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."
