Tuesday’s early mail brought Henry Cope a letter bearing the Bancroft postmark, and he opened it somewhat nervously. As he apprehended, it contained a communication from Anson Graham, president of the Northern League, giving notice that there would be held at the office of Rufus Kilgore, in Bancroft, on Thursday evening, at eight o’clock, a meeting of the league directors to consider the protest of Manager Riley relative to Paul Hazelton, “playing with Kingsbridge under the assumed name of Tom Locke.” “By gum!” growled the grocer disgustedly. “They actually do mean business. We’re up ag’inst it. The boy better know ’bout this right away.” He found Locke making ready to start for Fryeburg, where the team was to play that afternoon. The young man seemed strangely depressed, and his face wore a deep frown as he read the notice, which Cope had handed him. The grocer anxiously regarded the expression on the pitcher’s face. “Well?” he asked, as Tom returned the notice. “It is fortunate,” said Locke grimly, “that I fancied this meeting might be called on short notice, and made preparations for it.” “Hey? You’ve made preparations?” “Yes.” “Whut sort o’ preparations?” “Don’t worry, Mr. Cope; I shall be ready for them, I think.” “Then you’re dead sartin old Riley ain’t got no holt on ye?” “How many times,” asked the young pitcher impatiently, “must I tell you so, Mr. Cope?” “You know it’s got round somehow that you’ve denied p’int-blank that you’re Hazelton, and some folks――they’s alwus that kind in ev’ry town――are sayin’ they reckon you lied,” stammered the grocer. “You ain’t never denied that your name’s Hazelton, have ye?” Tom Locke frowned, but made no answer to the question. “As fur’s I’m concerned,” said Cope, “when they’ve tried to corner me, I’ve dodged or refused to answer. It’s too bad, boy; I’m mighty sorry it’s all goin’ to come out who ye be, but ’twarn’t my fault. I’ve kep’ my part of our agreement.” “I haven’t any doubt of that. It’s simply the result of unfortunate circumstances and the determination of somebody to do me a bad turn. Mr. Cope, I’m not a trouble breeder, but, as you have used me square and I am genuinely interested in the team, I’m going to give you a tip to keep an eye on your manager. Nor does this come wholly, or even mainly, from the fact that I do not like him personally; I have reasons to believe that he is not on the level.” “Hum!” grunted the grocer; “we hired him on good recommendation, but I don’t mind tellin’ you privately that I’ve got a feelin’ myself that he ain’t to be trusted too fur. He’s fer puttin’ you on the bench until arter this fuss over you is settled, an’ that don’t sound good t’ me. I want you to pitch agin’ Bancroft ag’in to-morrer.” “And I want to pitch against them,” said Tom warmly; “but you’ll find that Hutchinson will object.” “As long as you insist that they can’t count out the games that you win, I’m goin’ to set on the bench myself an’ see that you pitch to-morrer.”