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."