“Haven’t you anything to say?” asked the lawyer, after a brief silence.

“No,” retorted Fred, sulkily.  “Not after you’ve disgraced me by putting a private detective on my track.  It was shameful.”

That brought the hot blood rushing to his father’s face.

“Shameful, was it, you young reprobate?  Shameful to you, when you have been stealing for weeks, if not for months?  It is you who are dead to the sense of shame.  Your life, I fear, young man, cannot go on as it has been going.  You are not fitted for a home of wealth and refinement.  You have had too much money, too easy a time.  I see that, now.  Well, it shall all change!  You shall have a different kind of home.”

Fred began to quake.  He knew that his father, when in a mood like this, was not to be trifled with.

“You—–­you don’t mean jail?” gasped the boy with a yellow streak in him.

“No; I don’t; at least, not this time,” retorted his father.  “But, let me see.  You spoke of an engagement to do something this afternoon.  What was it?”

“I was to have pitched in the game against Cedarville High School.”

“Go on, then, and do it,” replied his father.

“I---I can’t pitch, now.   My nerves are too-----”

“Go on and do what you’re pledged to do!” thundered Lawyer Ripley, in a tone which Fred knew was not to be disregarded.  So the boy started for the door.

“And while you are gone,” his father shot after him, “I will think out my plan for changing your life in such a way as to save whatever good may be in you, and to knock a lot of foolish, idle ideas out of your head!”

Fred’s cheeks were ashen, his legs shaking under him as he left the house.

“I’ve never seen the guv’nor so worked up before—–­at least, not about me,” thought the boy wretchedly.  “Now, what does he mean to do?  I can’t turn him a hair’s breadth, now, from whatever plan he may make.  Why didn’t I have more sense?  Why didn’t I own up, and ’throw myself on the mercy of the court’?”

In his present mood the frightened boy knew he couldn’t sit still in a street car.  So he walked all the way to the Athletic Field.  He was still shaking, still worried and pale when at length he arrived there.

He walked into the dressing room.  The rest of the nine and the subs were already on hand, many of them dressed.

“You’re late, Mr. Ripley,” said Coach Luce, a look of annoyance on his face.

Outside, the first of the fans on the seats were starting the rumpus that goes under the name of enthusiasm.

“I—–­I know it.  But—–­but—–­I—–­I’m sorry, Mr. Luce.  I—–­I believe I’m going to be ill.  I—–­I know I can’t pitch to-day.”

So Coach Luce and Captain Purcell conferred briefly, and decided that Dave Darrin should pitch to-day.

Darrin did pitch.  He handled his tricky curves so well that puny Cedarville was beaten by the contemptuous score of seventeen to nothing.