke. “Tryin’ to think! Look here, you told me you’d never done anything like this before――you’d never played baseball f’r money. Now anybody’d s’pose you’d had so many offers you couldn’t remember ’bout ’em. You was mighty partic’lar to have it ’ranged so nobody’d be likely to find out who you was.” Lefty smiled a bit ruefully. “Apparently all that precaution was wasted,” he said. “I give you my word, Mr. Cope, that I have no recollection of ever receiving a letter from Mike Riley, and I am doubly certain that he holds no communication from me. You know I did not send you a written answer to your proposition. A college pitcher who wrote such letters, and signed them with his own name, would prove himself a fool. He’d never know when the letter might bob up to confound him. It would be evidence enough to get him dropped from his college team in double-quick time. No, I am positive I never wrote to Riley.” Cope breathed somewhat easier, although he was still very much disturbed.