"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 play-
