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, his breath coming jerkily.
Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of the jump-ball about it.
Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain.
"Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last.