As it happened, Dick had had to wait a long time at the house at which he called before the man he wanted to see returned home. Dick was on his way to "The Blade" office when he caught sight of Tip Scammon. The latter did not see or hear the sophomore approaching. So Dick halted, darting behind a tree. "Now, what's Tip doing down here, near the Ripley place?" wondered Prescott. "He must be waiting to see Fred. Then they must have an appointment. Dave always thought that Tip ambushed me with those brickbats at Fred Ripley's order. There may be something of that sort in the wind again. I guess I've got a right to listen." Looking about him, Prescott saw a chance to slip into a yard, get over a fence, and creep up rather close to Scammon, though still being hidden from that scoundrel. At last Prescott found himself well hidden in the yard behind Tip. So Dick heard the talk. Now, as he hurried back to "The Blade" office the young soph guessed shrewdly at the meaning of what he had heard. "Now, what had I better do about it?" Dick Prescott asked himself. "What's the fair and honorable thing to do---keep quiet? It would seem a bit sneaky to go and tell Lawyer Ripley. Shall I tell Fred? I wonder if I could make him understand how foolish and cowardly it is to go on paying for a blackmailer's silence? Yet it's ten to one that Fred wouldn't thank me. Oh, bother it, what had a fellow better do in a case like this?" A moment later, Dick laughed dryly. "I know one thing I could do. I could go to Fred, tell him what I know, and scare him so he'd fall down in his effort to become the crack pitcher of the nine! My, but he'd go all to pieces if he thought I knew and could tell on him!" Dick chuckled, then his face sobered, as he added: "Fred's safe from that _trick_, though. I couldn't stand a glimpse of my own face in the mirror, afterward, if I did such a low piece of business." Prescott was still revolving the whole thing in his mind when he reached "The Blade" office. He turned in the news story he bad been sent for. As he did so the news editor looked up to remark: "We have plenty of room to spare in the paper to-night, Prescott." "Yes? Well?" "Can't you give us a few paragraphs of real High School news? Something about the state of athletics there?" "Why, yes, of course," the young sophomore nodded. Returning to the desk where he had been sitting, Dick ran off a few paragraphs on the outlook of the coming High School baseball season. "Did you write that High School baseball stuff in this morning's paper, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, the next day. "Yes." "You said that the indications are that Ripley will be the crack pitcher this season, and that he is plainly going to be far ahead of all the other box candidates." "That's correct, isn't it?" challenged Dick. "It looks so, of course," Tom admitted. "But why did you give Ripley such a boost? He's no friend of yours, or ours."