Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered
some words of instruction to him.

"Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over
an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to."

"He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw
Fred moisten his fingers.

"That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another.

Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling
at Duxbridge for some weeks now.

Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his
finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate.
It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far.
Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his
bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having
traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches.
The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the
coach, gathered in the ball.

Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up
his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift
outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity
as a submaster.

"_Wow_!" yelled the coach. "That was a _bird_! A lulu-cooler
and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs