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 melting; in spite of himself, he betrayed resentment; and there was—amazingly—a touch of warmth in the question he fired at Tom Locke:

"Well, what's the matter? I don't suppose you have an idea that we're going to drift along and do nothing, in the face of the possibility of losing you and having the games you've pitched thrown out?"

"I was wondering," said Tom quietly, "just how deeply you were interested in the baseball welfare of Kingsbridge. Somehow, I can't help fancying that it wouldn't disturb you much if I got it in the neck, and had to quit or go to Bancroft."

Hutchinson sneered.

"Haven't you got a touch of the swelled nut? Do you think you're the only pitcher in the business? Winning those two games from Bancroft must have puffed you up aplenty."

"I have won games before I ever came here, or I couldn't have won those games," was the retort. "I know you are only a hired manager; but, as long as you are taking Kingsbridge money for your services, it's up to you to give Kingsbridge your very best interest and effort."

The manager rose, the blaze that had flared strangely a moment before having sunken to cold