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 Dick!”

“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, hoarsely, 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 Dick 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 Dick, 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,’” Dick 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-----”