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!”