Dave wanted to be abed by half past eight that evening, as Coach Luce had requested; but about a quarter past eight, just as he was about to retire, his mother discovered that she needed coffee for the next morning's breakfast, so she sent him to the grocer's on the errand. Dick, while eating supper, thought of an item that he wanted to print in the next day's "Blade." Accordingly, he hurried to the newspaper office as soon as the meal was over. It was ten minutes past eight when Dick handed in his copy to the night editor. "Time enough," muttered the boy, as he reached the street. "A brisk jog homeward is just the thing before pulling off clothes and dropping in between the sheets." As Dick jogged along he remembered having noticed, on the way to the office, Tip Scammon in a new suit of clothes. "Tip's stock is coming up in the world," thought young Prescott. "But I wonder whether Tip earned that suit or stole it, or whether he has just succeeded in threatening more money out of Ripley. How foolish Fred is to stand for blackmail! I wonder if I ought to speak to him about it, or give his father a hint. I hate to be meddlesome. And, by ginger! Now I think of it, Tip looked rather curiously at me. He---oh!---_murder_!" The last exclamation was wrung from Dick Prescott by a most amazing happening. He was passing a building in the course of erection. It stood flush with the sidewalk, and the contractor had laid down a board walk over the sidewalk, and had covered it with a roofed staging. Just as Dick passed under this, still on a lope, a long pole was thrust quickly out from the blackness inside the building. Between Dick's moving legs went the pole. Bump! Down came Dick, on both hands and one knee. Then he rolled over sideways. Away back in the building the young pitcher heard fast-moving feet. In a flash Dick tried to get up. It took him more time than he had expected. He clutched at one of the upright beams for support. Half a dozen people had seen the fall. Stopping curiously, they soon turned, hurrying toward Prescott. Forgotten, in an instant, was the youngster's pain. His face went white with another throbbing realization. "The game to-morrow! This knee puts me out!" CHAPTER XVI THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT "Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!" Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself. "What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him. "Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?" "Yes. Trip over it?" "I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here." "Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?" "Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination.