"Well," said Cope, as he came up, flushed, "how's things lookin' to-day?"
"All right, as far as this game is concerned," replied the manager, in his unenthusiastic way; "but I have something in my pocket that's got me guessing."
"Hey? What is it?"
"A letter from Mike Riley, received to-day noon."
"Oh, is that so?" snapped Cope, instantly deciding that he knew something as to the tenor of that letter. "Well, what's that bullyraggin' bluffer got to say? Lemme see it."
"I'll show it to you later, when we're not quite so conspicuous. I can state the gist of its contents accurately, for I've read it over several times. Riley asserts that, according to Rule Fourteen of the by-laws of the Northern League, he holds first and undisputable claim to the pitcher who has been working for us under the name of Tom Locke."
"The dratted snake!" rasped the storekeeper. "He can't gull me! There ain't nothin' to it, Hutchinson, so don't you let him git ye on a string."
"Are you sure there's nothing to it? He demands that we surrender the man to Bancroft at
