“One, two, three, four!  One, two, three, four!

“Halt!  Rest!”

“Attention!  Overhead to front and back.  Commence!  One, two, three, four!”

Coach Luce’s voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command.

The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees.

Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap.  It was followed by work with the Indian clubs.  Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery.  For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track.  Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath.

As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath.  Mr. Luce was what the boys called a “griller,” and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape.

This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term.

Three times weekly the squad had been assembled.  On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times.

Every member of the big squad now began to feel “hard as nails.”  Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache.  Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power.  Hard, bumpy muscles were not being cultivated.  The long, smooth, lithe and active “Indian” muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce.

After the jogging came a halt for rest.  Luce now addressed them.

“Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you’re all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor.  Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet.  However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I’m going to produce the ball!”

A joyous “hurrah!” went up from the squad.  The ball was the real thing in their eyes.

Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle.

“I’ll handle the bat,” announced Mr. Luce, smiling.  “It’s just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it.  Until the cage is in place, I don’t like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows.  Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?”

Naturally, all of them were.  Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed.

“I’ll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then,” laughed the coach.  Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued: 

“Darrin, as you’re a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman.”

Dave took his post, his face a bit red.  He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously.

“Don’t get rattled, lad,” counseled the coach.  “Remember, this is just fun.  Bear in mind that you’re aiming to send the ball in to the catcher.  Don’t let the ball drive through a window by mistake.”

A laugh went up at this.  Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself.

“Now, then, let her drive –­not too hard,” ordered Mr. Luce.

Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve.  It didn’t fool the coach.  He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder.

“A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin,” counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher.

Dave’s next delivery was struck down as easily.  Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined.

“Don’t feel put out, Darrin,” counseled the coach.  “I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I’m in better trim and nerve than you are yet.  Don’t be discouraged.”

Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing.

“I’ll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist,” remarked the coach, as he let Dave go.  “You’ll soon have the hang of the thing.  Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please.”

Dick took to an inshoot.  His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave’s had been.  After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce.  At two of these, coach had struck.

“You’re going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;” Mr. Luce announced.  “I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work.”

“I’m afraid I showed up like a lout,” whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums.

“No, you didn’t,” Dick retorted.  “You showed what all of us show –­that you need training to get into good shape.  That’s what the coach is working with us for.”

“I’m betting on you and Dick for the team,” put in Tom Reade, quickly.

“Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave,” added Harry Hazelton.

“I wish I were as sure for myself,” muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively.

“Oh, well, if I can’t make the team,” grinned Dan Dalzell, “I’m going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot.”

“Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!” gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly.

Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly.  These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor.  To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball.

“Now, then,” shot out Luce’s voice, “this is for quick understanding and judgment.  Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name.  So post yourselves on where each other man stands.  I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work.  But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there. And vice versa!”

For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion.  Many were the fumbles.  A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym.

“Myself!” shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball.  The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant.  Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach.

“Not quick enough on judgment,” admonished Mr. Luce.  “Now, we’ll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two.  Ripley, suppose you try?”

Fred started and colored.  Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward.

“May I ask for my own catcher, sir?” Fred asked.

“Yes; certainly,” nodded the coach.

“Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won’t do,” jeered some one at the back of the crowd.

“Attention!  Rip, the ladylike twirler!” sang out another teasing student.

“Let her rip, Rip!”

A good many were laughing.  Fred was not popular.  Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship.  Yet the lawyer’s son was no prime favorite.

“Order!” rapped out the coach, sharply.  “This is training work.  You’ll find the minstrel show, if that’s what you want, at the opera house next Thursday night.”

“How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!” called another gibing voice.

“That was you, Parkinson!” called Mr. Luce, with mock severity.  “Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag.  Run along with you, now!”

Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly.

“Training orders, Parkinson!” insisted the coach.  “Trot right over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for twenty-five times.  Hurry up.  We’ll watch you.”

So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was a positive one, had the good sense to obey.  He “hardened” the funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad.  That was Coach Luce’s way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist.

Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered some words of instruction to him.

“Now, come on, Ripley,” ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over an imaginary plate.  “Let her come in about as you want to.”

“He’s going to try a spit ball,” muttered several, as they saw Fred moisten his fingers.

“That’s a hard one for a greenhorn to put over,” added another.

Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling at Duxbridge for some weeks now.

Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his finger tips.  Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate.  It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far.  Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his bat ever so little.  Then he struck.  But the spit ball, having traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches.  The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the coach, gathered in the ball.

Luce was anything but mortified.  A gleam of exultation lit up his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head.  In a swift outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity as a submaster.

“Wow!” yelled the coach.  “That was a bird!  A lulu-cooler and a scalp-taker!  Ripley, I reckon you’re the new cop that runs the beat!”

It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the full importance of what they had seen.  Then a wild cheer broke loose: 

“Ripley?  Oh, Ripley’ll pitch for the nine!” surged up on all sides.