"I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please." Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck. "You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work." "I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums. "No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us show---that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for." "I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly. "Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry Hazelton. "I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively. "Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot." "Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly. Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball. "Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work. But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there. _And vice versa_!" For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym. "Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant. Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach. "Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two. Ripley, suppose you try?" Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward. "May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked. "Yes; certainly," nodded the coach. "Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd. "Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing student. "Let her rip, Rip!" A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite.