"Reliable old Darrin!"
"Ripley—-ugh!"
And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before the judges.
"I protest!" he cried.
"Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've had a fair show, Mr. Ripley."
"I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely, for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard.
"No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee. "You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had such a pitching triumvirate."
"Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south with his own team, I was trained by——-"
Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much, after all.
The din from the seats had now died down.