ctory 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 h