“It’s enough.  Magnificently done,” called Coach Luce, after a glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee.

“Oh, you Rip!”

“Good old Rip!”

The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume.

Coach Luce signaled to Dick 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.  Dick 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 amusement 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 Dick’s moistened fingers.

Dick 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 Dick 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, Dick 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 Dick 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, Dick, 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.

Dick 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 Dick, 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 balls Dave’s exhibition was swift, certain, fine.  He had almost reached Dick with his performance.