One man, at least, was wholly happy; Henry Cope was confident that, after this, his fellow members of the Kingsbridge Baseball Association, who had given him carte blanche to secure a star pitcher, at any price, could not make much protest when they learned that he had contracted to pay Tom Locke one hundred dollars a week and board, a sum far greater than many a minor-league pitcher of promise received.
Janet Harting was delighted beyond words; so delighted, indeed, that her ebullient expressions of joy and unreserved admiration for Locke brought a slight frown to the dark face of Benton King.
There were those, however, who felt no touch of rejoicing.
The Bancroft crowd was silent. Mike Riley sat on the bench, and chewed at his dead cigar, turning only to snarl at Fancy Dyke when the latter called to him anxiously from behind the rail. He had already sneered at his players because of their inability to hit Locke, but there was something of a still more caustic nature awaiting them when they should again assemble at the bench.
