RILEY SHOOTS HIS BOLT
Henry Cope had a habit of closing his store at night himself. On this
particular night his clerks had left, and he was lingering in his
cramped little office to straighten out his books. A single swinging
oil lamp burned dimly in the front of the store. The old man betrayed
annoyance as he heard the front door open, and the sound of heavy
footsteps came to his ears.
“Now, who wants anything at this hour?” he muttered. “Hello! Who is it?
What d’ye want?” He pushed the spectacles up on to his forehead and
leaned back from the desk to peer out through the rather dingy office
window, seeing two dark figures approaching.
“Evenin’, Mr. Cope,” saluted Riley, his ample form filling the narrow
doorway. “Don’t git up. I’ve just dropped in to have a few words with
ye.”
“Good evenin’, Mr. Riley. This is a surprise. What’re you doin’ in
Kingsbridge at this hour? Howdy do, Dyke?”
“Come up special to see you on ’portant business,” returned the
Bancroft manager, without loss of time. “It’s about your pitcher,
Locke. Would you mind lettin’ me see the date on your contrac’ with
him?”
“Hey?” exploded Cope, decidedly startled. “Let you see the contrac’?
You’ve got a nerve! If I had a reg’lar written contrac’ with him, I
wouldn’t show it t’ _you_. What’re you drivin’ at?”
“Then you haven’t a contrac’?”
“I didn’t say so; I said a written contrac’. Of course, there’s an
agreement between Locke and me. ’Tain’t necessary for it to be in
writin’.”
“When did you enter into this contrac’?”
“That’s _my_ business. Hang it, man! d’you think I’m goin’ to tell you
my business? You’ve got another guess comin’.”
Henry Cope was decidedly warm and wrathy.
“Keep y’ur shirt on,” advised Riley. “Mebbe you’ll state when you fust
entered into negotiations with Locke?”
“Mebbe I will――and, then again, mebbe I won’t. What’s that to you? You
ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
“Don’t be so cocksure about that. You oughter know the rules and
regerlations of the league. The manager or backers of any team can’t
negotiate or dicker with a player who is negotiatin’ with any other
team in the league.”
“What of it?”
“What of it!” croaked Mike Riley, twisting his thumb into the glittering
infant logging chain that spanned his waistcoat. “Just this: I may have
a claim on Tom Locke myself, on the ground of first negotiation with
him.”
Cope rose to his feet. He was perspiring freely, and the expression on
his usually mild face was one of deepest indignation.
“Looker here, you man,” he cried. “Just because you’re manager of a
bullyin’ baseball team you can’t come here and bully me. I’ve got a
pitcher that can make monkeys of your bunch o’ players, and you realize
it, so you want to gouge me outer him somehow. But it won’t work,
Riley――it won’t work. You never heard o’ Tom Locke in your life till
you heard of him pitchin’ for Kingsbridge. You never saw him till you
saw him right here in this town. Now you come round and make a bluff
that you’ve got a previous claim on him. That’s your style, but it
don’t go in this case.”
“I acknowledge,” admitted Riley coolly, “that I never heard of Tom
Locke before that time.”
“Ha! I knowed it!”
“But,” said the Bancroft manager, having removed the cigar from his
mouth, “I have heard of Paul Hazelton, of Princeton, and I hold fust
claim on him, ’cordin’ to the rules of the Northern League!”
Riley had shot his bolt, and, judging by appearances, it had struck
home. Henry Cope stood dumfounded, his mouth open, some of the color
aroused by his wrath slowly leaving his face. His expression was as
good as a confession that the Bancroft manager had made no mistake in
naming the man.
Fancy Dyke chuckled with satisfaction. The corners of Riley’s thick
lips were pulled down; his eyes bored Cope mercilessly. After a time,
the Kingsbridge man caught his breath, fumbled for his handkerchief,
and mopped away the cold perspiration on his face, his hand not quite
steady.
“How――how’d you ever git that idea?” he asked weakly. “What ever give
ye the notion that his name was Hazelton?”
Riley was thoroughly satisfied; he knew beyond a doubt that he had hit
the nail on the head. Returning the cigar to his mouth, he said grimly:
“Did you have a notion you could wool me, old boy? It’s my business to
know ’bout ball players, and when I don’t know it’s my business t’
find out. I was negotiatin’ with this man Hazelton last December. I
s’pose he used my offer to pry a bigger one outer you, which is just
what the league rule coverin’ the point was made to prevent. That
rule was adopted so players couldn’t work one manager agin’ another;
likewise, so one manager couldn’t bother another by monkeyin’ with
players he was arter. We’ll fix this up; Kingsbridge can transfer
Hazelton to Bancroft.”
“Hold on! Hold on!” sputtered Cope desperately. “I ain’t said you was
right; I ain’t acknowledged Tom Locke’s name is Hazelton.”
“You don’t have to,” returned Riley; “I _know_ it. You can send him
down to us in the mornin’. Just to save argument, I’ll pay him the same
sal’ry you’re payin’, though I reckon it’s more’n I offered him.”
He made a move to depart.
“Hold on!” cried Cope again. “You’ll never git him. We won’t give him
up.”
“Oh, won’t ye? Then you oughter know what’ll happen. He won’t be ’lowed
to pitch ag’in, and the games he’s pitched a’ready will be thrown outer
the percentage count. You better think it over calm and reasonable,
Cope. Good night.”