“Ted can’t do any guying this morning,” declared Greg readily.  “If he does, the umpire will rule him out of the game, and that would snap all of Ted’s nerve.  No; Ted won’t guy us to-day.”

“But I’ll tell you just what will happen to us,” Dick offered.  “The spectators who come from the South Grammar aren’t under the umpire’s orders.  You may be sure that Ted has posted the fellows from his school on a lot of things that they can yell at us.  Oh, we’ll get guyed from the start to the finish of the game.”

“If they go too far,” hinted Dave, “we can thrash some of the funny ones afterwards.”

“I shan’t feel like thrashing anyone for having a little fun with us,” remarked Reade.

“Thrashing wouldn’t do any good, anyway,” Dick continued.  “Besides which, we might just happen, incidentally, to be the fellows that got the worst thrashing if we started anything like that going.  I don’t object to good-natured ridicule.  But the South Grammar fellows may have some things to yell at us that will rattle our play.  That’s what I want to stop.”

“How can you stop it?” queried Greg.

“That’s what kept me home a little later than I intended to stay there,” Dick replied.  “I have been thinking, since last night, how I could take some of the starch out of Ted Teall, and have some way of throwing the horse laugh back on the South Grammar boys in case they start anything funny enough to rattle us.”

“How did the thinking get on?” Tom wanted to know.

“I believe I’ve something here that will do it,” Prescott replied, taking an object from one of his pockets and holding it up.

“It looks like a home-made ball for babies to play with,” remarked Dan Dalzell, grinning.

“It’s a home-made ball, all right,” Dick nodded.  “Yet I don’t believe that I’d let a baby have it to play with.”

“What’s the matter with it?” Tom asked.  “Loaded?”

“Some one told you,” protested Prescott, pretending to look astounded.

“What are you going to do with that thing?” Dave insisted.

“If I have a chance I’m going to get Ted Teall up in the air, and before the crowd, too,” Dick asserted.

“With this ball?” Greg asked, taking it from his friend’s hand.

“Yes.”

“Hm!  I don’t see anything about it to shatter the nerves of a hardy youth like Ted Teall,” Greg muttered.  “This ball is just wound with string and covered with pieces of old glove.  Why, it’s so soft that I don’t believe I could throw it straight.”

Greg raised the home-made ball to throw it.

“Here!  Don’t toss it, or you may put it out of business,” objected Prescott, taking it away from his friend.

“If the ball can’t be thrown, then what on earth is it good for?” questioned Darrin.

“I’ll come to that by degrees,” Dick promised.  “Did you know that dad has secured a license this year to sell fireworks at his store?”