“He has simply besmirched himself, and his sojourn in Kingsbridge will be brief. Mike Riley has in his possession a letter from Paul Hazelton, which, as it is an effort to jack Riley up in the matter of salary――Riley having made Hazelton an offer to pitch for Bancroft――will establish Bancroft’s prior claim to the man. As near as I can learn, old Cope got Hazelton by paying him a preposterously big sum.” “If he goes to Bancroft, he’ll still be pitching in the league and appearing regularly in Kingsbridge.” Hutchinson permitted a frosty smile to fade across his face. “He’ll never pitch for Bancroft or any other team in the Northern League. Riley is sore. I am telling you in confidence that we have talked the matter over and agreed that Hazelton shall be suspended indefinitely for tricky work. That will put an end to his meteoric career in these parts. All that was needed was proof positive that the man was Hazelton, and I have it.” “When will he be suspended?” “Some time this present week, when a meeting of the league association will be called in Bancroft especially to consider his case. Doubtless you know that Riley has already served notice on us that all games won by Kingsbridge with Locke on the mound will be protested. As a pitcher around here, the fellow is as good as a dead one this minute. He has killed himself in college baseball, also.” “Which serves him right. But what will Kingsbridge do for a first-class pitcher?” “I have one man coming, and another on the string. The first one I expect to arrive by Tuesday or Wednesday, at the latest. If I am left to manage this team, with no interference from Cope, I’ll manage it right. He has messed things up beautifully and given us a bad start.” They talked until the scheming manager saw that King, though brooding, had calmed down; then, satisfied with what he had accomplished he unlocked the door. Hutchinson descended the stairs with King. At the foot of the flight they encountered Tom Locke, just coming from the hotel office in company with Larry Stark. The pitcher had been telling Stark something, and both men were laughing. Believing he knew what Locke had been saying, and that it concerned Janet Harting, the lumber magnate’s son was again obsessed with white-hot anger. “You’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth in a day or two, Hazelton!” he rasped. “I beg your pardon,” Tom returned, flushing. “My amusement does not concern you, King; and will you be good enough to call me Locke?” “No, I will not; I’ll call you by your right name, which is Paul Hazelton. Deny it here, if you have the nerve.” “Very well, I do deny it.” “Then you’re a liar!”