“I’ve seen plenty of young cubs like you,” he said in his usual level, colorless voice. “They always have to have it hammered out of them, and you’ll have to swallow the regular medicine if you play much professional baseball.” The gage had been flung down between them; henceforth, although they might dissemble before others, they would make no effort to deceive each other regarding their feelings. If Lefty were really ambitious to get on professionally, it would seem that he had perpetrated a shortsighted piece of folly in incurring the enmity of his manager. Nevertheless, rising to his full height to face Hutchinson, he had something further to say: “Doubtless, sir, there are other managers like you; but, for the good of the game, I hope there are not many.” For something like thirty seconds, Hutch did not stir or move his eyes from Tom Locke’s face; but he was confronted by a pose equally statue-like and a gaze even steadier and unflinching, and presently, struggle against it though he did, his lids drooped. “You shall regret those words,” he declared, without altering his tone a particle. “Your baseball career in the Northern League will be short; at Princeton it is ended.” He went out, leaving behind him the paper he had brought. When he was alone, Lefty took a long breath. “You are right,” he muttered; “at Princeton, it is ended.” And he laughed queerly. Hutchinson left the hotel to get the air, which he seemed to need. A man who had never known what it meant to feel deep and lasting affection for any human being, he could hate with an intensity as deep and dark as the Plutonic pit. Seeking a private booth at the central telephone station, he called up Mike Riley, with whom he made an appointment to “talk over business,” guarding his words, lest the girl at the switchboard, listening, should hear something her tongue could not refrain from tattling. This done, Hutch walked a while, and felt better. He was, of course, not the only one who had read the disturbing piece in the Bancroft _News_; already numerous people in Kingsbridge were discussing that item, which provoked no small amount of alarm, and caused Henry Cope to be bombarded all that forenoon with questions he could not, or would not, answer, putting him before midday into such a reek of perspiration that he felt as if he had taken a plunge in the river. With a copy of the paper in his pocket, Benton King lingered a few minutes at the post office, and was rewarded by the appearance of Janet. He showed her the paper, and saw her cheek pale as she read the brief article. “That ought to convince you,” he said. “It does not!” she exclaimed, handing back the paper. “It is a wretched slur, such as might be expected from Bancroft.” “Where there’s smoke, you know.” “I’m truly ashamed of you, Bent. I thought better of you.” He flushed under the stinging remark, but stood his ground. “You will be forced to believe, in the end, Janet.”