There wasn't time to jump out of the way of that second flying missile.
By an instinct of self-preservation young Prescott, instead of trying to leap out of the way, just collapsed, going down to his knees.
As he sank the missile struck the top of his cap, carrying it from his head.
"Hi! Stop that, you blamed rascal!"
It was Dave Darrin's voice that rang out, as that young man came rushing down the street behind Prescott.
Dick in another second was on his feet, crouching low, and running full tilt into the alleyway.
It was Dick's way—-to run at danger, instead of away from it.
At his first bound into the alley, Prescott dimly made out some fellow running at the further end.
There was an outlet of escape down there—-two of them, in fact, as the indignant pursuer knew. So he put on speed, but soon was obliged to halt, finding that his unknown enemy had gotten away. Here Dick was joined by breathless Dave Darrin, who had followed swiftly.
"You go through there, Dave; I'll take the other way," urged Dick, again starting in pursuit.
The unknown one, however, had taken advantage of those few seconds of delay to get safely beyond chase. So the chums met, soon, in a side street.
"His line of retreat was good," muttered Dick, rather disgustedly.
"Who was it, anyway?" Dave indignantly inquired.
"I don't know. I didn't see."
"Do you suppose it could have been Tip Scammon?" asked Dave, shrewdly.
"Is Tip Scammon back from the penitentiary?"
"Got back this afternoon, and has been showing himself around town this evening," nodded Dave. "Say, I wonder if he could have been the one who ambushed you?"
"I don't like to throw suspicion on anyone," Dick replied. "Still, I can't imagine anyone else who would have as much temptation to try to lay me up. Tip Scammon acted as Fred Ripley's tool, last year, in trying to make me out a High School thief. Tip was sent away, and Fred didn't have to suffer at all, because Tip wouldn't betray his employer. But Tip must have felt sore at me many a time when he was breaking rock at the penitentiary."
The two chums walked slowly back to Main Street, still talking.
"I saw you ahead of me, on the street," Dave rattled on. "I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head. Say, Dick, I wonder—-"
"What?" demanded Prescott.
"Oh, of course, it's a crazy notion. But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he'd put anyone up to lying in ambush for you."
Dick started, then thought a few moments. "No," he decided. "Cantwell may be erratic, and he certainly has a treacherous temper, and some mean ways. But this was hardly the sort of trick he'd go in for."
"Then it was Tip Scammon, all by himself," declared Darrin, with great conviction.
"But to go back to Mr. Cantwell," Dick resumed, with a grin, "I must tell you something really funny. Prin. went to School Board tonight with a long, bright knife sharpened for me. But he didn't do a thing."
Then Prescott confessed to being a "Blade" representative, and told of the principal's visit to the Board, and of his hurried departure.
Dave laughed heartily, though what seemed to amaze him most of all was that Dick had found a chance to write for pay.
"Of course you can do it, Dick," continued his loyal friend, "butI never thought that anyone as young as you ever got the chance."
"It came my way," Dick went on, "and I'm mighty glad it did.So——-"
"Wow!" muttered Dave, suddenly, then started off at a sprint, as he muttered:
"Here's Tip Scammon now!"
Both boys moved along on a hot run. Tip was walking slowly alongMain Street, giving a very good imitation of one unconcerned.
He turned when he heard the running feet behind him, however. His first impulse seemed to be to take to his heels. But the young jailbird quickly changed his mind, and turned to face them, an inquisitive look on his hard cunning face.
"Good evenin', fellers. Where's the fire?" he hailed.
"In my eyes! See it?" demanded Dave Darrin. His dark eyes certainly were flashing as he reached out and seized Tip by one shoulder.
"Now don't ye git festive withme!" warned Tip.
"Oh, we don't feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching party," muttered Dave, hotly. "See here, you——-"
"I s'pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because I've been doin' my stretch?" demanded Tip, aggressively. "But don't be too sure. Take yer hand offen my shoulder!"
Dave didn't show any sign of immediate intention of complying.
"Take it off!" insisted Tip.
But Dave met the fellow's baleful gaze with a cool, steady look. Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave's extended hand.
"Now, ye wanter understand," continued young Scammon, "that I can't be played with, jest because some folks think I'm down. If you come fooling around me you'll have to explain or apologize."
"Tip," questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, "why did you just throw two brickbats at Dick Prescott's head?"
"I didn't," retorted Tip, stolidly.
"Youdid."
"I didn't."
"Tip," declared Dave, solemnly, "I won't call you a liar. I'll just remark that you and truth are strangers."
"I ain't interested in what you fellers got to say," flared Tip, sullenly. "And I don't like your company, neither. So jest skate along."
"We're not going to linger with you, Tip, any longer than seems absolutely necessary," promised Dave, coolly. "But what I want to say is this: If you make any more attempts to do Dick Prescott any harm our crowd will get you, no matter how far we have to go to find you. Is that clear?"
"I s'pose it is, if you say so," sneered young Scammon.
"We'll get you," pursued Dave, "and we'll turn you over to the authorities. One citizen like Dick Prescott is worth more than a million of your stamp. If we find you up to any more tricks against Dick Prescott, or against any of us, for that matter, we'll soon have you doing your second 'stretch,' as you have learned to call a term at the penitentiary. Tip, your best card will be to turn over a very new leaf, and find an honest job. Just because you've been in jail once don't go along with the notion that it's the only place where you can find your kind of company. But whatever you do, steer clear of Dick Prescott and his chums. I think you understand that. Now, go!"
Tip tried to brazen it out, but there was a compelling quality in the clear, steady gaze of Dave Darrin's dark eyes. After a moment Tip Scammon let his own gaze drop. He turned and shuffled away.
"Poor fellow!" muttered Dick.
"Yes, with all my heart," agreed Dave. "But the fellow doesn't want to get any notion that he can go about terrorizing folks in Gridley!"
Scammon, however, knew one person in Gridley whom he thought he could terrorize. He started in promptly to do it.
At three the next afternoon young Scammon loitered under a big, bare oak on one of the winding, little-traveled streets that led from Gridley out into the open country beyond.
In summer it was a favorite thoroughfare, especially for young engaged couples who wanted to loiter along the road, chatting and picking wild flowers.
In winter, however, the place was usually deserted, being more than a mile out of the city.
As Tip lingered he caught sight of haughty Fred Ripley coming down the road at a fast walk. Fred looked both angry and worried. Tip, as soon as he caught sight of the young fellow who imagined himself an "aristocrat," began to grin in his evil way.
A dull, sullen, red fired Fred's cheeks when he caught sight of the one who was waiting for him.
"Ye're most nearly on time," Tip informed the other.
"See here, Scammon, what in blazes did you mean by sending me a note like the one I got from you" demanded Fred?
Tip only grinned.
"What did you mean, fellow?" Ripley insisted angrily.
"I meant to get ye here, to let ye know what I had to say to ye,"Scammon retorted.
"Why, confound you, fellow—-" Fred began, stuttering a bit, but the other cut in on him in short fashion.
"None o' that to me, now, Fred Ripley. D'ye hear? Me an' you used to be pretty good pals, once on a time."
At this charge, Fred winced very plainly.
"And maybe we'll be pals, now, too," Tip pursued, with the air of one who believed himself to be able to dictate terms. "That is, for your sake, I hope we are, Ripley."
"What are you talking about? What do you want to see me about?Come to the point in mighty few words," Ripley commanded, impatiently.
"Well, now, first-off, last year, before I went away for my health—-" Tip grinned in ghastly fashion 'ye hired me to do a certain job for ye. Right, so far, ain't I?"
"Possibly," assented Fred, coldly.
"Ye hired me to get hold of keys that could be used on one o' the High School locker rooms," Tip went on, cunningly. "Ye hired me to steal some stuff from the coats o' the young gents that study there. Then ye hired me to break inter Dick Prescott's room and get the loot inter his trunk. Right, ain't I?"
Tip spoke assertively, making no effort to keep his voice low.
"For goodness' sake don't shout it all over four counties," protested Fred Ripley, glancing apprehensively about him. His face was paler, now, from uneasiness.
"Oh, I ain't afraid about anyone hearing me," Tip went on, unconcernedly. "D'ye know why, Fred, my boy? Because I done my stretch for the trick, and there ain't nuthin' more comin' to me on that score. Ifyou're'fraid, jest go an' do yer stretch, like I did, an' then ye won't care who hears or knows!"
Tip laughed cunningly. Fred's face darkened. He squirmed, yet found himself afraid to show anger.
"So I dropped ye that note, tellin' ye to come here at three this aft'noon," Scammon continued. "I told ye I hoped ye'd find it convenient to come, an' hinted that if ye didn't, ye might wish later, that ye had."
"I'm here," retorted the Ripley heir. "Now, what do you want to say to me?"
"I'm broke," Tip informed Ripley, plaintively. "Stony! Understand?I hain't got no money."
"You don't expect me to furnish you with any?" demanded Fred, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "I paid you, in full, last year."
"Ye didn't pay me fer the stretch I done, did ye?" demanded Tip, insolently. "How much did ye pay me for keeping my mouth closed, so you wouldn't have to do your stretch?"
Fred winced painfully under that steady, half-ugly glance of the other.
"And now," continued Scammon, in a half-hurt way, "ye think it's hard if I tell ye that I want a few dollars to keep food in my insides."
"You've got your father," hinted Fred.
"Sure, I have," Tip assented.
"But it's mighty little he'll do for me until I get a job and settle down to it."
"Well, why don't you?" asked Fred Ripley. "That's the surest way to get straight with the world."
"When I want advice," sneered Scammon, "I won't tramp all the way out here, an' askyoufor it. Nope. I don't want advice. What I want is money."
"Oh, well, Tip, I'm sorry for you and your troubles. Here's a dollar for you. I wish I could make it more."
Fred Ripley drew out the greenback, passing it over. Tip took the money, studying it curiously.
"Ye're sorry just a dollar's worth—-is that it? Well, old pal, ye'll have to be more sorry'n that. I'll let ye off fer ten dollars, but hand it over quick!"
Fred's first impulse was to get angry, but it didn't take him more than an instant to realize that it would be better to keep this fellow quiet.
"I haven't ten dollars, Tip—-on my honor," he protested, hesitatingly.
"On yer—-what?" questioned Scammon, with utter scorn.
"I haven't ten dollars."
"How much have ye?"
There was something in Tip's ugly eyes that scared the boy. Fred went quickly through his pockets, producing, finally, six dollars and a half.
"I'll give you six of this, Tip," proposed Fred, rather miserably.
"Ye'll give meallof it, ye mean," responded Scammon. "And ye'll meet me to-morrow aft'noon with five more—-something for interest, ye know."
"But I won't have five dollars again, as soon as that," arguedFred, weakly.
"Yes, you will," leered Tip. "You'll have to!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Fred, trying to bluster, but making a failure of the attempt.
"It'll take five more to give me lock-jaw," declared Scammon. "I'm jest out of prison, and I mean to enjoy myself restin' a few days before I settle down to a job again. So, to-morrow, turn up with the five!"
"I don't know where to get the money."
"Find out, then," sneered the other. "I don't care where you get it, but you've got to get it and hand it over to me to-morrow, or it'll be too late, an' Gridley'll be too hot a place for 'ye!"
"I'll try," agreed Ripley, weakly.
"Ye'll do more'n try, 'cause if ye fail me ye'll have no further show," declared Tip, with emphasis.
"See, here, Scammon, if I can find another five—-somehow—-that'll be the last of this business? You won't expect to get any more money out of me?"
"The five that you're goin' to bring me tomorrow will be in full payment."
"Of all possible claims to date?" Fred insisted.
"Yes, in full—-to date," agreed Scammon, grinning as though he were enjoying himself.
"And there'll never be any further demands?" questioned Fred.
"Never again!" Scammon asserted, with emphasis.
"You promise that, solemnly?"
"On my honor," promised the jailbird, sardonically.
"I'll try to get you the money, Tip. But see here, I'll be in front of the drug store next to the post office, at just three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You stop and look in the same window, but don't speak to me. If I can get the five I'll slip it into your hand. Then I'll move away. You stand looking in the window a minute or so after I leave you, will you?"
"Sure," agreed Scammon, cheerfully.
"And don't do anything so plainly that any passerby can detect the fact that you and I are meeting there. Don't let anyone see what I slip into your hand."
"That'll be all right," declared Tip Scammon, readily enough.
"And mind you, that's the last money you're ever to ask me for."
"That'll be all right, too," came readily enough from the jailbird.
"Then good-bye until to-morrow. Don't follow me too closely."
"Sure not," promised Tip. "Ye don't want anyone to know thatI'm your friend, and I'm good at keepin' secrets."
For two or three minutes young Scammon remained standing under the bare tree. But his gaze followed the vanishing figure of Fred Ripley, and a cunning look gleamed in Tip's eyes.
Fred Ripley, when he had heard of Tip going to prison without saying a word, had been foolish enough to suppose that that incident in his own life was closed. Fred had yet to learn that evil remains a long time alive, and that its consequences hit the evil doer harder than the victim.
Recess! As the long lines filed rhythmically down from the second floor, thence to the basement, the leaders of the files quickly discovered something new posted on the bulletin board near the boys' locker rooms.
As quickly as the files broke, there was such a rush to see the new bulletin that those who got the best places had to read aloud to others. This was what the bulletin proclaimed:
Notice.
_The gymnasium will be open at 2.30 this afternoon for the gathering of all male students, except freshmen, who may be interested in trying to make either the school or second baseball teams for the coming season. Gridley will have some notable rivals in the field this next year. Information comes that several of school baseball teams will have better material and longer training for next season. It is earnestly desired that all members of the three upper classes who consider themselves capable of making either of the Gridley High School baseball teams be on hand this afternoon, when as full plans as possible will be made.
By order of the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association.
(signed) Edward Luce, B.B. Coach._
A shout of approval went up from half of those present as Purcell, of the junior class, finished reading.
Many of those who had no thought of making the school or second teams were filled with delight at thought of the training season being so soon to open.
One of the boys who was pleased was Fred Ripley. He had handed that five-dollar bill to Tip Scammon the afternoon before, and now felt rather certain that he had closed the door on the whole Scammon episode.
Like many another haughty, disagreeable person, Ripley had, in spite of his treatment of others, a keen desire to be well thought of. The year before, in the sophomore class, Fred had played as one of the pitchers in the second team, and had done fairly well on the few occasions when he had been given a chance.
"There's no good reason why I can't make the post of pitcher on the school team this year," thought young Ripley, with a thrill of hope and expectant delight.
"Going to show up this afternoon?" asked Dave of Prescott.
"Of course I am, Darrin," answered Prescott, as Dick & Co. met out on the sidewalk.
"Going to try to make the regular team?"
"Of course I am," declared Dick, smiling. "And so, I hope, are every one of you fellows."
"I'd like to," agreed Tom Reade.
"Then don't say you'dliketo; say you'regoingto," admonished Dick. "The fellow who doesn't quite know never gets much of any place. Just say to yourself that you're going to be one of the stars on the school team. If you have to fall into the second team—-don't be cast down over it—-but make every possible effort toward getting on the top team. That's the spirit that wins in athletics," finished Dick, sagely.
"I'm going to make the school team," announced Dave Darrin. "Not only that, but I'll proclaim it to anyone who'll be kind enough to listen. The school nine, or 'bust,' for me."
"Good enough!" cheered Dick. "Now, then, fellows, we'll all be on hand this afternoon, won't we, and on every other afternoon that we're needed?"
Dick & Co. carried that proposition by a unanimous vote.
"But see here, fellows," urged Dick Prescott, "just try to keep one idea in mind, please. There's a good deal of objection, every year, that athletics are allowed to interfere with studies. Now, as soon as the end of recess is called to-day, let's every one of us go back with our minds closed to baseball. Let us all keep our minds right on our studies. Why can't we six help to prove that interest in athletics puts the scholarship mark up, not down?"
"We can," nodded Dave Darrin. "Good! I like that idea. We'll simply go ahead and put our scholarship away up over where it is at present."
To this the other chums agreed heartily.
Luce, the coach for baseball, was one of the under submasters. He had made a record at college, for both baseball and scholarship. He was a complete enthusiast on the game of the diamond. The year before he had trained the school nine to a record that beat anything in the High School line in the whole state. His bulletin announced that he intended to try to make the coming nine the best yet. It didn't say that, in so many words, but the bulletin implied it.
Fred Ripley did not hit upon the idea of improved scholarship. Instead, that young man went into two classes, after recess, and reported "not prepared." Then he settled back into a brown study of his chances in baseball.
"I don't suppose Dick & Co. will have the nerve to try for anything better than the second nine," muttered Fred to himself. "Still, one can never tell what that crowd will have the nerve to do!"
School out, Fred hurried home faster than was his wont. He caught his father just as the latter was leaving the lunch table.
"Dad, can I have a few minutes' talk with you about one of my ambitions?" pleaded Fred.
"Certainly, my boy," replied the wealthy, retired lawyer. "I'm glad, indeed, to hear that you have any ambitions. Come into the library, if you can let your luncheon go that long."
"If you don't mind, Dad, I'd rather eat while I talk," urged Fred."I have to be back at school before three."
"What—-under discipline?" inquired the lawyer.
"No, sir; it's baseball that I wish to talk about."
"Well, then, Fred, what is it?" asked his father.
"Why, sir, we're going to get together on baseball, this afternoon. The start for the season is to be made early this year. Gridley expects to put forth the finest High School nine ever."
"I'm glad to hear that," nodded the lawyer. "School and college athletics, rightly indulged in, give the budding man health, strength, courage and discipline to take with him out into the battle of life. We didn't have much in the way of athletics when I was at college, but I appreciate the modern tendency more than do some men of my age."
Fred, though not interested in his father's praise of athletics waited patiently until his parent had finished.
"I'm pretty sure, Dad, I can make the chance of being the star pitcher on the school team for this coming season, if only you'll back me up in it."
"Why, as far as that goes," replied Lawyer Ripley, "I believe that about all the benefits of school athletics can be gained by one who isn't necessarily right at the top of the crowd."
"But not to go to the top of the crowd, and not to try too, Dad, is contrary to the spirit of athletics," argued Fred, rather cleverly. "Besides, one of the best things about athletics, I think, is the spirit to fight for leadership. That's a useful lesson—-leadership—-to carry out into life, isn't it, sir?"
"Yes, it is; you're right about that, son," nodded the lawyer.
"Well, sir, Everett, one of the crack pitchers of national fame, is over in Duxbridge for the winter. He doesn't go south with his team for practice until the middle or latter part of February. Duxbridge is only twelve miles from here. He could come over here, or you could let your man take me over to Duxbridge in your auto. Dad, I want to be the pitcher of the crack battery in the school nine. Will you engage Everett, or let me hire him, to train me right from the start in all the best styles of pitching?"
"How much would it cost?" asked the lawyer, cautiously.
"I don't know exactly, sir. A few hundred dollars, probably."
Fred's face was glowing with eagerness. His mother, who was standing just behind him, nodded encouragingly at her husband.
"Well, yes, Fred, if you're sure you can make yourself the star pitcher of the school nine, I will."
"When may I go to see Everett, sir?" asked Fred, making no effort to conceal the great joy this promise had given him.
"Since you're to be engaged for this afternoon, Fred, we'll make it to-morrow. I'll order out the car and go over to Duxbridge with you.".
It was in the happiest possible frame of mind, for him, that Fred Ripley went back to the High School that afternoon. He didn't arrive until five minutes before the hour for calling the meeting; he didn't care to be of the common crowd that would be on hand at or soon after two-thirty.
When he entered, he found a goodly and noisy crowd of some eighty High School boys of the three upper classes present. Ripley nodded to a few with whom he was on the best terms.
Settees had been placed at one end of the gym. There was an aisle between two groups of these seats.
"Gentlemen, you'll please come to order, now," called out CoachLuce, mounting to a small platform before the seats.
It took a couple of minutes to get the eager, half-turbulent throng seated in order. Then the coach rapped sharply, and instantly all was silence, save for the voice of the speaker.
"Gentlemen," announced Mr. Luce, "it is the plan to make the next season the banner one in baseball in all our school's history. This will call for some real work, for constantly sustained effort. Every man who goes into the baseball training squad will be expected to do his full share of general gymnastic work here, and to improve every favorable chance for such cross-country running and other outdoor sports as may be ordered.
"To-day, as we are so close to Christmas, we will arrange only the general details—-have a sort of mapping-out, as it were. But immediately after the holidays the entire baseball squad that enrolls will be required to start at once to get in general athletic condition. There will be hard—-what some may call grilling—-gym. work at the outset, and much of the gym. work will be kept up even after the actual ball practice begins.
"Early in February work in the baseball cage must begin, and it will be made rather severe this year. In fact, I can assure you that the whole training, this coming year, will be something that none but those who mean to train in earnest can get through with successfully.
"Any man who is detected smoking cigarettes or using tobacco in any form, will be dropped from the squad instantly. Every man who enrolls will be required to make a promise to abstain, until the end of the ball season, from tobacco in any form.
"In past years we have often been urged to adopt the training table, in order that no greedy man may eat himself out of physical condition. It is not, of course, feasible to provide such a table here at the gym. I wish it were. But we will have training table to just this extent: Every member of the squad will be handed a list of the things he may eat or drink, and another list of those things that are barred. The only exception, in the way of departure, from the training list, will be the Christmas dinner. Every man who enrolls is in honor bound to stick closely to his list of permissible foods until the end of the training season.
"Remember, this year's work is to be one of the hardest work and all the necessary self-denial. It must be a disciplined and sustained effort for excellence and victory. Those who cannot accept these principles in full are urged not to enroll in the squad at all.
"Now, I will wait five minutes, during which conversation will be in order. When I call the meeting to order again I will ask all who have decided to enter the squad to occupy the seats here at my right hand, the others to take the seats at my left hand."
Immediately a buzz of talk ran around that end of the gym. The High School boys left their seats and moved about, talking over the coach's few but pointed remarks.
"How do you like Mr. Luce's idea, Dick?" asked Tom Reade.
"It's good down to the ground, and all the way up again," Dick retorted, enthusiastically. "His ideas are just the ideas I'm glad to hear put forward. No shirking; every effort bent on excelling, and every man to keep his own body as strong, clean and wholesome as a body can be kept. Why, that alone is worth more than victory. It means a fellow's victory over all sloth and bad habits!"
"Luce meant all he said, too, and the fellows know he did," declared Dave Darrin. "I wonder what effect it will have on the size of the squad?"
There was a good deal of curiosity on that score. The five minutes passed quickly. Then Coach Luce called for the division. As the new baseball squad gathered at the right-hand seats there was an eager counting.
"Forty-nine," announced Greg Holmes, as soon as he had finished counting. "Five whole nines and a few extras left over."
"I'm glad to see that Gridley High School grit is up to the old standard," declared Coach Luce, cheerily, after he had brought them to order. "Our squad, this year, contains three more men than appeared last year. It is plain that my threats haven't scared anyone off the Gridley diamond. Now, I am going to write down the names of the squad. Then I will ask each member, as his name is called, to indicate the position for which he wishes to qualify."
There was a buzz of conversation again, until the names had all been written down. Then, after Coach Luce had called for silence, he began to read off the names in alphabetical order.
"Dalzell?" asked the coach, when he had gone that far down on the list.
"First base," answered Dan, loudly and promptly.
"Darrin?"
"Pitcher," responded Dave.
There was a little ripple of surprise. When a sophomore goes in for work in the box it is notice that he has a good opinion of his abilities.
A few more names were called off. Then:
"Hazelton?"
"Short stop," replied Harry, coolly.
"Whew!" An audible gasp of surprise went up and traveled around.
After the battery, the post of short stop is the swiftest thing for which to reach out.
"Holmes?"
"Left field."
"It's plain enough," sneered Fred Ripley to the fellow beside him, "that Dick & Co., reporters and raga-muffins, expect to be two thirds of the nine. I wonder whom they'll allow to hold the other three positions?"
Several more names were called off. Then came:
"Prescott?"
"Pitcher," Dick answered, quietly.
A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for. What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott!
"Reade?"
"Second base."
"Ripley?"
"P-p-pitcher!" Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically. In fact, the word left him so explosively that several of the fellows caught themselves laughing.
"Oh, laugh, then, hang you all!" muttered Fred, in a low voice, glaring all around him. "But you don't know what you're laughing at. Maybe I won't show you something in the way of real pitching!"
"The first Tuesday after the holidays' vacation the squad will report here for gymnastic work from three-thirty to five," called the coach. "Now, I'll talk informally with any who wish to ask questions."
Fred Ripley's face was aglow with satisfaction. His eyes fairly glistened with his secret, inward triumph.
"So you think you can pitch, Prescott?" he muttered to himself. "Humph! With the great Everett training me for weeks, I'll make you look like a pewter monkey, Dick Prescott."
The next afternoon Fred and his father went over to Duxbridge.
They found the great Everett at home, and not only at home, but willing to take up with their proposal.
The celebrated professional pitcher named a price that caused Lawyer Ripley to hesitate for a few moments. Then catching the appealing look in his son's face, the elder Ripley agreed to the terms. The training was to be given at Duxbridge, in Everett's big and almost empty barn.
That night Lawyer Ripley, a man of prompt habit in business, mailed his check for the entire amount.
Fred, in the privacy of his own room, danced several brief but exuberant jigs.
"Now, I've got you, Dick Prescott! And I've not only got you, but if you come in second to me, I'll try to keep in such condition that I pitch every important game of the whole season!"
But the next morning the Ripley heir received a sad jolt. In one of his text-books he ran across a piece of cardboard on which was printed, in coarse characters:
"Tuday, same plas, same time. Bring ten. Or don't, if you dare!"
"That infernal blackmailer, Tip Scammon!" flared Fred indignantly.
In the courage of desperation Fred promptly decided that he would ignore the Scammon rascal. Nor did Fred change his mind. Besides, this afternoon he was due at Duxbridge for his first lesson under the mighty Everett.
So Tip was on hand at the drug store beside the post office, but no Fred came. Tip scowled and hung about in the neighborhood until after four o'clock. Then he went away, a black look indeed on his not handsome face.
Meanwhile, most of the people of Gridley, as elsewhere in the Christian world, were thinking of "Peace on Earth" and all that goes with it. The stores were radiant with decorations and the display of gifts. The candy stores and hot soda places were doing a rushing business.
Dick, who had been scurrying about in search of a few news paragraphs, and had found them, encountered Dave Darrin. Being something of a capitalist in these days, when "The Blade" was paying him two and a half to three dollars a week, Prescott invited his chum in to have a hot soda. While they were still in the place Laura Bentley and Belle Meade entered. The High School boys lifted their hats courteously to the girls and Dick invited them to have their soda with Dave and himself.
"We hear that baseball is going to be a matter of great enthusiasm during the next few months," said Laura, as they sipped their soda.
"Yes; and the cause of no end of heartburnings and envies," laughed Prescott. "From just after the holidays to some time in April every fellow will be busy trying to make the school team, and will feel aggrieved if he hits only the second team."
"Who's going to pitch for the school nine?" asked Belle.
"Dick Prescott," declared Dave instantly.
"I'd like to," nodded Dick, "but I've several good men against me. Darrin may take it all away from me. There are eight men down for pitching, altogether, so it isn't going to be an easy cinch for anyone."
"The nine always has more than one pitcher. Why can'tyoumake the position of pitcher, too?" asked Belle, looking at Dave.
"Oh, I may make the job of brevet-pitcher on the second nine," Dave laughed goodhumoredly. "The only reason I put my name down for pitcher was so as to make the fight look bigger."
"Who are the other candidates for pitcher?" asked Laura.
"Well, Ripley's one," replied Dave.
"Ripley? Oh,he!" uttered Miss Bentley, in a tone of scorn.
"I understand he's no fool of a pitcher," Dick remarked.
"I congratulate him, then," smiled Laura.
"On what?"
"Not being a fool in everything," returned Laura. Then she added, quickly:
"I'm afraid that expresses my real opinion, but I've no right to say it."
"There are two reasons why you shouldn't say it," added Dave, gravely.
"What are they?" Laura wanted to know.
"First of all—-well, pardon me, but it sounds like talking about another behind his back. The other reason is that Ripley isn't worth talking about, anyway."
"Now, what are you doing?" demanded Belle.
"Oh, well," Dave replied, "Ripley knows my opinion of him pretty well.But what are you doing this afternoon?"
"We're going shopping," Laura informed the boys as the quartette left the soda fountain. "Do you care to go around with us and look at the displays in the stores?"
"That's about all shopping means, isn't it?" smiled Dick. "Just going around and looking at things?"
"Then if you don't care to come with us——-" pouted Miss Bentley.
"Stop—-please do, I beg of you," Dick hastily added. "Of course we want to go."
The two chums put in a very pleasant hour wandering about through the stores with the High School girls. Laura and Belledidmake some small purchases of materials out of which they intended to make gifts for the approaching holiday.
As they came out of the last store they moved toward the corner, the girls intending to take a car to pay a little visit to an aunt of Laura's before the afternoon was over.
Dick saw something in one of the windows at the corner and signed to Dave to come over. The two girls were left, momentarily, standing on the corner.
While they stood thus Fred Ripley came along. His first lesson in pitching had been brief, the great Everett declining to tire the boy's arm too much at the first drill. So young Ripley, after a twelve-mile trip in the auto through the crisp December air, came swinging down the street at a brisk walk.
Just as this moment he espied the two girls, though he did not see Dick or Dave. Belle happened to turn as Ripley came near her.
"Hullo, Meade!" he called, patronizingly.
It is a trick with some High School boys thus to address a girl student by her last name only, but it is not the act of a gentleman. Belle resented it by stiffening at once, and glancing coldly at Ripley without greeting him.
In another instant Dave Darrin, at a bound, stood before the astonished Fred. Dave's eyes were flashing in a way they were wont to do when he was thoroughly angry.
"Ripley—-you cur! To address a young woman in that familiar fashion!" glared Dave.
"What have you to say about it?" demanded Fred, insolently.
"This!" was Dave Darrin's only answer in words.
Smack! His fist landed on one side of Fred's face. The latter staggered, then slipped to the ground.
"There's the car, Dick," uttered Dave, in a low tone. "Put the girls aboard."
Half a dozen passers-by had already turned and were coming back to learn the meaning of this encounter. Dick understood how awkward the situation would be for the girls, so he glided forward, hailed the car, and led Laura and Belle out to it.
"But I'd rather stay," whispered Belle, in protest. "I want to make sure that Dave doesn't get into any trouble."
"He won't," Dick promised. "It'll save him annoyance if he knows you girls are not being stared at by curious rowdies."
Dick quickly helped the girls aboard the car, then nodded to the conductor to ring the bell. A second later Dick was bounding back to his chum's side.
Fred Ripley was on his feet, scowling at Dave Darrin. The latter, though his fists were not up, was plainly in an attitude where he could quickly defend himself.
"That was an unprovoked assault, you rowdy!" Fred exclaimed wrathfully.
"I'd trust to any committee ofgentlemento exonerate me," Dave answered coolly. "You acted the rowdy, Ripley, and you'd show more sense if you admitted it and reformed."
"What did he do?" demanded one of the curious ones in the crowd.
"He addressed a young lady with offensive familiarity," Dave replied hotly.
"What didyoudo?" demanded another in the crowd.
"I knocked him down," Dave admitted coolly.
"Well, that's about the proper thing to do," declared another bystander. "The Ripley kid has no kick coming to him. Move on, young feller!"
Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter.
"Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoarsely.
A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street.
Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid. Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly:
"Why not take him to the horse trough?"
That decided Fred on quick retreat. Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that.
As soon as they could Dick and Dave walked on to "The Blade" office. Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter's table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon. When Dick had finished he handed his "copy" to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office.
"Dick, old fellow," hinted Dave, confidentially, "I'm afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy."
"Under such circumstances," smiled Prescott, "it might be well to think twice before giving the tip."
"I've thought about itseventeentimes already," Dave asserted, gravely, "and you're my chum, anyway. So here goes. When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?"
"Yes," Prescott nodded.
"Well, I couldn't quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you."
"What on earth did that mean?" queried Dick, looking almost startled.
"It means that you're going to get a Christmas present from Laura,"Dave answered.
"But I never had a present from a girl before!"
"Most anything is likely to happen," laughed Dave, "now that you're a sophomore—-and a reporter, too."
"Thank goodness I'm earning a little money now," murmured Dick, breathing a bit rapidly. "But, say, Dave!"
"Well?"
"What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?"
"Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons—-oh, hang it! I don't know," floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your scrape, Dick Prescott!"
"Yours, too, Dave Darrin!"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too."
"Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?"
The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter.
Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade."
Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him. When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said:
"Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something that came for you this morning."
"But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad."
Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation.
"But you're forgetting the package in the parlor," persisted Mrs.Prescott presently.
Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself:
"The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose."
To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room, while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package.
After exchanging "Merry Christmas" greetings with Darrin, Dick turned to look at the package. To it was tied a card, which read:
"From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas greetings."
"That doesn't look like slippers, Dave," murmured Dick, as he pulled away the cord that bound the package.
"I'll bet you're getting a duplicate of what came to me," Darrin answered.
"What was that?"
"I'm not going to tell you until I see yours."
Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny.
"That's it!" cried Dave, jubilantly. "I thought so. Mine was the same, except that Belle's name was ahead of Laura's on the card."
Dick felt almost dazed for an instant. Then a quick rush of color came to his face.
The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven "sweater." Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the initials, "G.H.S."
"Gridley High School! Did you get one just like this, Dave?"
"Yes."
"But we can't wear 'em," muttered Dick. "The initials are allowed only to the students who have made some school team, or who have captured some major athletic event. We've never done either."
"That's just the point of the gift, I reckon," beamed Darrin.
"Oh, I see," cried Dick. "These sweaters are our orders to go ahead and make the baseball nine."
"That's just it," declared Dave.
"Well, it's mighty fine of the girls," murmured Dick, gratefully."Are you—-going to accept yours, Dave?"
"Accept?" retorted Dave. "Why, it would be rank not to."
"Of course," Prescott agreed.. "But you know what acceptance carries with it? Now, we've got to make the nine, whether or not. We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts."
"Oh, that's all right," nodded Dave, cheerily. "You're going to make the team."
"If there's any power in me to do it," declared Dick.
"And you're going to drag me in after you. Dick, old fellow, we've absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine."
Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his head. This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass.
"Gracious! But this is fine," gasped young Prescott. "And now, oh, Dave, but we've got to hustle! Think how disgusted the girls will be if we fail."
"We can't fail, now," declared Dave earnestly. "The girls, and the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure."
"Good! That's the right talk!" cheered Prescott, seizing his chum's hand. "Yes, sir! We'll make the nine or bury ourselves under a shipload of self-disgust!"
"Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater," Dave went on, examining Dick's closely. "I can't see a shade of difference between yours and mine. But I'm afraid the other fellows in Dick & Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck."
"It's a mighty fine gift," Dick went on, "yet I'm almost inclined to wish the girls hadn't done it. It must have made a big inroad in their Christmas money."
"That's so," nodded Darrin, thoughtfully. "But say, Dick! I'm thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened. Thank goodness we didn't have to leave the girls out. Though we would have missed if it hadn't been for you."
"I wonder how the girls like their gifts?" mused Dick.
It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make a good showing. A new-style device for women, consisting of heater and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year. Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and Belle had electric light service in their homes. This new-style device was one of the fads of this Christmas season. The retail price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold before the holidays. The advertising agent for the manufacturing concern had been in town, and had presented "The Blade" with two of these devices. Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the pair.
"What on earth shall we do with them?" grunted Pollock, in Dick's hearing. "We're all bachelors here."
"Sell 'em to me, if you don't want 'em," spoke up Dick, quickly. "What'll you take for 'em? Make it low, to fit a schoolboy's shallow purse."
"Hm! I'll speak to the proprietor about it," replied Pollock, who presently brought back the word:
"As they're for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the pair for two-fifty. And if you're short of cash, I'll take fifty cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid."
"Fine and dandy!" uttered Dick, his eyes glowing.
"One's for your mother," hinted Mr. Pollock teasingly. "But who's the girl?"
"Two girls," Dick corrected him, unabashed. "My mother never uses hair-curlers."
"Two girls?" cried Mr. Pollock, looking aghast. "Dick! Dick! You study history at the High School, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; of course."
"Then don't you know, my boy, how oftentwo girlshave altered the fates of whole nations? Tremble and be wise!"
"I haven't any girl," Dick retorted, sensibly, "and I think a fellow is weak-minded to talk about having a girl until he can also talk authoritatively on the ability to support a wife. But there's a good deal of social life going on at the High School, Mr. Pollock, and I'm very, very glad of this chance to cancel my obligations so cheaply and at the same time rather handsomely."
So Laura and Belle had each received, that Christmas morning, a present that proved a source of delight.
"Yet I didn't expect the foolish boys to send me anything like this," Laura told herself, rather regretfully. "I'm sure they've pledged their pocket money for weeks on this."
When Belle called, it developed that she had received an identical gift.
"It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish, too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm certain."
Dick and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both names.
Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School students except the least-favored ones.
Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry away the star pitchership, especially from Dick Prescott, Ripley employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett.
"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!
"Halt! Rest!"
"Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two, three, four!"
Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command.
The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees.
Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath.
As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape.
This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term.
Three times weekly the squad had been assembled. On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times.
Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails." Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, bumpy muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce.
After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them.
"Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!"
A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real thing in their eyes.
Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle.
"I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?"
Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed.
"I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued:
"Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman."
Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously.
"Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window by mistake."
A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself.
"Now, then, let her drive—-not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce.
Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder.
"A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher.
Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined.
"Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged."
Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing.
"I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please."
Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck.
"You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work."
"I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums.
"No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us show—-that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for."
"I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly.
"Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added HarryHazelton.
"I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively.
"Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot."
"Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibedHazelton, good-humoredly.
Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball.
"Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work. But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there.And vice versa!"
For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym.
"Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant. Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach.
"Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two. Ripley, suppose you try?"
Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward.
"May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked.
"Yes; certainly," nodded the coach.
"Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd.
"Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing student.
"Let her rip, Rip!"
A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite.
"Order!" rapped out the coach, sharply. "This is training work. You'll find the minstrel show, if that's what you want, at the opera house next Thursday night."
"How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!" called another gibing voice.
"That was you, Parkinson!" called Mr. Luce, with mock severity. "Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag. Run along with you, now!"
Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly.
"Training orders, Parkinson!" insisted the coach. "Trot right over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for twenty-five times. Hurry up. We'll watch you."
So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was a positive one, had the good sense to obey. He "hardened" the funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad. That was Coach Luce's way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist.
Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered some words of instruction to him.
"Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to."