Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering
lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on
fans as it wanted to be on players.

Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily,
with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped
in both hands, awaiting the signal.

Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself.
The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked
rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not
succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the
boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why
Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had
broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that
reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they
didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers
as Prescott or Darrin.

For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die
down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite
spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that
the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats
stopped cheering to look on in some concern.

"Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low
tone.

Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up