"He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they sawFred moisten his fingers.
"That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another.
Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling at Duxbridge for some weeks now.
Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate. It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far. Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches. The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the coach, gathered in the ball.
Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity as a submaster.
"Wow!" yelled the coach. "That was abird! A lulu-cooler and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs the beat!"
It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the full importance of what they had seen. Then a wild cheer broke loose:
"Ripley? Oh, Ripley'll pitch for the nine!" surged up on all sides.
DICK & CO. TAKE A TURN AT FEELING GLUM
"What's the matter with Ripley?" yelled one senior.
And another answered, hoarsely:
"Nothing! He's a wonder!"
Fred Ripley was unpopular. He was regarded as a cad and a sneak. But he could pitch ball! He could give great aid in bringing an unbroken line of victories to Gridley. That was enough.
By now Coach Luce was a bit red in the face. He realized that his momentary relapse into the old college enthusiasm had made him look ridiculous, in his other guise of High School submaster.
But when the submaster coach turned and saw Parkinson butting his head against the punching bag he called out:
"What's the matter, Parkinson?"
"Subbing for you, sir!"
That turned the good-natured laugh of a few on Mr. Luce. Most of those present, however, had not been struck by the unusualness of his speech.
Dick and Dave looked hard at each other. Both boys wanted to make the team as pitchers. Yet now it seemed most certain that Fred Ripley must stand out head and shoulders over any other candidates for the Gridley box.
Dick's face shone with enthusiasm, none the less. If he couldn't make the nine this year, he could at least feel that Gridley High School was already well on toward the lead over all competing school nines.
"I wish it were somebody else," muttered Dave, huskily, in his chum's ear.
"Gridley is fixed for lead, anyway," replied Dick, "if Ripley can always keep in such form as that."
"Can Ripley do it again?" shouted one Gridley senior.
"Try it, and see, Ripley," urged Mr. Luce, again swinging his bat.
Fred had been holding the returned ball for a minute or two. His face was flushed, his eyes glowing. Never before had he made such a hit among his schoolmates. It was sweet, at last, to taste the pleasures of local fame.
He stood gazing about him, drinking in the evident delight of the High School boys. In fact he did not hear the coach's order until it came again.
"Try another one, Ripley!"
The young man moistened his fingers, placing the ball carefully. Of a sudden his arm shot out. Again the coach struck for what looked a fair ball, yet once more Mr. Luce fanned air and the catcher straightened up, ball in hand.
Pumph! The lazily thrown ball landed in Ripley's outstretched left. He moistened his fingers, wet the ball, and let drive almost instantly. For the third time Mr. Luce fanned out.
Then Fred spoke, in a tone of satisfied self-importance:
"Coach, that's all I'll do this afternoon, if you don't mind."
"Right," nodded Mr. Luce. "You don't want to strain your work before you've really begun it any other candidates for pitching want to have a try now?"
As the boys of the squad waited for an answer, a low laugh began to ripple around the gym. The very idea of any fellow trying after Ripley had made his wonderful showing was wholly funny!
Coach Luce called out the names of another small squad to scatter over the gym. and to throw the ball to anyone he named. Except for the few who were in this forced work, no attention was paid to the players.
Fred Ripley had walked complacently to one side of the gym. A noisy, gleeful group formed around him.
"Rip, where did you ever learn that great work?"
"Who taught you?"
"Say, how long have you been hiding that thousand-candle-power light under a bushel?"
"Rip, it was the greatest work I ever saw a boy do."
"Will you show me—-after the nine has been made up, of course?"
"How did you ever get it down so slick?"
This was all meat to the boy who had long been unpopular.
"I always was a pretty fair pitcher, wasn't I?" asked Fred.
"Yes; but never anything like the pitcher you showed us to-day," glowed eager Parkinson.
"I've been doing a good deal of practicing and study since the close of last season," Fred replied importantly. "I've studied out a lot of new things. I shan't show them all, either, until the real season begins."
Fred's glance, in roaming around, took in Dick & Co. For once, these six very popular sophomores had no one else around them.
"Whew! I think I've taken some wind out of the sails of Mr. Self-satisfied Prescott," Fred told himself jubilantly. "We shan't hear so much about Dick & Co. for a few months!"
"Well, anyway, Dick," said Tom Reade, "you and Dave needn't feel too badly. If Ripley turns out to be the nine's crack pitcher, the nine also carries two relief pitchers. You and Dave have a chance to be the relief pitchers.Thatwill make the nine for you both, anyway. But, then, that spitball may be the only thing Ripley knows."
"Don't fool yourself," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If Ripley can do that one so much like a veteran, then he knows other styles of tossing, too. I'm glad for Gridley High School—-mighty glad. I wouldn't mind on personal grounds, either, if only—-if——-"
"If Fred Ripley were only a half decent fellow," Harry Hazelton finished for him.
Coach Luce soon dismissed the squad for the day. A few minutes later the boys left the gym. in groups. Of course the pitching they had seen was the sole theme. Ripley didn't have to walk away alone to-day. Coach Luce and a dozen of the boys stepped along with him in great glee.
"It's Rip! Old Rip will be the most talked about fellow in anyHigh School league this year," Parkinson declared, enthusiastically.
Even the fellows who actually despised Fred couldn't help their jubilation. Gridley was strong in athletics just because of the real old Gridley High School spirit. Gridley's boys always played to win. They made heroes of the fellows who could lead them to victory after victory.
Fred was far on his way home ere the last boy had left him.
"I'll get everything in sight now," Ripley told himself, in ecstasy, as he turned in at the gateway to his home. "Why, even if Prescott does get into the relief box, I can decide when he shall or shall not pitch. I'll never see him get abiggame to pitch in. Oh, but this blow to-day has hurt Dick Prescott worse than a blow over the head with an iron stake could. I've wiped him up and put him down again. I've made him feel sick and ashamed of his puny little inshoot! Prescott, you're mine to do as I please with on this year's nine—-if you can make it at all!"
In truth, though young Prescott kept a smiling face, and talked cheerily, he could hardly have been more cast down than he was. Dick always went into any sport to win and lead, and he had set his heart on being Gridley's best man in the box. But now——-
Dick & Co. all felt that they needed the open air after the grilling and the surprise at the gym. So they strolled, together, on Main Street, for nearly an hour ere they parted and went home to supper.
The next day the talk at school was mostly about Ripley, or "Rip," as he was now more intimately called.
Even the girls took more notice of him. Formerly Fred hadn't been widely popular among them. But now, as the coming star of the High School nine, and a new wonder in the school firmament, he had a new interest for them.
Half the girls, or more, were "sincere fans" at the ball games. Baseball was so much of a craze among them that these girls didn't have to ask about the points of the game. They knew the diamond and most of its rules.
Incense was sweet to the boy to whom it had so long been denied, but of course it turned "Rip's" head.
Eleven o'clock pealed out from the steeple of the nearest church.
The night was dark. Rain or snow was in the air.
In a shadow across the street hung Tip Scammon. His shabby cap was pulled down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his ragged reefer. Tip's eyes were turned toward the Ripley home opposite.
"To think o' that feller in a fine, warm, soft bed nights, an' all the swell stuff to eat at table!" muttered Tip, enviously. "And then me, out in the cold, wearing a tramp's clothes! Never sure whether to-morrer has a meal comin' with it! But, anyway, I can make that Ripley kid dance when I pull the string! He dances pretty tolerable frequent, too! He's got to do it to-night, an' he'd better hurry up some!"
Soon after the sound of the striking clock had died away, Tip's keen eyes saw a figure steal around one side of the house from the rear.
"Here comes Rip, now. He's on time," thought Tip. "Huh! It's a pity—-fer—-him that he wouldn't take a new think an' chase me. But he's like most pups that hire other folks to do their tough work—-they hain't 't got no nerve o' their own."
Fred came stealthily out of the yard, after looking back at the house. He went straight up to young Scammon.
"So here ye are, pal," laughed Tip. "Glad ye didn't keep me waitin'.Ye brought the wherewithal?"
"See here, Tip, you scoundrel," muttered Fred, hoarsely, a worried look showing in his eyes, "I'm getting plumb down to the bottom of anything I can get for you."
"I told ye to bring twenty," retorted young Scammon, abruptly."That will be enough."
"I couldn't get it," muttered Fred.
"Now, see here, pal," warned Tip, threateningly, "don't try to pull no roots on me. Ye can get all the money ye want."
"I couldn't this time," Fred contended, stubbornly. "I've got eleven dollars, and that's every bit I could get my hands on."
"But I'vegotto have twenty," muttered Tip, fiercely. "Now, ye trot back and look through yer Sunday-best suit. You have money enough; yer father's rich, an' he gives ye a lot. Now, ye've no business spendin' any o' that money until ye've paid me what's proper comin' to me. So back to the house with ye, and get the rest o' yer money!"
"It's no use, Tip. I simply can't get another dollar. Here's the eleven, and you'd better be off with it. I can't get any more, either, inside of a fortnight."
"See here," raged young Scammon, "if ye think ye can play——-"
"Take this money and get off," demanded Fred, impatiently. "I'm going back home and to bed."
"I guess, boy, it's about time fer me to see your old man," blustered Tip. "If I hold off until to-morrer afternoon, will ye have the other nine, an' an extry dollar fer me trouble?"
"No," rasped Fred. "It's no use at all—-not for another fortnight, anyway. Good night!"
Turning, Fred sped across the street and back under the shadows at the rear of the lawyer's great house.
"I wonder if the younker's gettin' wise?" murmured Tip. "He ain't smart enough to know that fer him to go to his old man an' tell the whole yarn 'ud be cheapest in the run. The old man 'ud be mad at Rip, but the old man's a lawyer, an' 'ud know how to lay down the blackmail law to me!"
Feeling certain that he was wholly alone by this time, Tip had spoken the words aloud or sufficiently so for him to be heard a few feet away by any lurker.
Shivering a bit, for he was none too warmly clad, young Scammon turned, making his way up the street.
Fully two minutes after Tip had gone his way Dick Prescott stepped out from behind the place where Tip had been standing.
There was a queer and rather puzzled look on Dick's face.
"So Fred's paying Tip money, and Tip knows it's blackmail?" muttered the sophomore. "That can mean just one thing then. When Tip held his tongue before and at his trial, last year, he was looking ahead to the time when he could extort money by threatening Fred. And now Tip's doing it. That must be the way he gets his living. Whew, but Ripley must be allowed a heap of spending money if he can stand that sort of drain!"
How Dick came to be on hand at the time can be easily explained. Earlier in the evening he had been at "The Blade" office. Mr. Pollock had asked him to go out on a news story that could be obtained by calling upon a citizen at his home. The story would be longer than Dick usually succeeded in turning in. It looked attractive to a boy who wanted to earn money, so the sophomore eagerly accepted the assignment.
As it happened, Dick had had to wait a long time at the house at which he called before the man he wanted to see returned home. Dick was on his way to "The Blade" office when he caught sight of Tip Scammon. The latter did not see or hear the sophomore approaching.
So Dick halted, darting behind a tree.
"Now, what's Tip doing down here, near the Ripley place?" wondered Prescott. "He must be waiting to see Fred. Then they must have an appointment. Dave always thought that Tip ambushed me with those brickbats at Fred Ripley's order. There may be something of that sort in the wind again. I guess I've got a right to listen."
Looking about him, Prescott saw a chance to slip into a yard, get over a fence, and creep up rather close to Scammon, though still being hidden from that scoundrel. At last Prescott found himself well hidden in the yard behind Tip.
So Dick heard the talk. Now, as he hurried back to "The Blade" office the young soph guessed shrewdly at the meaning of what he had heard.
"Now, what had I better do about it?" Dick Prescott asked himself. "What's the fair and honorable thing to do—-keep quiet? It would seem a bit sneaky to go and tell Lawyer Ripley. Shall I tell Fred? I wonder if I could make him understand how foolish and cowardly it is to go on paying for a blackmailer's silence? Yet it's ten to one that Fred wouldn't thank me. Oh, bother it, what had a fellow better do in a case like this?"
A moment later, Dick laughed dryly.
"I know one thing I could do. I could go to Fred, tell him what I know, and scare him so he'd fall down in his effort to become the crack pitcher of the nine! My, but he'd go all to pieces if he thought I knew and could tell on him!"
Dick chuckled, then his face sobered, as he added:
"Fred's safe from thattrick, though. I couldn't stand a glimpse of my own face in the mirror, afterward, if I did such a low piece of business."
Prescott was still revolving the whole thing in his mind when he reached "The Blade" office. He turned in the news story he bad been sent for. As he did so the news editor looked up to remark:
"We have plenty of room to spare in the paper to-night, Prescott."
"Yes? Well?"
"Can't you give us a few paragraphs of real High School news?Something about the state of athletics there?"
"Why, yes, of course," the young sophomore nodded.
Returning to the desk where he had been sitting, Dick ran off a few paragraphs on the outlook of the coming High School baseball season.
"Did you write that High School baseball stuff in this morning's paper, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, the next day.
"Yes."
"You said that the indications are that Ripley will be the crack pitcher this season, and that he is plainly going to be far ahead of all the other box candidates."
"That's correct, isn't it?" challenged Dick.
"It looks so, of course," Tom admitted. "But why did you giveRipley such a boost? He's no friend of yours, or ours."
"Newspapers are published for the purpose of giving information," Dick explained. "If a newspaper's writers all wrote just to please themselves and their friends, how many people do you suppose would buy the daily papers? Fred Ripley is the most prominent box candidate we have. He towers away over the rest of us. That was why I so stated it in 'The Blade.'"
"And I guess that's the only right way to do things when you're writing for the papers," agreed Darrin.
"It's a pity you can't print some other things about Ripley that you know to be true," grumbled Hazelton.
"True," agreed Dick, thoughtfully. "I'm only a green, amateur reporter, but I've already learned that a reporter soon knows more than he can print."
Prescott was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, the night before, between Fred and Tip.
After sleeping on the question for the night, Dick had decided that he would say nothing of the matter, for the present, either to the elder or the younger Ripley.
"If Fred found out that I knew all about it, he'd be sure that I was biding my time," was what Dick had concluded. "He'd be sure that I was only waiting for the best chance to expose him. On the other hand, if I cautioned his father, there'd be an awful row at the Ripley home. Either way, Fred Ripley would go to pieces. He'd lose what little nerve he ever had. After that he'd be no good at pitching. He'd go plumb to pieces. That might leave me the chance to be Gridley's crack pitcher this year. Oh, I'd like to be the leading pitcher of the High School nine! But I don't want to win the honor in any way that I'm not positive is wholly square and honorable."
Then, after a few moments more of thought:
"Besides, I'm loyal to good old Gridley High School. I want to see our nine have the best pitcher it can get—-no matter who he is!"
By some it might be argued that Dick Prescott was under a moral obligation to go and caution Lawyer Ripley. But Dick hated talebearers. He acted up to the best promptings of his own best conscience, which is all any honorable man can do.
"Oh, you Rip!"
"Good boy, Rip!"
"You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!"
"Get after him, Dick!"
"Wait till you see Prescott!"
"And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic Field.
This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School towns.
The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball, cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out.
Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond.Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators.
Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad. As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on the field.
Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators' seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs. A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley. Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were doing.
For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out.Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. Infact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed thatDick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers.
Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave. The other four chums were not far off.
Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team. They would also name the members of the school's second team.
"Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates.
"Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus.
Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators.
The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance.
"Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back.
But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial.
"Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from the seats.
Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly impatient.
"We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!" came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist."
Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players.
Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal.
Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself. The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers as Prescott or Darrin.
For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats stopped cheering to look on in some concern.
"Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low tone.
Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously, now.
"That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally, when the ball came back to him.
"It's enough. Magnificently done," called Coach Luce, after a glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee.
"Oh, you Rip!"
"Good old Rip!"
The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume.
Coach Luce signaled to Dick Prescott, who, coolly, yet with a somewhat pallid face, came forward to the box. He removed the wrapping from a new ball and took his post.
The cheering stopped now. Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley. Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley.
"The first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," calledLuce. "Get yourself warmed up."
Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which, for policy's sake, he strove to conceal.
"Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly, as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the spit-ball after what I've shown!"
The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood the significance of Dick's moistened fingers.
Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face went white.
"Where did Prescott get that thing? He's beenstealingfrom the little he has seen me do."
A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate. It was equal to any that Ripley had shown.
"Confound the upstart! He's getting close to me on that style!" gasped the astonished Ripley.
Now, Dick held the ball for a few moments, rolling it over in his hands. An instant later, he unbent. Then he let drive. The ball went slowly toward the plate, with flat trajectory.
"Wow!" came the sudden explosion. It was ajump-ball, going almost to the plate, then rising instead of falling.
Three more of these Dick served, and now the cheering was the biggest of the afternoon. Fred Ripley's mouth was wide open, his breath coming jerkily.
Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of the jump-ball about it.
Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain.
"Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last.
"No," decided Coach Luce. "You've done enough, Prescott.Mr. Darrin!"
Dave ran briskly to the box, opening the wrappings on a new ball as he stepped into the box. After the first two balls Dave's exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached Dick with his performance.
Ripley's bewildered astonishment was apparent in his face.
"Thunder, I'd no idea they could do anything like that!" gasped Fred to himself. "They're very nearly as good as I am. How in blazes did they ever get hold of the wrinkles? They can't afford a man like Everett."
"Any more candidates?" called Coach Luce. There weren't. No other fellow was going forward to show himself after the last three who had worked from the box.
There was almost a dead silence, then, while Coach Luce and the two members of the Athletics Committee conferred in whispers. At last the coach stepped forward.
"We have chosen the pitchers!" he shouted. Then, after a pause,Mr. Luce went on:
"The pitchers for the regular school nine will be Prescott, Darrin,Ripley, in the order named."
"Oh, you Dick!"
"Bang-up Prescott!"
"Reliable old Darrin!"
"Ripley—-ugh!"
And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before the judges.
"I protest!" he cried.
"Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've had a fair show, Mr. Ripley."
"I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely, for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard.
"No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee. "You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had such a pitching triumvirate."
"Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south with his own team, I was trained by——-"
Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much, after all.
The din from the seats had now died down.
"Well, Ripley, who trained you?" asked a member of the AthleticsCommittee.
Fred bit his lip, but Dick broke in quietly:
"I can tell. Perhaps a little confession will be good for us all around. Ripley was trained by Everett over at Duxbridge. I found out that much, weeks ago."
"You spy!" hissed Fred angrily, but Dick, not heeding his enemy, continued:
"The way Ripley started out, the first showing he made, Darrin and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?"
"Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was."
"Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too. Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy——-"
"Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival. "Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off."
"I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over," replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School. In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse."
"Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away.
His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater. Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field.
Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng.
"Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?"
"Between four and five weeks, sir."
"And Darrin the same length of time?"
"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.
"Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older."
"I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?"
"Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful."
"I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?"
"Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies."
There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond.
"If anythingshouldhappen to Prescott and Darrin just before any ofthe big games," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way tomakesomething happen?"
"To your seat, Mr. Bristow! You're acting like a rowdy!"
Principal Cantwell uttered the order sharply.
Fully half the student body had gathered in the big assembly room at the High School. It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room.
The principal's voice was so loud that it carried through the room. Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening. Bristow had been skylarking a bit. Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the assembly room than good taste sanctioned.
Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority. The boy wheeled about, glaring at the principal.
"Go to your seat, sir!" thundered the principal, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage.
Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat.Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying.
"You mutinous young rascal, that won't do!" shot out from the principal's lips. In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender.
"Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!" rasped out the angry principal.
Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push. Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead.
In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes.
The principal was at once terrified. He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him. Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out:
"Coward!"
His face livid, the principal turned.
"Who said that?" he demanded, at white heat.
"Idid!" admitted Purcell, promptly. Abner Cantwell sprang at this second "offender." But Purcell threw himself quickly into an attitude of defence.
"Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I'll knock you down!"
"Good!"
"That's the talk!"
The excited High School boys came crowding about the principal and Purcell. Bristow was swept back by the surging throng. He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead.
"Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office," commanded the principal, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him.
"Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?" asked another voice.
"Run Cantwell out! He isn't fit to be here!" yelled another voice.
Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward.
"Calmly, boys, calmly," called Drake. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for afterwards."
But those who were more hot headed were still pressing forward. It looked as though they were trying to get close enough to lay hands on the now trembling principal.
Under the circumstances, Mr. Cantwell did the very worst thing he could have done. He pushed three or four boys aside and made a break across the assembly room. Once out in the corridor, the principal dove into his private office, turning the key after him. Secure, now, and his anger once more boiling up, Mr. Cantwell rang his telephone bell. Calling for the police station, he called for Chief Coy and reported that mutiny and violence had broken loose in the High School.
"That seems almost incredible," replied Chief Coy. "But I'll come on the run with some of my men."
Several of the fellows made a move to follow the principal out into the corridor. Dick Prescott swung the door shut and threw himself against it. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade rushed to his support. The other chums got to him as quickly as they could.
"Nothing rash, fellows!" urged Dick. "Remember, we don't make the laws, or execute them. This business will be settled more to our satisfaction if we don't put ourselves in the wrong."
"Pull that fellow Prescott away from the door!" called Fred Ripley, anxious to start any kind of trouble against Dick & Co. Submaster Drake, forcing his way through the throng, calming the hottest-headed ones, turned an accusing look on Fred. The latter saw it and slunk back into the crowd.
Bristow, still holding his handkerchief to his head, darted out of the building.
Submaster Morton and Luce, bearing the excitement, came up from class rooms on the ground floor. They entered by the same door through which Bristow had left.
Over on the other side of the room, fearing that a violent riot was about to start, some of the girls began to scream. The women teachers present hurried among the girls, quieting them by reassuring words.
"Now, young gentlemen," called Mr. Drake, "we'll consider all this rumpus done with. Discipline reigns and Gridley's good name must be preserved!"
This brought a cheer from many, for Mr. Drake was genuinely respected by the boys as a good and fair-minded man. Such men as Drake, Morton or Luce could lead these warm-hearted boys anywhere.
Stepping quickly back to the platform, Drake sounded the bell.In an instant there was an orderly movement toward the desks.At the second bell all were seated.
"In the absence of the principal," began Mr. Drake, "I——-"
A low-voiced laugh started in some quarters of the room.
"Silence!" insisted Mr. Drake, with dignity. "School has opened.I——-"
He was interrupted by a new note. Out in the yard sounded the clanging of a bell, the quick trot of horses' feet and the roll of wheels. The boys looked at one another in unbelieving astonishment.
Then heavy steps sounded on the stairway. Outside Mr. Cantwell's voice could be heard:
"I'll take you inside, chief!"
In came the principal, his face now white from dread of what he had done, instead of showing the white-heat of passion. After him came Chief Coy and three policemen in uniform.
For at least a full half minute Chief Coy stood glancing around theroom, where every student was in his seat and all was orderly.The boys returned the chief's look with wondering eyes.Then Mr. Coy spoke:
"Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?"
Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering.
"Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room.His three policemen followed.
Then there came indeed an awkward silence.
Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr. Cantwell found himself at some loss for words. But at last he began:
"Young ladies and young gentlemen, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret the occurrences of this morning. Discipline is one of my greatest ideals, and this morning's mutiny——-"
He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated:
"This morning's mutiny——-" began the principal again.
The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly. It was that gesture which saved the situation at that critical moment. The boys thought that if silence would please Mr. Drake, then he might have it.
"Pardon me, sir," whispered Drake in Cantwell's ear. "I wouldn't harp on the word mutiny, sir. Express your regret for the injury unintentionally done Bristow."
Mr. Cantwell wheeled abruptly.
"Who is principal here, Mr. Drake?"
"You are, sir."
"Then be good enough to let me finish my remarks."
This dialogue was spoken in an undertone, but the students guessed some inkling of its substance.
The submaster subsided, but Mr. Cantwell couldn't seem to remember, just then, what he wanted to say. So he stood gazing about the room. In doing this he caught sight of the face of Purcell.
"Mr. Purcell!" called the principal.
That young man rose, standing by his seat. "Mr. Purcell, you made some threat to me a few minutes ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was that threat?"
"I told you that, if you laid hands on me, I'd floor you."
"Would you have done it?"
"At the time, yes, sir. Or I'd have tried to do so."
"That is all. The locker room monitor will go with you to the basement. You may go for the day. When you come to-morrow morning, I will let you know what I have decided in your case."
Submaster Drake bit his lips. This was not the way to deal witha situation in which the principal had started the trouble. Mr.Drake wouldn't have handled the situation in this way, nor wouldDr. Thornton, the former principal.
But Purcell, with cheerfulness murmured, "Very good, sir," and left the room, while many approving glances followed him.
Messrs. Morton and Luce shuffled rather uneasily in their seats. Mr. Cantwell began to gather an idea that he was making his own bad matter worse, so he changed, making an address in which he touched but lightly upon the incidents of the morning. He made an urgent plea for discipline at all times, and tried to impress upon the student body the need for absolute self-control.
In view of his own hasty temper that last part of the speech nearly provoked an uproar of laughter. Only respect for Mr. Drake and the other submasters prevented that. The women teachers, or most of them, too, the boys were sure, sided with them secretly.
The first recitation period of the morning was going by rapidly, but Mr. Cantwell didn't allow that to interfere with his remarks. At last, however, he called for the belated singing. This was in progress when the door opened. Mr. Eldridge, superintendent of schools, entered, followed by Bristow's father. That latter gentleman looked angry.
"Mr. Cantwell, can you spare us a few moments in your office?" inquired Mr. Eldridge.
There was no way out of it. The principal left with them. In a few minutes there was a call for Mr. Drake. Then two of the women teachers were sent for. Finally, Dick Prescott and three or four of the other boys were summoned. On the complaint of a very angry parent Superintendent Eldridge was holding a very thorough investigation. Many statements were asked for and listened to.
"I think we have heard enough, haven't we, Mr. Eldridge?" asked the elder Bristow, at last. "Shall I state my view of the affair now?"
"You may," nodded the superintendent.
"It is plain enough to me," snorted Mr. Bristow, "that this principal hasn't self-control enough to be charged with teaching discipline to a lot of spirited boys. His example is bad for them—-continually bad. However, that is for the Board of Education to determine. My son will not come to school to-day, but he will attend to-morrow. As the first step toward righting to-day's affair I shall expect Mr. Cantwell to address, before the whole student body, an ample and satisfactory apology to my son. I shall be present to hear that apology myself."
"If it is offered," broke in Principal Cantwell, sardonically, but Superintendent Eldridge held up a hand to check him.
"If you don't offer the apology, to-morrow morning, and do it properly," retorted Mr. Bristow, "I shall go to my lawyer and instruct him to get out a warrant charging you with felonious assault. That is all I have to say, sir. Mr. Eldridge, I thank you, sir, for your very prompt and kind help. Good morning, all!"
"At the close of the session the principal wishes to see Mr. Prescott," read Mr. Cantwell from the platform just before school was dismissed that afternoon.
Dick waited in some curiosity.
"Mr. Prescott, you write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" asked Mr.Cantwell.
"Sometimes, sir."
"Then, Mr. Prescott, please understand that I forbid you to write anything for publication concerning this morning's happenings."
Dick remained silent.
"You will not, will you?"
"That, Mr. Cantwell, is a matter that seems to rest between the editor and myself."
"But I have forbidden it," insisted the principal, in surprise.
"That is a matter, sir, about which you will have to see the editor.Here at school, Mr. Cantwell, I am under your orders. At 'TheBlade' office I work under Mr. Pollock's instructions."
The principal looked as though he were going to grow angry. On the whole, though, he felt that he had had enough of the consequences of his own wrath for one day. So he swallowed hard and replied:
"Very good, then, Mr. Prescott. I shall hold you responsible for anything you publish that I may consider harmful to me."
Dick did print an account of the trouble at school. He confined himself to a statement of the facts that he had observed with his own eyes. Editorially "The Blade" printed a comment to the effect that such scenes would have been impossible under the much-missed Dr. Thornton.
Mr. Cantwell didn't have anything disagreeable to say to Dick Prescott the next morning. Purcell took up the burden of his studies again without comment. The principal did apologize effectively to young Bristow before the student body, while the elder Bristow stood grimly by.
All of Dick & Co. had made the High School nine, though not all as star players in their positions.
Holmes had won out for left field, and Hazelton for shortstop. As far as the early outdoor practice showed, the latter was going to be the strongest man of the school in that important position.
Dalzell and Reade became first and second basemen.
During the rest of March practice proceeded briskly. Six days in every week the youngsters worked hard at the field in the afternoons. When it rained they put in their time at the gym.
On the second of April Coach Luce called a meeting of the baseball squad at the gym.
"We're a week, now, from our first game, gentlemen," announced the coach. "I want you all to be in flawless condition from now on. I will put a question to you, now, on your honor. Has any man broken training table?"
No one spoke or stirred. Ripley, who had gotten over the worst of his sulks, was present, but he did not admit any of his many breaches of the training table diet that he was pledged to follow at home.
"Has any man used tobacco since training began?" continued the coach.
Again there was silence.
"I am gratified to note that I can't get a response to either question," smiled Mr. Luce. "This assures me that every one of you has kept in the strictest training. It will show as soon as you begin to meet Gridley's opponents in the field.
"Faithful observance of all training rules bespeaks a good state of discipline. In all sports, and in team sports especially, discipline is our very foundation stone. Every man must sacrifice himself and his feelings for the good of the team. Each one of you must forget, in all baseball matters, that he is an individual. He must think of himself only as a spoke in the wheel.
"During the baseball season I want every man of you in bed by nine-thirty. On the night before a game turn in at eight-thirty. Make up your minds that there shall be no variation from this. In the mornings I want every man, when it isn't raining, to go out and jog along the road, in running shoes and sweaters, for twenty minutes without a break; for thirty minutes, instead, on any morning when you can spare the time.
"Whenever you can do so, practice swift, short sprints. Many a nine, full of otherwise good men, loses a game or a season's record just because this important matter of speedy base running has been neglected.
"Not only this, but I want every one of you to be careful about the method of sprinting. The man who runs flat-footedly is using up steam and endurance. Run balanced well forward on the balls of your feet. Throw your heels up; travel as though you were trying to kick the backs of your thighs. Breathe through the nose, always, in running, and master to the highest degree the trick of making a great air reservoir of your lungs. We have had considerable practice, both in jogging and in sprinting, but this afternoon I am going to sprint each man in turn, and I'm going to pick all his flaws of style or speed to small pieces. We will now adjourn to the field for that purpose. Remember, that a batsman has two very valuable assets—-his hitting judgment and his running steam. Wagons are waiting outside, and we'll now make quick time to the field."
Arriving there, Coach Luce led them at once to the dressing rooms.
"Now, then, we want quick work!" he called after the sweaters and ball shoes had been hurriedly donned.
"Now let us go over to the diamond; go to the home plate as I call the names. Darrin Ripley-Prescott-Reade-Purcell——-"
And so on. The young men named made quick time to the plate.
"You're up, Darrin. Run! Two bases only. Halt at second! Ripley, run! Reade, run! Not on your flat feet, Ripley. Up on your toes, man! Reade, more steam!"
Then others were given the starting word. Coach did not run more men at a time than he could readily watch.
"Prescott, throw your feet up behind better. You've been jogging, but that isn't the gait. Holmes, straighten back more—-don't cramp your chest!"
So the criticisms rang out. Luce was an authority on short sprinting.He had made good in that line in his own college days.
"Jennison, you're not running with your arms! Forget 'em!"
Jennison promptly let his arms hang motionless at his sides.
"Come in, Jennison!" called coach.
Jennison came in.
"You mustn't work your arms like fly-wheels, nor like piston rods, either," explained Mr. Luce. "Keep your elbows in fairly close to your sides; fists loosely closed and forward, a little higher than your elbows. Now, all runners come in."
Gathering the squad about him, and demanding close attention,Mr. Luce showed the pose of the body at the instant of starting.
"Now, I'm going to run to first and second," continued the coach. "I want every man of you to watch closely and catch the idea. You note how I hold my body—-sloping slightly forward, yet with every effort to avoid cramping the chest. Observe how I run on the forward part of the ball of the foot—-not exactly on the toes, but close to it. See just how it is that I throw my feet up behind me. And be very particular to note that I keep my hands and arms in just this position all the way. Now, then, when you strike at a ball, and expect to hit it, have your lungs inflated ready for the first bound of the spurt. Now—-watching, all of you?"
After an instant Mr. Luce shouted, "Strike!" and was off like a flash. Many of the boys present had never seen coach really sprint before. As they watched during the amazingly few seconds a yell of delight went up from them. This was sprinting!
"Did you all find time to observe?" smiled coach, as he came loping in from second base.
"We all watched you," laughed Dick. "But the time was short."
"You see the true principle of the sprint?"
"Yes; but it would take any of us years to get the sprint down that fine," protested Darrin.
"Don't be too sure of that," retorted coach. "Some of you will have doubled the style and steam of your sprint by the time you're running in the first game. Now, don't forget a word of what I've said about the importance of true sprinting. I've seen many a nine whose members had a fine battery, and all the fielders good men; yet, when they went to the bat and hit the leather, their sprinting was so poor that they lost game after game. From now on, the sprint's the thing! Yet don't overdo it by doing it all the time. Take plenty of rest and deep breathing between sprints. Usually, a two-bag sprint is all you need. Now, some more of you get out and try it."
Rapidly coach called off the names of those he wanted to try out. Some of these young men did better than the starters, for they had learned from the criticisms, and from the showing of Luce's standard form.
Presently the young men were standing about in various parts of the field, for none came in until called.
"Ripley," said Mr. Luce, turning to that young man, "you have the build and the lines of a good sprinter."
"Thank you, sir," nodded Fred.
"And yet your performance falls off. Your lung capacity ought to be all right from your appearance. What is the trouble? Honestly, have you been smoking any cigarettes?"
"Not one," Fred declared promptly.
Mr. Luce lifted the boy's right hand, scanning it.
"If I were going to make such a denial," remarked coach coolly, "I'd be sure to have a piece of pumice stone, and I'd use it often to take away those yellowish stains."
The light-brownish stains were faint on Fred's first and second fingers. Yet, under careful scrutiny, they could be made out.
Ripley colored uncomfortably, jerking his hand away.
"Better cut out the paper pests," advised coach quietly.
"Only one, once in a while," murmured the boy. "I won't have even that many after this."
"I should hope not," replied Mr. Luce. "You're under training pledge, you know."
All Fred meant by his promise was that he would use pumice stone painstakingly on his finger tips hereafter.
Within the next few days, Dick and Darrin made about the best showing as to sprinting form, though many of the others did remarkably well.
"Ripley isn't cutting out the cigarettes," decided Mr. Luce, watching the running of the lawyer's son. "He proves it by his lack of improvement. His respiration is all to the bad."
Mr. Luce was shrewd enough to know that, in Fred Ripley, he had a liar to deal with, and that neither repeated warnings nor renewed promises were worth much. So he held his peace.
In a few days more, all the members of the Athletics Committee who could attend went to the field. A practice match between the first and second teams had been ordered. Ripley consented to pitch for second, while Dick pitched for the school nine. The latter nine won by a score of eleven to two, but that had been expected. It was for another purpose that the members of the Athletics Committee were present.
After the game, there was a brief conference between coach and the committee members.
"It is time, now, to announce the appointment of captain," called coach, when he had again gathered the squad. "Purcell, of the junior class, will be captain of the nine. Prescott, of the sophomore class, will be second, or relief captain."
Then the announcements were made for the second nine.
And now the first game was close at hand. The opponent was to be Gardiner City High School. Gardiner possessed one of the strongest school nines in the state. Coach Luce would have preferred an easier opponent for the first regular game, but had to take the only match that he could get.
"However, young gentlemen," he announced to the squad on the field, "the Gridley idea is that all opponents look alike to us. Your city and your school will demand that you win—-not merely that you try to win!"
"We'll win—-no other way to do!" came the hearty promise.