t 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 sh