Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field in triumph. But Mr. Luce waved them all back. Dick's father and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong with their boy. "Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce," begged Dick, and the coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet. Then, with the aid of Luce's arm, Dick was able to show his parents that he could walk without too much of a limp. "You did it for us, Dick, old boy!" greeted Captain Purcell, as soon as he could get close. "Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit." "It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!" The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm, the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!" "You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now," laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain, isn't it?" In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result. "Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his father at the evening meal. "Neither can I, sir," Fred answered. "Are you out of sorts?" "Never felt any better, sir." "Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have given you an appetite. "I didn't do anything this afternoon, except sit around in my ball togs," Fred grumbled. "I hope you'll have a few good games to pitch this season," his father went on. "You worked hard enough, and I spent money enough on the effort to prepare you." "You can't beat some people's luck---unless you do it with a club," grumbled Fred, absently. "Eh?" asked his father, looking up sharply from his plate. But the boy did not explain. Late that night, however, breaking training rules for the tenth time, Fred was out on the sly to meet Tip Scammon. The pair of them laid plans that aimed to stop Dick Prescott's career as High School pitcher. CHAPTER XIX SOME MEAN TRICKS LEFT OVER Mr. Schimmelpodt had offered that fifty dollars in a moment of undue excitement. For two or three days afterward he wondered if he couldn't find some way out of "spending" the money that would yet let him keep his self-respect. Finding, at last, that he could not, he wrote out the check and mailed it. He pinned the check to a half-sheet of paper on which he wrote, "Rah mit Prescott!"