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 "I presume," cut in Hutchinson coldly, "that I can find him if he is to be found."

"Then git busy. Make the wires hot! This town is out to win this year, if it goes bankrupt, and we ain't goin' to be held down by tricks, lack of pitchers, or anything else."

"No doubt it will be wise to get a line on another man right away, as we'll be in a hole if Bancroft can back up her claim to Lefty. How did he take it when you told him what was going on?"

"Never turned a hair. He ain't worried."

"Isn't he? Well, I'd be if I were in his place—that is, if I wanted to pitch college baseball any more. This rumpus over him is bound to be his finish in that line. It isn't my funeral, but I think he's a fool not to hush it up if he can. It's sure to get into the newspapers, and then the Princeton nine will bid good-by to Lefty Hazelton. They'll have no more use for him."

Shortly after breakfast, Saturday, Bob Hutchinson rapped on the door of Tom Locke's room, and was invited to come in. He entered, bearing a newspaper in his hand, and found Locke writing at a small desk furnished by the hotel proprietor on particular request.

"Good morning," said Tom, evincing a shade