“Ripley never was strong on the truth.”

Though the gossip about Fred Ripley was not general, the anxiety over Pitcher Prescott was heard on all sides.

“It’ll be a sure hoodoo if Prescott can’t pitch the season’s first game,” declared a man who seldom missed a High School game on the home diamond.

Before three o’clock the grand stand was comfortably filled.  The cheaper seats beyond held about as many spectators as they were built to hold.

The attendance, that day, was nearly three thousand.  Gardiner had sent a delegation of nearly one-tenth of this number.

Before three o’clock the band began to play.  Whenever the musicians launched into a popular baseball ditty the crowd joined with the words.

“Prescott is going to pitch!”

“No, he isn’t.”

“The word has just been passed around.  Besides, his name’s down on the score card.”

“The score cards were printed yesterday.”

Finally, curiosity could stand it no longer.  A committee left the grand stand to go toward the dressing rooms building.  But a policeman waved them back.

“None but players and officials allowed in there,” declared the officer.

“We want to find out whether Prescott is going to pitch,” urged the spokesman.

“I heard something about that,” admitted the policeman.

“What was it?  Quick!”

“Let me see.  Oh!  Prescott wants to pitch; the coach is half willing, but the doctor ain’t certain.”

This was the best they could do, so the committee returned to their seats.  But nothing was settled.

At three-twenty, just as the band ceased playing, the compact bunch of Gardiner fans sent up the yell: 

“Here they come!  Our fellows!  The only ones!”

Using their privilege as visiting team, the Gardiner players were now filing on to the field for a little warming-up practice.

“Throw him down, McCluskey!” tooted the band, derisively.  But the cheers from the wild Gardiner fans nearly drowned out the instrumental racket.  Quickly the visitors had a practice ball in motion.  Now the home fans waited breathlessly.

At last the band played again.  “See the Conquering Hero Comes!”

Gridley High School, natty and clean looking in their gray and black uniforms, with black stockings, caps and belts, came out on the field.  Instantly there was craning of necks to see if Prescott were among the players.

“There he is!” yelled one of the High School fans.  “There’s our Dick!  Wow!”

Cheering went up from every Gridley seat.  The bleachers contributed a bedlam of noise.  “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!” blared forth the band.  Girls and women stood up, waving fans, handkerchiefs, banners.  Another round of cheering started.  Dick walked quietly, looking neither to right nor left.  Yet the boy was wondering, in astonishment, if kings usually got such a welcome.