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The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed in front of the Commissioner. “You mean that has-been,” he pointed at Grant, “is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain’t fair, I say. Even when he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They’re scared, and won’t match us—even these amateurs. And yet look what we’ve done to pep the game up!”

“You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I feel the merit of Dr. Lane’s suggest—”

“Who is this Lane?” The little man’s face was fierce. “So he starts the game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, the master, but that’s a long time ago. Now that he’s out, he don’t like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain’t the best any more.”

“That will be all for tonight. In the morning I’ll have an official release ready.” The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. “And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement.”

“Wait! I’m telling you,” said Teagle. “We’ve tried to get a match with this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out because he’s scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! And I bet he hasn’t got the guts to take us up.”