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Updated: May 8, 2025
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 first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," called Luce. "Get yourself warmed up." Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which, for policy's sake, he strove to conceal. "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!"
"Do you know where to hit him?" asked Jim, who, having fully recovered his wind, seemed at the same time to have regained a vast amount of curious knowledge of natural history. "I s'pose in the head is as good as any place." "Don't you think of such a thing! He don't mind being hit in the head more than you do getting hit by a spit-ball. You must aim for his tail!"
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.
"I intend to have order in this school. I shall lick the first boy who throws a spit-ball, or who does anything contrary to the rules of the school," said Mr. Thrasher, flourishing a raw hide, on the first morning. He read a long list of rules, numbered from one up to eighteen. Before he finished his rules, a little boy laughed, and caught a whipping. Before noon half a dozen were hauled up.
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."
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