"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 Belle did make 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 of gentlemen to 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 did you do?" 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 it seventeen times 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?"



CHAPTER VIII

HUH? WOOLLY 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 often two girls have 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.



CHAPTER IX

FRED PITCHES A BOMBSHELL INTO TRAINING CAMP

"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 Harry Hazelton.

"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!" gibed Hazelton, 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."

"He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw Fred 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 a bird! 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.



CHAPTER X

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. That will 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 any High 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 a big game 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.



CHAPTER XI

THE THIRD PARTY'S AMAZEMENT

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've got to 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 that trick, 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 give Ripley 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.



CHAPTER XII

TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS

"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. In fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that Dick, 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," called Luce. "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 been stealing from 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 a jump-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 Athletics Committee.

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 anything should happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of the 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 to make something happen?"



CHAPTER XIII

THE RIOT CALL AND OTHER LITTLE THINGS

"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.

"I did!" 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 the room, 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 with a situation in which the principal had started the trouble. Mr. Drake wouldn't have handled the situation in this way, nor would Dr. 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 'The Blade' 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.



CHAPTER XIV

THE STEAM OF THE BATSMAN

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.



CHAPTER XV

A DASTARD'S WORK IN THE DARK

Thanks to the methods Dick & Co. had started the year before of raising funds for High School athletics through stirring appeal to the local pride of the wealthy residents of the city, the school nine had an abundant supply of money for all needs.

Through the columns of "The Blade" Prescott warmed up local interest effectively. Tickets sold well ahead of the time for the meeting with Gardiner City High School.

"Prescott, you've been picked to pitch for the Gardiner game," Coach Luce informed the sophomore. "We're going to have almost the hardest rub of the season with this nine, on account of its being our first game. Gardiner City has played two games already, and her men have their diamond nerve with them. Keep yourself in shape, Mr. Prescott. Don't take any even slight chance of getting out of condition."

"You may be sure I won't," Dick replied, his eyes glowing. "You know, Mr. Luce, that, though I played some on second football team last fall, this is the first chance I've had to play on the regular team."

"As the game is close at hand," continued the coach, "I'd even be careful not to train too much. You're in as fine condition, now, as you can be this season. Sometimes, just in keeping up training, a fellow has something happen to him that lays him up for a few days."

"It won't happen to me, sir," Dick asserted. "I'm going to take care of myself as if I were glass, until the Gardiner game is over."

"You won't get too nervous, will you?"

"I may be a bit, before the game," Dick confessed, candidly.

"But after the game starts?"

"Once the game opens, I shall forget that there's any such fellow as Prescott, sir. I shall be just a part of Gridley, with nothing individual about me."

"Good! I like to hear you talk that way," laughed Mr. Luce. "I hope you'll be able to keep up to it when you go to the diamond. Once the game opens, don't let yourself have a single careless moment. Any single point we can get away from Gardiner will have to be done by just watching for it. You saw them play last year?"

"I did," Prescott nodded. "Gridley won, four to three, and until the last half of the last inning we had only one run. I thought nothing could save us that day."

"Nothing did," replied the coach, "except the hard and fast can't-lose tradition of Gridley."

"We're not going to lose this time, either," Dick declared. "I know that I'm going to strike out a string in every inning. If I go stale, you have Darrin to fall back on, and he's as baffling a pitcher as I can hope to be. And Ripley is a wonder."

"He would be," nodded Mr. Luce, sadly, "if he were a better base runner at the same time."

It seemed as though nothing else could be talked of in Gridley but the opening game. Just because it was the starter of the season the local military band, reinforced to thirty-five pieces, was to be on hand to give swing and life to the affair.

"Are you going, Laura?" Dick asked, when he met Miss Bentley.

"Am I going?" replied Laura, opening her eyes in amazement. "Why, Dick, do you think anything but pestilence or death could keep me away? Father is going to take Belle and myself. The seats are already bought."

Prescott's own parents were to attend. Out of his newspaper money he had bought them grand stand seats, and some one else had been engaged to attend in the store while the game was on.

"You'll have a great chance, Dick, old fellow, against a nine like Gardiner," said Dave Darrin. "And, do you know, I'm glad it's up to you to pitch? I'm afraid I'd be too rattled to pitch against a nine like Gardiner in the very first game of the season. All I have to do is to keep at the side and watch you."

"See here, Dave Darrin," expostulated his chum, "you keep yourself in the best trim, and make up your mind that you may have to be called before the game is over. What if my wrist goes lame during the game?"

"Pooh! I don't believe it will, or can," Dave retorted. "You're in much too fine shape for that, Dick."

"Other pitchers have often had to be retired before a game ended," Prescott rejoined, gravely. "And I don't believe that I am the greatest or the most enduring ever. Keep yourself up, Dave! Be ready for the call at any second."

"Oh, I will, but it will be needless," Dave answered.

Dalzell and Holmes were other members of the school nine squad who had been picked for this first game. Purcell was to catch, making perhaps, the strongest battery pair that Gridley High School had ever put in the field. Half of Dick & Co. were to make up a third of the nine in its first battle.

"I'm getting a bit scared," muttered Dan, the Friday afternoon before the Saturday game.

"Now, cut all that out," Dick advised. "If you don't I'll report you to the coach and captain."

This was said with a grin, and Dick went on earnestly:

"Dan, the scared soldier is always a mighty big drag in any battle. It takes two or three other good soldiers to look after him and hold him to duty."

"I'll admit, for myself, that I wish the druggist knew of some sort of pill that would give me more confidence for this confounded old first game," muttered Greg Holmes.

"I can tell you how to get the pill put up," Prescott hinted.

"I wish you would, then." But Greg spoke dubiously.

"Tell the druggist to use tragacanth paste to hold the pill together."

"Yes?——-" followed Greg.

"And tell the druggist to mix into each pill a pound of good old Yankee ginger," wound up Prescott. "Take four, an hour apart before the game to-morrow."

"Then I'd never play left field," grinned Greg.

"Yes, you would. You'd forget your nervousness. Try it, Greg."

The three were walking up Main Street, when they encountered Laura Bentley and Belle Meade.

"What are you going to do to-morrow?" asked Laura, looking at the trio, keenly. "Are you going to win for the glory and honor of good old Gridley?"

"Dick is," smiled Greg. "Dan and I are going to sit at the side and use foot-warmers."

"You two aren't losing heart, are you?" asked Belle, looking at Dick Prescott's companions with some scorn.

"N-n-not if you girls are all going to take things as seriously as that," protested Greg.

"Every Gridley High School girl expects the nine to win to-morrow," spoke Laura almost sternly.

"Then we're going to win," affirmed Dan Dalzell. "On second thought, I'll sell my footwarmers at half the cost price."

"That's the way to talk," laughed Belle. "Now, remember, boys—-though Dick doesn't need to have his backbone stiffened—-if you boys haven't pride enough in Gridley to carry you through anything, the Gridley High School girls are heart and soul in the game. If you lose the game to-morrow don't any of you ever show up again at a class dance!"

The girls went away laughing, yet they meant what they said. Gridley girls were baseball fans and football rooters of the most intense sort.

Dave wanted to be abed by half past eight that evening, as Coach Luce had requested; but about a quarter past eight, just as he was about to retire, his mother discovered that she needed coffee for the next morning's breakfast, so she sent him to the grocer's on the errand. Dick, while eating supper, thought of an item that he wanted to print in the next day's "Blade." Accordingly, he hurried to the newspaper office as soon as the meal was over. It was ten minutes past eight when Dick handed in his copy to the night editor.

"Time enough," muttered the boy, as he reached the street. "A brisk jog homeward is just the thing before pulling off clothes and dropping in between the sheets."

As Dick jogged along he remembered having noticed, on the way to the office, Tip Scammon in a new suit of clothes.

"Tip's stock is coming up in the world," thought young Prescott. "But I wonder whether Tip earned that suit or stole it, or whether he has just succeeded in threatening more money out of Ripley. How foolish Fred is to stand for blackmail! I wonder if I ought to speak to him about it, or give his father a hint. I hate to be meddlesome. And, by ginger! Now I think of it, Tip looked rather curiously at me. He—-oh!—-murder!"

The last exclamation was wrung from Dick Prescott by a most amazing happening.

He was passing a building in the course of erection. It stood flush with the sidewalk, and the contractor had laid down a board walk over the sidewalk, and had covered it with a roofed staging.

Just as Dick passed under this, still on a lope, a long pole was thrust quickly out from the blackness inside the building. Between Dick's moving legs went the pole.

Bump! Down came Dick, on both hands and one knee. Then he rolled over sideways.

Away back in the building the young pitcher heard fast-moving feet.

In a flash Dick tried to get up. It took him more time than he had expected. He clutched at one of the upright beams for support.

Half a dozen people had seen the fall. Stopping curiously, they soon turned, hurrying toward Prescott.

Forgotten, in an instant, was the youngster's pain. His face went white with another throbbing realization.

"The game to-morrow! This knee puts me out!"



CHAPTER XVI

THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT

"Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!"

Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself.

"What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him.

"Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?"

"Yes. Trip over it?"

"I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here."

"Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?"

"Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination.

"What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd that was collecting. "Dick—-you hurt?"

It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation.

"I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully.

"Who?" spoke up one of the men.

But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin. "We'll settle this thing all in our own good time."

"Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want to see how well I can walk."

The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously, to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg.

"Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man in the crowd.

Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as the machine came close to the curb.

"Here's a doctor," called some one.

"Which one?" asked Dick.

"Bentley."

"Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on your sound leg."

Prescott was already doing this.

Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation.

"One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car," he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at."

Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped the physician got in with him.

Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott book store.

"You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death."

Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck, was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr. Bentley from the store.

"I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully. "I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the game tomorrow."

"That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely.

The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door.

Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flashing. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs.

Into his own room Dick was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs. Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum.

"Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud.

"It isn't so very bad," smiled Dick. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway."

"Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously.

Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red.

"Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee.

"No," Dick answered, in each case.

"We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth."

"Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it."

"I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously.

Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated:

"I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott."

"I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit.

"You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician.

"Yes, sir."

"That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"It would probably hurt a little less, now. No—-don't try it," as Dick started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?"

"Of course I do, doctor."

"Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told."

"I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases."

Dr. Bentley pursed his lips.

"There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott. The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently."

"I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly.

"You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything should make the coach order me off the field," interposed Dick, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now."

"If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott? You know—-" here Dr. Bentley assumed an air of authority—-" I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine. So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter."

"I will—-if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently.

"I can't promise, but I'll do my best."

"And, Dave," pressed Dick, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you might have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully.

So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of Dick & Co. in such matters.

Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate.

"It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words.

Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement.

"Tell Dick, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr. Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, two of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I passed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell Dick to-night. But you can tell him in the morning."

Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Saturday morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened.

"How's Dick?" asked all the callers.

"Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily.

"Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?"

"Um—-I can't say about that."

"If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence."

Dave was on hand as early as he could be. Dick had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before.

"You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?" Prescott pressed eagerly.

"No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him."

"Tip Scammon?"

"Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?"

"I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing.

"Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion."

Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching.

"Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?"

"Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley.

"But how about the big problem—-can he pitch to-day?"

"That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there."

"And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too."