Chapter 12. Trying Out The Pitchers

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_ CHAPTER XII. TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS

"Oh, you Rip!"

"Good boy, Rip!"

"You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!"

"Get after him, Dick!"

"Wait till you see Prescott!"

"And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic Field.

This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School towns.

The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball, cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out.

Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond. Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators.

Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad. As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on the field.

Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators' seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs. A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley. Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were doing.

For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out. Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. In fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that Dick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers.

Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave. The other four chums were not far off.

Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team. They would also name the members of the school's second team.

"Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates.

"Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus.

Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators.

The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance.

"Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back.

But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial.

"Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from the seats.

Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly impatient.

"We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!" came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist."

Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players.

Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal.

Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself. The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers as Prescott or Darrin.

For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats stopped cheering to look on in some concern.

"Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low tone.

Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously, now.

"That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally, when the ball came back to him.

"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.

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-----"

"Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival. "Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off."

"I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over," replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School. In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse."

"Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away.

His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater. Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field.

Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng.

"Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?"

"Between four and five weeks, sir."

"And Darrin the same length of time?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.

"Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older."

"I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?"

"Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful."

"I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?"

"Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies."

There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond.

"If anything _should_ happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of _the big games_," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way to _make_ something happen?" _

Read next: Chapter 13. The Riot Call And Other Little Things

Read previous: Chapter 11. The Third Party's Amazement

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