“No doubt it will be wise to get a line on another man right away, as we’ll be in a hole if Bancroft can back up her claim to Lefty. How did he take it when you told him what was going on?” “Never turned a hair. He ain’t worried.” “Isn’t he? Well, I’d be if I were in his place――that is, if I wanted to pitch college baseball any more. This rumpus over him is bound to be his finish in that line. It isn’t my funeral, but I think he’s a fool not to hush it up if he can. It’s sure to get into the newspapers, and then the Princeton nine will bid good-by to Lefty Hazelton. They’ll have no more use for him.” Shortly after breakfast, Saturday, Bob Hutchinson rapped on the door of Tom Locke’s room, and was invited to come in. He entered, bearing a newspaper in his hand, and found Locke writing at a small desk furnished by the hotel proprietor on particular request. “Good morning,” said Tom, evincing a shade of surprise at the call. “Have a chair.” He put aside the pen, and turned his own chair from the desk. “This unfortunate contention over you,” Hutchinson said, “seems to be creating considerable disturbance. To say the least, it’s annoying.” “I quite agree on that point,” nodded the pitcher, “and it is far more annoying to me than it can possibly be to any one else.” “I should think it might be, although I wish to state that it has jarred me some. I’d like to know whether we have a good claim to you or not. Have you seen the Bancroft _News_ this morning?” “No.” “Here it is. You’ll find something of interest concerning you here in the sporting department.” He handed over the newspaper, indicating the article mentioned, and sat down. Not once did he take his cold eyes off Locke’s face as the latter read the piece pointed out. The _News_ has learned that a warm controversy is in progress over a certain remarkable young left-handed pitcher who has created a decided sensation by his phenomenal slabwork for one of Bancroft’s strong rivals in the Northern League. The man in question is said to be a college pitcher who is playing under an assumed name, this discovery being made by our astute manager, Mr. Riley, who is certainly on the job every minute. To put one over on Michael Riley it is necessary to catch him napping, and the sleepless-eyed sleuth of yellow fiction is a Rip Van Winkle compared with Mike.