“Now, we’ll try you out on pitching, if you’re ready,” announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class.  The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game.  He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen.  Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate.  To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates.

“Oh, we don’t want the dub!  Trot out Rip!” came a roaring chorus.

Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators.

The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance.

“Now, run out Rip!” came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back.

But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial.

“Dead ball!  Throw wild and cut it short!” came the advice from the seats.

Then a sophomore was tried out.  But the crowd was becoming highly impatient.

“We want Rip!  We demand Rip.  Give us Rip or give us chloroform!” came the insistent clamor.  “We’ll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist.”

Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded.  The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players.

Fred Ripley was flushed but proud.  He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal.

Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself.  The advance consciousness of victory 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.