individual toddling at his heels. These were Timothy Jorkins and Ira Butler, both financial backers of the team, and members of the Bancroft B. B. A.
"Here you are!" said Jorkins, in a deep voice pregnant with accusation, fixing his eyes on Riley.
"Yes, here you are!" gurgled Butler, likewise glaring at the manager.
"Yes, here I am," rasped Mike, returning their gaze. "What about it?"
"What about it?" rumbled the tall man excitedly. "Do you say what about it? Have you the nerve to say what about it? We are the ones to say that. What about it, Mr. Riley; what about it?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Riley, what about it?" wheezed the fat man, digging up a limp handkerchief, and painfully mopping around inside his collar, his face becoming still more beetlike during the process. "That's what we want to know."
Riley removed the cigar from his mouth, and spat on the floor. "You're all wrought up, ain't ye?" he sneered. "Goin' to jump on me good and hard, hey? There's some poor losers in this burg."
"Bancrofters'll never stand losing to Kingsbridge," declared Jorkins. "You were dead cer-
