The High School Pitcher Part 20

"Good old Rip!"

The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume.

Coach Luce signaled to d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 d.i.c.k's moistened fingers.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k, 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.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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 b.a.l.l.s Dave's exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k!"

"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, hoa.r.s.ely, 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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,'" d.i.c.k 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 b.o.o.bies. Scratch my name off."