Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley.
Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley.
"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!" 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." A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate.