and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were
in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got
through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?"

"Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his
eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old
trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best
national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint
is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was."

"Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick
went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for
money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin
and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too.
Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy-----"

"Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival.
"Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't
pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off."

"I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over,"
replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good
sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School.
In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse."

"Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away.

His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent
of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater.
Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he