"Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly,
as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the
spit-ball after what I've shown!"

The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood
the significance of Dick's moistened fingers.

Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not
quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face
went white.

"Where did Prescott get that thing? He's been _stealing_ from the
little he has seen me do."

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,