The High School Pitcher Part 21

"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 could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field.

Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng.

"Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?"

"Between four and five weeks, sir."

"And Darrin the same length of time?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.

"Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older."

"I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," d.i.c.k answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?"

"Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful."

"I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?"

"Not quite," d.i.c.k replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies."

There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond.

"If anything _should_ happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of _the big games_," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way to _make_ something happen?"

CHAPTER XIII

THE RIOT CALL AND OTHER LITTLE THINGS

"To your seat, Mr. Bristow! You're acting like a rowdy!"

Princ.i.p.al Cantwell uttered the order sharply.

Fully half the student body had gathered in the big a.s.sembly room at the High School. It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room.

The princ.i.p.al's voice was so loud that it carried through the room. Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening. Bristow had been skylarking a bit.

Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the a.s.sembly room than good taste sanctioned.

Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority. The boy wheeled about, glaring at the princ.i.p.al.

"Go to your seat, sir!" thundered the princ.i.p.al, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage.

Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat.

Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying.

"You mutinous young rascal, that won't do!" shot out from the princ.i.p.al's lips. In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender.

"Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!" rasped out the angry princ.i.p.al.

Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push. Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead.

In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes.

The princ.i.p.al was at once terrified. He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him. Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out:

"_Coward_!"

His face livid, the princ.i.p.al turned.

"Who said that?" he demanded, at white heat.

"_I_ did!" admitted Purcell, promptly. Abner Cantwell sprang at this second "offender." But Purcell threw himself quickly into an att.i.tude of defence.

"Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I'll knock you down!"

"Good!"

"That's the talk!"

The excited High School boys came crowding about the princ.i.p.al and Purcell. Bristow was swept back by the surging throng.

He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead.

"Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office," commanded the princ.i.p.al, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him.

"Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?" asked another voice.

"Run Cantwell out! He isn't fit to be here!" yelled another voice.

Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward.

"Calmly, boys, calmly," called Drake. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for afterwards."

But those who were more hot headed were still pressing forward.

It looked as though they were trying to get close enough to lay hands on the now trembling princ.i.p.al.

Under the circ.u.mstances, Mr. Cantwell did the very worst thing he could have done. He pushed three or four boys aside and made a break across the a.s.sembly room. Once out in the corridor, the princ.i.p.al dove into his private office, turning the key after him. Secure, now, and his anger once more boiling up, Mr. Cantwell rang his telephone bell. Calling for the police station, he called for Chief Coy and reported that mutiny and violence had broken loose in the High School.