The young man seemed strangely depressed, and his face wore a deep frown as he read the notice, which Cope had handed him. The grocer anxiously regarded the expression on the pitcher's face.
"Well?" he asked, as Tom returned the notice.
"It is fortunate," said Locke grimly, "that I fancied this meeting might be called on short notice, and made preparations for it."
"Hey? You've made preparations?"
"Yes."
"Whut sort o' preparations?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Cope; I shall be ready for them, I think."
"Then you're dead sartin old Riley ain't got no holt on ye?"
"How many times," asked the young pitcher impatiently, "must I tell you so, Mr. Cope?"
"You know it's got round somehow that you've denied p'int-blank that you're Hazelton, and some folks—they's alwus that kind in ev'ry town—are sayin' they reckon you lied," stammered the grocer. "You ain't never denied that your name's Hazelton, have ye?"
Tom Locke frowned, but made no answer to the question.
"As fur's I'm concerned," said Cope, "when
