There was a good deal of curiosity on that score.  The five minutes passed quickly.  Then Coach Luce called for the division.  As the new baseball squad gathered at the right-hand seats there was an eager counting.

“Forty-nine,” announced Greg Holmes, as soon as he had finished counting.  “Five whole nines and a few extras left over.”

“I’m glad to see that Gridley High School grit is up to the old standard,” declared Coach Luce, cheerily, after he had brought them to order.  “Our squad, this year, contains three more men than appeared last year.  It is plain that my threats haven’t scared anyone off the Gridley diamond.  Now, I am going to write down the names of the squad.  Then I will ask each member, as his name is called, to indicate the position for which he wishes to qualify.”

There was a buzz of conversation again, until the names had all been written down.  Then, after Coach Luce had called for silence, he began to read off the names in alphabetical order.

“Dalzell?” asked the coach, when he had gone that far down on the list.

“First base,” answered Dan, loudly and promptly.

“Darrin?”

“Pitcher,” responded Dave.

There was a little ripple of surprise.  When a sophomore goes in for work in the box it is notice that he has a good opinion of his abilities.

A few more names were called off.  Then: 

“Hazelton?”

“Short stop,” replied Harry, coolly.

“Whew!” An audible gasp of surprise went up and traveled around.

After the battery, the post of short stop is the swiftest thing for which to reach out.

“Holmes?”

“Left field.”

“It’s plain enough,” sneered Fred Ripley to the fellow beside him, “that Dick & Co., reporters and raga-muffins, expect to be two thirds of the nine.  I wonder whom they’ll allow to hold the other three positions?”

Several more names were called off.  Then came: 

“Prescott?”

“Pitcher,” Dick answered, quietly.

A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for.  What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott!

“Reade?”

“Second base.”

“Ripley?”

“P-p-pitcher!” Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically.  In fact, the word left him so explosively that several of the fellows caught themselves laughing.

“Oh, laugh, then, hang you all!” muttered Fred, in a low voice, glaring all around him.  “But you don’t know what you’re laughing at.  Maybe I won’t show you something in the way of real pitching!”

“The first Tuesday after the holidays’ vacation the squad will report here for gymnastic work from three-thirty to five,” called the coach.  “Now, I’ll talk informally with any who wish to ask questions.”

Fred Ripley’s face was aglow with satisfaction.  His eyes fairly glistened with his secret, inward triumph.