“I have not said that I ever wrote Riley a letter, or ever received one from him; and while I am in Kingsbridge I prefer to be called Locke, not Hazelton.” “Oh,” said Hutchinson, “of course we’ll humor you in that whim, although you must know that your real identity cannot be kept secret after this. I don’t suppose you’ll deny that Hazelton is your proper name?” “I have said that I prefer to be called Locke.” CHAPTER XXVIII THE GAGE FLUNG DOWN Hutchinson laughed in a mirthless manner, no sound escaping his thin lips. The young man had refused a direct answer, and nimbly made his escape from the corner in which Hutch had tried to pin him, but it seemed that he might as well have owned up without squirming. “It’s a peculiar affair,” said the manager, after a few moments, during which Lefty sat frowning at the newspaper he still held in his hand. “Riley proposes to protest against the counting of any games we may win with you pitching. It seems that old man Cope is getting cold feet, for he has instructed me to fish up another pitcher or two without delay, and I’ve got some lines out already.” The pitcher lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at Hutchinson, as if looking straight and deep into the hidden chambers of the man’s mind, there to read his secret thoughts and purposes. In spite of himself, Hutch felt his icy self-control melting; in spite of himself, he betrayed resentment; and there was――amazingly――a touch of warmth in the question he fired at Tom Locke: “Well, what’s the matter? I don’t suppose you have an idea that we’re going to drift along and do nothing, in the face of the possibility of losing you and having the games you’ve pitched thrown out?” “I was wondering,” said Tom quietly, “just how deeply you were interested in the baseball welfare of Kingsbridge. Somehow, I can’t help fancying that it wouldn’t disturb you much if I got it in the neck, and had to quit or go to Bancroft.” Hutchinson sneered. “Haven’t you got a touch of the swelled nut? Do you think you’re the only pitcher in the business? Winning those two games from Bancroft must have puffed you up aplenty.” “I have won games before I ever came here, or I couldn’t have won those games,” was the retort. “I know you are only a hired manager; but, as long as you are taking Kingsbridge money for your services, it’s up to you to give Kingsbridge your very best interest and effort.” The manager rose, the blaze that had flared strangely a moment before having sunken to cold ashes of resentment. He had not liked this young fellow from the first; now that Locke had dared speak out in such a fearless manner, indicating the ease with which he had plumbed the shallow depth of Hutchinson’s loyalty, the man’s hatred became intense. Nevertheless, he sought to resume his habitual mask of cold indifference.