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The Young Pitcher
By Zane Grey
1911
CONTENTS
I. The Varsity Captain
II. A Great Arm
III. Prisoner of the Sophs
IV. The Call for Candidates
V. The Cage
VI. Out on the Field
VII. Annihilation
VIII. Examinations
IX. President Halstead on College Spirit
X. New Players
XI. State University Game
XII. Ken Clashes with Graves
XIII. Friendship
XIV. The Herne Game
XV. A Matter of Principle
XVI. The First Place Game
XVII. Ken's Day
XVIII. Breaking Training
I
THE VARSITY CAPTAIN
Ken Ward had not been at the big university many days before he
realized the miserable lot of a freshman.
At first he was sorely puzzled. College was so different from what
he had expected. At the high school of his home town, which, being
the capital of the State, was no village, he had been somebody. Then
his summer in Arizona, with its wild adventures, had given him a
self-appreciation which made his present situation humiliating.
There were more than four thousand students at the university. Ken
felt himself the youngest, the smallest, the one of least consequence.
He was lost in a shuffle of superior youths. In the forestry department
he was a mere boy; and he soon realized that a freshman there was the
same as anywhere. The fact that he weighed nearly one hundred and sixty
pounds, and was no stripling, despite his youth, made not one whit of
difference.
Unfortunately, his first overture of what he considered good-fellowship
had been made to an upper-classman, and had been a grievous mistake.
Ken had not yet recovered from its reception. He grew careful after
that, then shy, and finally began to struggle against disappointment
and loneliness.
Outside of his department, on the campus and everywhere he ventured,
he found things still worse. There was something wrong with him, with
his fresh complexion, with his hair, with the way he wore his tie,
with the cut of his clothes. In fact, there was nothing right about
him. He had been so beset that he could not think of anything but
himself. One day, while sauntering along a campus path, with his hands
in his pockets, he met two students coming toward him. They went to
right and left, and, jerking his hands from his pockets, roared in
each ear, "How dare you walk with your hands in your pockets!"
Another day, on the library step, he encountered a handsome bareheaded
youth with a fine, clean-cut face and keen eyes, who showed the true
stamp of the great university.
"Here," he said, sharply, "aren't you a freshman?"
"Why--yes," confessed Ken.
"I see you have your trousers turned up at the bottom."
"Yes--so I have." For the life of him Ken could not understand why
that simple fact seemed a crime, but so it was.
"Turn them down!" ordered the student.
Ken looked into the stern face and flashing eyes of his tormentor,
and then meekly did as he had been commanded.
"Boy, I've saved your life. We murder freshmen here for that,"
said the student, and then passed on up the steps.
In the beginning it was such incidents as these that had bewildered Ken.
He passed from surprise to anger, and vowed he would have something to
say to these upper-classmen. But when the opportunity came Ken always
felt so little and mean that he could not retaliate. This made him
furious. He had not been in college two weeks before he could distinguish
the sophomores from the seniors by the look on their faces. He hated the
sneering "Sophs," and felt rising in him the desire to fight. But he
both feared and admired seniors. They seemed so aloof, so far above
him. He was in awe of them, and had a hopeless longing to be like
them. And as for the freshmen, it took no second glance for Ken to
pick them out. They were of two kinds--those who banded together in
crowds and went about yelling, and running away from the Sophs, and
those who sneaked about alone with timid step and furtive glance.
Ken was one of these lonesome freshmen. He was pining for companionship,
but he was afraid to open his lips. Once he had dared to go into Carlton
Hall, the magnificent club-house which had been given to the university
by a famous graduate. The club was for all students--Ken had read that
on the card sent to him, and also in the papers. But manifestly the
upper-classmen had a different point of view. Ken had gotten a glimpse
into the immense reading-room with its open fireplace and huge chairs,
its air of quiet study and repose; he had peeped into the brilliant
billiard-hall and the gymnasium; and he had been so impressed and
delighted with the marble swimming-tank that he had forgotten himself
and walked too near the pool. Several students accidentally bumped him
into it. It appeared the students were so eager to help him out that
they crowded him in again. When Ken finally got out he learned the
remarkable fact that he was the sixteenth freshman who had been
accidentally pushed into the tank that day.
So Ken Ward was in a state of revolt. He was homesick; he was lonely
for a friend; he was constantly on the lookout for some trick; his
confidence in himself had fled; his opinion of himself had suffered
a damaging change; he hardly dared call his soul his own.
But that part of his time spent in study or attending lectures
more than made up for the other. Ken loved his subject and was
eager to learn. He had a free hour in the afternoon, and often he
passed this in the library, sometimes in the different exhibition
halls. He wanted to go into Carlton Club again, but his experience
there made him refrain.
One afternoon at this hour Ken happened to glance into a lecture-room.
It was a large amphitheatre full of noisy students. The benches were
arranged in a circle running up from a small pit. Seeing safety in the
number of students who were passing in, Ken went along. He thought he
might hear an interesting lecture. It did not occur to him that he did
not belong there. The university had many departments and he felt that
any lecture-room was open to him. Still, caution had become a habit
with him, and he stepped down the steep aisle looking for an empty bench.
How steep the aisle was! The benches appeared to be on the side of
a hill. Ken slipped into an empty one. There was something warm and
pleasant in the close contact of so many students, in the ripple of
laughter and the murmur of voices. Ken looked about him with a feeling
that he was glad to be there.
It struck him, suddenly, that the room had grown strangely silent.
Even the shuffling steps of the incoming students had ceased. Ken
gazed upward with a queer sense of foreboding. Perhaps he only
imagined that all the students above were looking down at him.
Hurriedly he glanced below. A sea of faces, in circular rows,
was turned his way.
There was no mistake about it. He was the attraction. At the same
instant when he prayed to sink through the bench out of sight a
burning anger filled his breast. What on earth had he done now?
He knew it was something; he felt it. That quiet moment seemed an
age. Then the waiting silence burst.
"_Fresh on fifth!_" yelled a student in one of the lower benches.
"FRESH ON FIFTH!" bawled another at the top of his lungs.
Ken's muddled brain could make little of the matter. He saw he was in
the fifth row of benches, and that all the way around on either side
of him the row was empty. The four lower rows were packed, and above
him students were scattered all over. He had the fifth row of benches
to himself.
"Fresh on fifth!"
Again the call rang up from below. It was repeated, now from the left of
the pit and then from the right. A student yelled it from the first row
and another from the fourth. It banged back and forth. Not a word came
from the upper part of the room.
Ken sat up straight with a very red face. It was his intention to leave
the bench, but embarrassment that was developing into resentment held
him fast. What a senseless lot these students were! Why could they not
leave him in peace? How foolish of him to go wandering about in strange
lecture-rooms!
A hand pressed Ken's shoulder. He looked back to see a student bending
down toward him.
"_Hang, Freshie!_" this fellow whispered.
"What's it all about?" asked Ken. "What have I done, anyway? I never
was in here before."
"All Sophs down there. They don't allow freshmen to go below the sixth
row. There've been several rushes this term. And the big one's coming.
Hang, Freshie! We're all with you."
"Fresh on fifth!" The tenor of the cry had subtly changed. Good-humored
warning had changed to challenge. It pealed up from many lusty throats,
and became general all along the four packed rows.
"_Hang, Freshie!_" bellowed a freshman from the topmost row. It
was acceptance of the challenge, the battle-cry flung down to the Sophs.
A roar arose from the pit. The freshmen, outnumbering the sophomores,
drowned the roar in a hoarser one. Then both sides settled back in
ominous waiting.
Ken thrilled in all his being. The freshmen were with him! That roar
told him of united strength. All in a moment he had found comrades,
and he clenched his fingers into the bench, vowing he would hang there
until hauled away.
"Fresh on fifth!" shouted a Soph in ringing voice. He stood up in
the pit and stepped to the back of the second bench. "Fresh on fifth!
Watch me throw him out!"
He was a sturdily built young fellow and balanced himself gracefully on
the backs of the benches, stepping up from one to the other. There was
a bold gleam in his eyes and a smile on his face. He showed good-natured
contempt for a freshman and an assurance that was close to authority.
Ken sat glued to his seat in mingled fear and wrath. Was he to be the
butt of those overbearing sophomores? He thought he could do nothing but
hang on with all his might. The ascending student jumped upon the fourth
bench and, reaching up, laid hold of Ken with no gentle hands. His grip
was so hard that Ken had difficulty in stifling a cry of pain. This,
however, served to dispel his panic and make him angry clear through.
The sophomore pulled and tugged with all his strength, yet he could not
dislodge Ken. The freshmen howled gleefully for him to "Hang! hang!"
Then two more sophomores leaped up to help the leader. A blank silence
followed this move, and all the freshmen leaned forward breathlessly.
There was a sharp ripping of cloth. Half of Ken's coat appeared in the
hands of one of his assailants.
Suddenly Ken let go his hold, pushed one fellow violently, then swung
his fists. It might have been unfair, for the sophomores were beneath
him and balancing themselves on the steep benches, but Ken was too
angry to think of that. The fellow he pushed fell into the arms of
the students below, the second slid out of sight, and the third, who
had started the fray, plunged with a crash into the pit.
The freshmen greeted this with a wild yell; the sophomores answered
likewise. Like climbing, tumbling apes the two classes spilled
themselves up and down the benches, and those nearest Ken laid hold
of him, pulling him in opposite directions.
Then began a fierce fight for possession of luckless Ken. Both sides
were linked together by gripping hands. Ken was absolutely powerless.
His clothes were torn to tatters in a twinkling; they were soon torn
completely off, leaving only his shoes and socks. Not only was he in
danger of being seriously injured, but students of both sides were
handled as fiercely. A heavy trampling roar shook the amphitheatre.
As they surged up and down the steep room benches were split. In the
beginning the sophomores had the advantage and the tug-of-war raged
near the pit and all about it. But the superior numbers of the freshmen
began to tell. The web of close-locked bodies slowly mounted up the room,
smashing the benches, swaying downward now and then, yet irresistibly
gaining ground. The yells of the freshmen increased with the assurance
of victory. There was one more prolonged, straining struggle, then Ken
was pulled away from the sophomores. The wide, swinging doors of the
room were knocked flat to let out the stream of wild freshmen. They
howled like fiends; it was first blood for the freshman class; the
first tug won that year.
Ken Ward came to his senses out in the corridor surrounded by an
excited, beaming, and disreputable crowd of freshmen. Badly as he
was hurt, he had to laugh. Some of them looked happy in nothing but
torn underclothes. Others resembled a lot of ragamuffins. Coats were
minus sleeves, vests were split, shirts were collarless. Blood and
bruises were much in evidence.
Some one helped Ken into a long ulster.
"Say, it was great," said this worthy. "Do you know who that fellow
was--the first one who tried to throw you out of number five?"
"I haven't any idea," replied Ken. In fact, he felt that his ideas
were as scarce just then as his clothes.
"That was the president of the Sophs. He's the varsity baseball
captain, too. You slugged him!... Great!"
Ken's spirit, low as it was, sank still lower. What miserable luck
he had! His one great ambition, next to getting his diploma, had
been to make the varsity baseball team.
II
A GREAT ARM
The shock of that battle, more than the bruising he had received,
confined Ken to his room for a week. When he emerged it was to find
he was a marked man; marked by the freshmen with a great and friendly
distinction; by the sophomores for revenge. If it had not been for
the loss of his baseball hopes, he would have welcomed the chance to
become popular with his classmates. But for him it was not pleasant
to be reminded that he had "slugged" the Sophs' most honored member.
It took only two or three meetings with the revengeful sophomores to
teach Ken that discretion was the better part of valor. He learned
that the sophomores of all departments were looking for him with
deadly intent. So far luck had enabled him to escape all but a wordy
bullying. Ken became an expert at dodging. He gave the corridors and
campus a wide berth. He relinquished his desire to live in one of the
dormitories, and rented a room out in the city. He timed his arrival
at the university and his departure. His movements were governed
entirely by painfully acquired knowledge of the whereabouts of his
enemies.
So for weeks Ken Ward lived like a recluse. He was not one with his
college mates. He felt that he was not the only freshman who had
gotten a bad start in college. Sometimes when he sat near a sad-faced
classmate, he knew instinctively that here was a fellow equally in
need of friendship. Still these freshmen were as backward as he was,
and nothing ever came of such feelings.
The days flew by and the weeks made months, and all Ken did was attend
lectures and study. He read everything he could find in the library
that had any bearing on forestry. He mastered his text-books before the
Christmas holidays. About the vacation he had long been undecided; at
length he made up his mind not to go home. It was a hard decision to
reach. But his college life so far had been a disappointment; he was
bitter about it, and he did not want his father to know. Judge Ward
was a graduate of the university. Often and long he had talked to Ken
about university life, the lasting benefit of associations and
friendships. He would probably think that his son had barred himself
out by some reckless or foolish act. Ken was not sure what was to
blame; he knew he had fallen in his own estimation, and that the less
he thought of himself the more he hated the Sophs.
On Christmas day he went to Carlton Hall. It was a chance he did not
want to miss, for very few students would be there. As it turned out
he spent some pleasant hours. But before he left the club his steps
led him into the athletic trophy room, and there he was plunged into
grief. The place was all ablaze with flags and pennants, silver cups
and gold medals, pictures of teams and individuals. There were mounted
sculls and oars, footballs and baseballs. The long and proud record
of the university was there to be read. All her famous athletes were
pictured there, and every one who had fought for his college. Ken
realized that here for the first time he was in the atmosphere of
college spirit for which the university was famed. What would he not
have given for a permanent place in that gallery! But it was too late.
He had humiliated the captain of the baseball team. Ken sought out the
picture of the last season's varsity. What a stocky lot of young chaps,
all consciously proud of the big letter on their shirts! Dale, the
captain and pitcher, was in the centre of the group. Ken knew his
record, and it was a splendid one. Ken took another look at Dale,
another at the famous trainer, Murray, and the professional coach,
Arthurs--men under whom it had been his dream to play--and then he
left the room, broken-hearted.
When the Christmas recess was over he went back to his lectures resigned
to the thought that the athletic side of college life was not for him.
He studied harder than ever, and even planned to take a course of lectures
in another department. Also his adeptness in dodging was called upon more
and more. The Sophs were bound to get him sooner or later. But he did not
grow resigned to that; every dodge and flight increased his resentment.
Presently he knew he would stop and take what they had to give, and
retaliate as best he could. Only, what would they do to him when they
did catch him? He remembered his watch, his money, and clothes, never
recovered after that memorable tug-of-war. He minded the loss of his
watch most; that gift could never be replaced. It seemed to him that
he had been the greater sufferer.
One Saturday in January Ken hurried from his class-room. He was always
in a hurry and particularly on Saturdays, for that being a short day
for most of the departments, there were usually many students passing
to and fro. A runaway team clattering down the avenue distracted him
from his usual caution, and he cut across the campus. Some one stopped
the horses, and a crowd collected. When Ken got there many students
were turning away. Ken came face to face with a tall, bronze-haired,
freckle-faced sophomore, whom he had dodged more than once. There was
now no use to dodge; he had to run or stand his ground.
"Boys, here's that slugging Freshie!" yelled the Soph. "We've got
him now."
He might have been an Indian chief so wild was the whoop that
answered him.
"Lead us to him!"
"Oh, what we won't do to that Freshie!"
"Come on, boys!"
Ken heard these yells, saw a number of boys dash at him, then he broke
and ran as if for his life. The Sophs, a dozen strong, yelling loudly,
strung out after him. Ken headed across the campus. He was fleet of
foot, and gained on his pursuers. But the yells brought more Sophs on
the scene, and they turned Ken to the right. He spurted for Carlton Hall,
and almost ran into the arms of still more sophomores. Turning tail,
he fled toward the library. When he looked back it was to see the
bronze-haired leader within a hundred yards, and back of him a long
line of shouting students.
If there was a place to hide round that library Ken could not find it.
In this circuit he lost ground. Moreover, he discovered he had not used
good judgment in choosing that direction. All along the campus was a
high iron fence. Ken thought desperately hard for an instant, then with
renewed speed he bounded straight for College Hall.
This was the stronghold of the sophomores. As Ken sped up the gravel
walk his pursuers split their throats.
"Run, you Freshie!" yelled one.
"The more you run--" yelled another.
"The more we'll skin you!" finished a third.
Ken ran into the passageway leading through College Hall.
It was full of Sophs hurrying toward the door to see where the yells
came from. When Ken plunged into their midst some one recognized him
and burst out with the intelligence. At the same moment Ken's pursuers
banged through the swinging doors.
A yell arose then in the constricted passageway that seemed to Ken to
raise College Hall from its foundation. It terrified him. Like an eel
he slipped through reaching arms and darted forward. Ken was heavy and
fast on his feet, and with fear lending him wings he made a run through
College Hall that would have been a delight to the football coach. For
Ken was not dodging any sophomores now. He had played his humiliating
part of dodger long enough. He knocked them right and left, and many a
surprised Soph he tumbled over. Reaching the farther door, he went
through out into the open.
The path before him was clear now, and he made straight for the avenue.
It was several hundred yards distant, and he got a good start toward it
before the Sophs rolled like a roaring stream from the passage. Ken saw
other students running, and also men and boys out on the avenue; but
as they could not head him off he kept to his course. On that side of
the campus a high, narrow stairway, lined by railings, led up to the
sidewalk. When Ken reached it he found the steps covered with ice. He
slipped and fell three times in the ascent, while his frantic pursuers
gained rapidly.
Ken mounted to the sidewalk, gave vent to a gasp of relief, and,
wheeling sharply, he stumbled over two boys carrying a bushel basket
of potatoes. When he saw the large, round potatoes a daring inspiration
flashed into his mind. Taking the basket from the boys he turned to the
head of the stairway.
The bronze-haired Soph was half-way up the steps. His followers, twelve
or more, were climbing after him. Then a line of others stretched all
the way to College Hall.
With a grim certainty of his mastery of the situation Ken threw a huge
potato at his leading pursuer. Fair and square on the bronze head it
struck with a sharp crack. Like a tenpin the Soph went down. He plumped
into the next two fellows, knocking them off their slippery footing.
The three fell helplessly and piled up their comrades in a dense wedge
half-way down the steps. If the Sophs had been yelling before, it was
strange to note how they were yelling now.
Deliberately Ken fired the heavy missiles. They struck with sodden
thuds against the bodies of the struggling sophomores. A poor thrower
could not very well have missed that mark, and Ken Ward was remarkably
accurate. He had a powerful overhand swing, and the potatoes flew like
bullets. One wild-eyed Soph slipped out of the tangle to leap up the
steps. Ken, throwing rather low, hit him on the shin. He buckled and
dropped down with a blood-curdling yell. Another shook himself loose
and faced upward. A better-aimed shot took him in the shoulder. He gave
an exhibition of a high and lofty somersault. Then two more started up
abreast. The first Ken hit over the eye with a very small potato, which
popped like an explosive bullet and flew into bits. As far as effect
was concerned a Martini could not have caused a more beautiful fall.
Ken landed on the second fellow in the pit of the stomach with a very
large potato. There was a sound as of a suddenly struck bass-drum.
The Soph crumpled up over the railing, slid down, and fell among his
comrades, effectually blocking the stairway.
For the moment Ken had stopped the advance. The sophomores had been
checked by one wild freshman. There was scarcely any doubt about Ken's
wildness. He had lost his hat; his dishevelled hair stood up like a
mane; every time he hurled a potato he yelled. But there was nothing
wild about his aim.
All at once he turned his battery on the students gathering below
the crush, trying to find a way through the kicking, slipping mass
on the narrow stairs. He scattered them as if they had been quail.
Some ran out of range. Others dove for cover and tried to dodge.
This dodging brought gleeful howls from Ken.
"Dodge, you Indian!" yelled Ken, as he threw. And seldom it was that
dodging was of any use. Then, coming to the end of his ammunition,
he surveyed the battle-field beneath him and, turning, ran across
the avenue and down a street. At the corner of the block he looked
back. There was one man coming, but he did not look like a student.
So Ken slackened his pace and bent his steps toward his boarding-house.
"By George! I stole those potatoes!" he exclaimed, presently. "I wonder
how I can make that good."
Several times as he turned to look over his shoulder he saw the man he
had noticed at first. But that did not trouble him, for he was sure no
one else was following him. Ken reached his room exhausted by exertion
and excitement. He flung himself upon his bed to rest and calm his mind
so that he could think. If he had been in a bad light before, what was
his position now? Beyond all reasoning with, however, was the spirit
that gloried in his last stand.
"By George!" he kept saying. "I wouldn't have missed that--not
for anything. They made my life a nightmare. I'll have to leave
college--go somewhere else--but I don't care."
Later, after dinner as he sat reading, he heard a door-bell ring, a
man's voice, then footsteps in the hall. Some one tapped on his door.
Ken felt a strange, cold sensation, which soon passed, and he spoke:
"Come in."
The door opened to admit a short man with little, bright eyes sharp
as knives.
"Hello, Kid," he said. Then he leisurely removed his hat and overcoat
and laid them on the bed.
Ken's fear of he knew not what changed to amazement. At least his
visitor did not belong to the faculty. There was something familiar
about the man, yet Ken could not place him.
"Well up in your studies?" he asked, cordially. Then he seated himself,
put a hand on each knee, and deliberately and curiously studied Ken.
"Why, yes, pretty well up," replied Ken. He did not know how to take
the man. There was a kindliness about him which relieved Ken, yet there
was also a hard scrutiny that was embarrassing.
"All by your lonely here," he said.
"It is lonely," replied Ken, "but--but I don't get on very well with
the students."
"Small wonder. Most of 'em are crazy."
He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him.
Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached
over and grasped Ken's right arm.
"How's the whip?"
"What?" asked Ken.
"The wing--your arm, Kid, your arm."
"Oh--Why, it's all right."
"It's not sore--not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?"
Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. "It's weak to-night, but
not sore."
"These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth.
Say, how old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"What! No more than that?"
"No."
"How much do you weigh?"
"About one hundred and fifty-six."
"I thought you had some beef back of that stunt of yours to-day. Say,
Kid, it was the funniest and the best thing I've seen at the university
in ten years--and I've seen some fresh boys do some stunts, I have.
Well... Kid, you've a grand whip--a great arm--and we're goin' to do
some stunts with it."
Ken felt something keen and significant in the very air.
"A great arm! For what?... who are you?"
"Say, I thought every boy in college knew me. I'm Arthurs."
"The baseball coach! Are you the baseball coach?" exclaimed Ken,
jumping up with his heart in his throat.
"That's me, my boy; and I'm lookin' you up."
Ken suddenly choked with thronging emotions and sat down as limp as
a rag.
"Yes, Kid, I'm after you strong. The way you pegged 'em to-day got me.
You've a great arm!"
III
PRISONER OF THE SOPHS
"But if--it's really true--that I've a great arm," faltered Ken,
"it won't ever do me any good. I could never get on the varsity."
"Why not?" demanded the coach. "I'll make a star of a youngster like
you, if you'll take coachin'. Why not?"
"Oh, you don't know," returned Ken, with a long face.
"Say, you haven't struck me as a kid with no nerve. What's wrong
with you?"
"It was I who slugged Captain Dale and caused that big rush between
the freshmen and sophomores. I've lived like a hermit ever since."
"So it was you who hit Dale. Well--that's bad," replied Arthurs.
He got up with sober face and began to walk the floor. "I remember
the eye he had. It was a sight.... But Dale's a good fellow. He'll--"
"I'd do anything on earth to make up for that," burst out Ken.
"Good! I'll tell you what we'll do," said Arthurs, his face brightening.
"We'll go right down to Dale's room now. I'll fix it up with him somehow.
The sooner the better. I'm goin' to call the baseball candidates to the
cage soon."
They put on coats and hats and went out. Evidently the coach was thinking
hard, for he had nothing to say, but he kept a reassuring hand on Ken's
arm. They crossed the campus along the very path where Ken had fled from
the sophomores. The great circle of dormitories loomed up beyond with
lights shining in many windows. Arthurs led Ken through a court-yard and
into a wide, bright hallway. Their steps sounded with hollow click upon
the tiled floor. They climbed three flights of stairs, and then Arthurs
knocked at a door. Ken's heart palpitated. It was all so sudden; he did
not know what he was going to say or do. He did not care what happened
to him if Arthurs could only, somehow, put him right with the captain.
A merry voice bade them enter. The coach opened the door and led Ken
across the threshold. Ken felt the glow of a warm, bright room, colorful
with pennants and posters, and cozy in its disorder. Then he saw Dale
and, behind him, several other students. There was a moment's silence in
which Ken heard his heart beat.
Dale rose slowly from his seat, the look on his frank face changing
from welcome to intense amazement and then wild elation.
"Whoop!" he shouted. "Lock the door! Worry Arthurs, this's your best
bet ever!"
Dale dashed at the coach, hugged him frantically, then put his
head out of the door to bawl: "Sophs! Sophs! Sophs! Hurry call!
Number nine!... Oh, my!"
Then he faced about, holding the door partially open. He positively
beamed upon the coach.
"Say, Cap, what's eatin' you?" asked Arthurs. He looked dumfounded.
Ken hung to him desperately; he thought he knew what was coming. There
were hurried footsteps in the corridor and excited voices.
"Worry, it's bully of you to bring this freshman here," declared the
captain.
"Well, what of it?" demanded the coach. "I looked him up to-night.
He's got a great arm, and will be good material for the team. He told
me about the little scrap you had in the lecture-room. He lost his
temper, and no wonder. Anyway, he's sorry, Cap, and I fetched him
around to see if you couldn't make it up. How about it, Kid?"
"I'm sorry--awfully sorry, Captain Dale," blurted out Ken. "I was mad
and scared, too--then you fellows hurt me. So I hit right out.... But
I'll take my medicine."
"So--oh!" ejaculated Dale. "Well, this beats the deuce! _That's_ why
you're here?"
The door opened wide to admit half a dozen eager-faced youths.
"Fellows, here's a surprise," said Dale. "Young Ward, the freshman!
the elusive slugging freshman, fast on his feet, and, as Worry here
says, a lad with a great arm!"
"WARD!" roared the Sophs in unison.
"Hold on, fellows--wait--no rough-house yet--wait," ordered Dale.
"Ward's here of his own free will!"
Silence ensued after the captain spoke. While he turned to lock the
door the Sophs stared open-mouthed at Ken. Arthurs had a worried look,
and he kept his hand on Ken. Dale went to a table and began filling his
pipe. Then he fixed sharp, thoughtful eyes upon his visitors.
"Worry, you say you brought this freshman here to talk baseball?" he asked.
"Sure I did," blustered Arthurs. It was plain now where he got the name
that Dale called him. "What's in the wind, anyhow?"
Dale then gravely spoke to Ken. "So you came here to see me? Sorry
you slugged me once? Want to make up for it somehow, because you think
you've a chance for the team, and don't want me to be sore on you?
That it?"
"Not exactly," replied Ken. "I'd want to let you get square with me even
if you weren't the varsity captain."
"Well, you've more than squared yourself with me--by coming here. You'll
realize that presently. But don't you know what's happened, what the
freshmen have done?"
"No; I don't."
"You haven't been near the university since this afternoon when you
pulled off the potato stunt?"
"I should say I haven't."
This brought a laugh from the Sophs.
"You were pretty wise," went on Dale. "The Sophs didn't love you then.
But they're going to--understand?"
Ken shook his head, too bewildered and mystified to reply.
"Well, now, here's Giraffe Boswick. Look what you did to him!"
Ken's glance followed the wave of Dale's hand and took in the tall,
bronze-haired sophomore who had led the chase that afternoon. Boswick
wore a huge discolored bruise over his left eye. It was hideous. Ken
was further sickened to recollect that Boswick was one of the varsity
pitchers. But the fellow was smiling amiably at Ken, as amiably as
one eye would permit. The plot thickened about Ken. He felt his legs
trembling under him.
"Boswick, you forgive Ward, don't you--now?" continued Dale, with
a smile.
"With all my heart!" exclaimed the pitcher. "To see him here would make
me forgive anything."
Coach Arthurs was ill at ease. He evidently knew students, and he did
not relish the mystery, the hidden meaning.
"Say, you wise guys make me sick," he called out, gruffly. "Here's a
kid that comes right among you. He's on the level, and more'n that,
he's game! Now, Cap, I fetched him here, and I won't stand for a whole
lot. Get up on your toes! Get it over!"
"Sit down Worry, here's a cigar--light up," said Dale, soothingly.
"It's all coming right, lovely, I say. Ward was game to hunt me up,
a thousand times gamer than he knows.... See here, Ward, where are
you from?"
"I live a good long day's travel from the university," answered Ken,
evasively.
"I thought so. Did you ever hear of the bowl-fight, the great event
of the year here at Wayne University?"
"Yes, I've heard--read a little about it. But I don't know what it is."
"I'll tell you," went on Dale. "There are a number of yearly rushes and
scrapes between the freshmen and sophomores, but the bowl-fight is the
one big meeting, the time-honored event. It has been celebrated here for
many years. It takes place on a fixed date. Briefly, here's what comes
off: The freshmen have the bowl in their keeping this year because they
won it in the last fight. They are to select one of their number, always
a scrappy fellow, and one honored by the class, and they call him the
bowl-man. A week before the fight, on a certain date, the freshmen hide
this bowl-man or protect him from the sophomores until the day of the
fight, when they all march to Grant field in fighting-togs. Should the
sophomores chance to find him and hold him prisoner until after the date
of the bowl-fight they win the bowl. The same applies also in case the
bowl is in possession of the sophomores. But for ten years neither class
has captured the other's bowl-man. So they have fought it out on the
field until the bowl was won."
"Well, what has all that got to do with me?" asked Ken. He felt curiously
light-headed.
"It has a _little_ to do with you--hasn't it, fellows?" said Dale, in
slow, tantalizing voice.
Worry Arthurs lost his worried look and began to smile and rub his hands.
"Ward, look here," added Dale, now speaking sharply. "You've been picked
for the bowl-man!"
"Me--me?" stammered Ken.
"No other. The freshmen were late in choosing a man this year. To-day,
after your stunt--holding up that bunch of sophomores--they had a meeting
in Carlton Club and picked you. Most of them didn't even know your name.
I'll bet the whole freshman class is hunting for you right now."
"What for?" queried Ken, weakly.
"Why, I told you. The bowl-fight is only a week off--and here you are.
_And here you'll stay until that date's past!_"
Ken drew a quick breath. He began to comprehend. The sudden huzzahs of
Dale's companions gave him further enlightenment.
"But, Captain Dale," he said, breathlessly, "if it's so--if my class
has picked me--I can't throw them down. I don't know a soul in my
class. I haven't a friend. But I won't throw them down--not to be
forever free of dodging Sophs--not even to square myself with you."
"Ward, you're all right!" shouted Dale, his eyes shining.
In the quiet moment that followed, with all the sophomores watching him
intently, Ken Ward instinctively felt that his measure had been taken.
"I won't stay here," said Ken, and for the first time his voice rang.
"Oh yes, you will," replied Dale, laughing.
Quick as a cat Ken leaped for the door and got it unlocked and half open
before some one clutched him. Then Dale was on him close and hard. Ken
began to struggle. He was all muscle, and twice he broke from them.
"His legs! Grab his legs! He's a young bull!"
"We'll trim you now, Freshie!"
"You potato-masher!"
"Go for his wind!"
Fighting and wrestling with all his might Ken went down under a half
dozen sophomores. Then Dale was astride his chest, and others were
sitting on his hands and feet.
"Boys, don't hurt that arm!" yelled Worry Arthurs.
"Ward, will you be good now and stop scrapping or shall we tie you?"
asked Dale. "You can't get away. The thing to do is to give your word
not to try. We want to make this easy for you. Your word of honor, now?"
"Never!" cried Ken.
"I knew you wouldn't," said Dale. "We'll have to keep you under guard."
They let him get up. He was panting, and his nose was bleeding, and one
of his knuckles was skinned. That short struggle had been no joke. The
Sophs certainly meant to keep him prisoner. Still, he was made to feel
at ease. They could not do enough for him.
"It's tough luck, Ward, that you should have fallen into our hands this
way," said Dale. "But you couldn't help it. You will be kept in my rooms
until after the fifteenth. Meals will be brought you, and your books;
everything will be done for your comfort. Your whereabouts, of course,
will be a secret, and you will be closely watched. Worry, remember you
are bound to silence. And Ward, perhaps it wasn't an ill wind that blew
you here. You've had your last scrap with a Soph, that's sure. As for
what brought you here--it's more than square; and I'll say this: if you
can play ball as well as you can scrap, old Wayne has got a star."
IV
THE CALL FOR CANDIDATES
There were five rooms in Dale's suite in the dormitory, and three
other sophomores shared them with him. They confined Ken in the end
room, where he was safely locked and guarded from any possible chance
to escape.
For the first day or two it was irksome for Ken; but as he and his
captors grew better acquainted the strain eased up, and Ken began to
enjoy himself as he had not since coming to the university.
He could not have been better provided for. His books were at hand,
and even notes of the lectures he was missing were brought to him. The
college papers and magazines interested him, and finally he was much
amused by an account of his mysterious disappearance. All in a day he
found himself famous. Then Dale and his room-mates were so friendly and
jolly that if his captivity had not meant the disgrace of the freshman
class, Ken would have rejoiced in it. He began to thaw out, though he
did not lose his backwardness. The life of the great university began
to be real to him. Almost the whole sophomore class, in squads of twos
and threes and sixes, visited Dale's rooms during that week. No Soph
wanted to miss a sight of a captive bowl-man. Ken felt so callow and
fresh in their presence that he scarcely responded to their jokes.
Worry Arthur's nickname of "Kid" vied with another the coach conferred
on Ken, and that was "Peg." It was significant slang expressing the
little baseball man's baseball notion of Ken's throwing power.
The evening was the most interesting time for Ken. There was always
something lively going on. He wondered when the boys studied. When
some of the outside students dropped in there were banjo and guitar
playing, college songs, and college gossip.
"Come on, Peg, be a good fellow," they said, and laughed at his refusal
to smoke or drink beer.
"Molly!" mocked one.
"Willy-boy!" added another.
Ken was callow, young, and backward; but he had a temper, and this
kind of banter roused it easily. The red flamed into his cheeks.
"I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke or drink or gamble while I
was in college," he retorted, struggling with shame and anger.
"And I--I won't."
Dale stopped the good-natured chaff. "Fellows, stop guying Ward;
cut it out, I tell you. He's only a kid freshman, but he's liable
to hand you a punch, and if he does you'll remember it. Besides,
he's right.... Look here, Ward, you stick to that promise. It's a
good promise to stick to, and if you're going in for athletics it's
the best ever."
Worry Arthurs happened to be present on this evening, and he seconded
Dale in more forceful speech. "There's too much boozin' and smokin'
of them coffin nails goin' on in this college. It's none of my affair
except with the boys I'm coachin', and if I ketch any one breakin' my
rules after we go to the trainin'-table he'll sit on the bench. There's
Murray; why, he says there are fellows in college who could break records
if they'd train. Half of sprintin' or baseball or football is condition."
"Oh, Worry, you and Mac always make a long face over things. Wayne has
won a few championships, hasn't she?"
"The varsity ball team will be a frost this year, that's sure,"
replied Arthurs, gloomily.
"How do you make that out?" demanded Dale, plainly nettled. "You've
hinted it before to me. Why won't we be stronger than last season?
Didn't we have a crackerjack team, the fastest that ever represented
old Wayne? Didn't we smother the small college teams and beat Place
twice, shut out Herne the first game, and play for a tie the second?"
"You'll see, all right, all right," replied Arthurs, gloomier than ever;
and he took his hat and went out.
Dale slammed his cards down on the table.
"Fellows, is it any wonder we call him Worry? Already he's begun to
fuss over the team. Ever since he's been here he has driven the baseball
captains and managers crazy. It's only his way, but it's so irritating.
He's a magnificent coach, and Wayne owes her great baseball teams to him.
But he's hard on captains. I see my troubles. The idea of this year's
team being a frost--with all the old stars back in college--with only
two positions to fill! And there are half a dozen cracks in college to
fight for these two positions--fellows I played against on the summer
nines last year. Worry's idea is ridiculous."
This bit of baseball talk showed Ken the obstacles in the way of a
freshman making the varsity team. What a small chance there would be
for him! Still he got a good deal of comfort out of Arthurs' interest
in him, and felt that he would be happy to play substitute this season,
and make the varsity in his sophomore year.
The day of the bowl-fight passed, and Ken's captivity became history. The
biggest honor of the sophomore year went to Dale and his room-mates. Ken
returned to his department, where he was made much of, as he had brought
fame to a new and small branch of the great university. It was a pleasure
to walk the campus without fear of being pounced upon. Ken's dodging and
loneliness--perhaps necessary and curbing nightmares in the life of a
freshman--were things of the past. He made acquaintances, slowly lost
his backwardness, and presently found college life opening to him bright
and beautiful. Ken felt strongly about things. And as his self-enforced
exile had been lonely and bitter, so now his feeling that he was really
a part of the great university seemed almost too good to be true. He
began to get a glimmering of the meaning of his father's love for the
old college. Students and professors underwent some vague change in his
mind. He could not tell what, he did not think much about it, but there
was a warmer touch, a sense of something nearer to him.
Then suddenly a blow fell upon the whole undergraduate body. It was a
thunderbolt. It affected every student, but Ken imagined it concerned
his own college fortunes more intimately. The athletic faculty barred
every member of the varsity baseball team! The year before the faculty
had advised and requested the players not to become members of the
summer baseball nines. Their wishes had not been heeded. Captain Dale
and his fast players had been much in demand by the famous summer nines.
Some of them went to the Orange Athletic Club, others to Richfield Springs,
others to Cape May, and Dale himself had captained the Atlantic City team.
The action of the faculty was commended by the college magazine.
Even the students, though chafing under it, could not but acknowledge
its justice. The other universities had adopted such a rule, and Wayne
must fall in line. The objections to summer ball-playing were not few,
and the particular one was that it affected the amateur standing of
the college player. He became open to charges of professionalism. At
least, all his expenses were paid, and it was charged that usually he
was paid for his services.
Ken's first feeling when he learned this news was one of blank dismay.
The great varsity team wiped off the slate! How Place and Herne would
humble old Wayne this year! Then the long, hard schedule, embracing
thirty games, at least one with every good team in the East--how would
an untried green team fare against that formidable array? Then Ken
suddenly felt ashamed of a selfish glee, for he was now sure of a place
on the varsity.
For several days nothing else was talked about by the students. Whenever
Dale or his players appeared at Carlton Hall they were at once surrounded
by a sympathetic crowd. If it was a bitter blow to the undergraduates,
what was it to the members of the varsity? Their feeling showed in pale,
stern faces. It was reported about the campus that Murray and Arthurs
and Dale, with the whole team, went to the directors of the athletic
faculty and besought them to change or modify the decision. Both the
trainer and the coach, who had brought such glory to the university,
threatened to resign their places. The disgrace of a pitiably weak
team of freshmen being annihilated by minor colleges was eloquently
put before the directors. But the decision was final.
One evening early in February Worry Arthurs called upon Ken. His face
was long, and his mustache drooped.
"Kid, what do you think of 'em fat-heads on the faculty queerin' my
team?" he asked. "Best team I ever developed. Say, but the way they
could work the hit-and-run game! Any man on the team could hit to
right field when there was a runner goin' down from first."
"Maybe things will turn out all right," suggested Ken, hopefully.
Worry regarded his youthful sympathizer with scorn.
"It takes two years to teach most college kids the rudiments of baseball.
Look at this year's schedule." Worry produced a card and waved it at Ken.
"The hardest schedule Wayne ever had! And I've got to play a kid team."
Ken was afraid to utter any more of his hopes, and indeed he felt them
to be visionary.
"The call for candidates goes out to-morrow," went on the coach. "I'll
bet there'll be a mob at the cage. Every fool kid in the university will
think he's sure of a place. Now, Ward, what have you played?"
"Everywhere; but infield mostly."
"Every kid has played the whole game. What position have you played most?"
"Third base."
"Good! You've the arm for that. Well, I'm anxious to see you work,
but don't exert yourself in the cage. This is a tip. See! I'll be
busy weedin' out the bunch, and won't have time until we get out on
the field. You can run around the track every day, get your wind and
your legs right, hold in on your arm. The cage is cold. I've seen many
a good wing go to the bad there. But your chance looks good. College
baseball is different from any other kind. You might say it's played
with the heart. I've seen youngsters go in through grit and spirit,
love of playin' for their college, and beat out fellows who were their
superiors physically. Well, good-night.... Say, there's one more thing.
I forgot it. Are you up in your subjects?"
"I surely am," replied Ken. "I've had four months of nothing but study."
"The reason I ask is this: That faculty has made another rule, the
one-year residence rule, they call it. You have to pass your exams,
get your first year over, before you can represent any athletic club.
So, in case I can use you on the team, you would have to go up for your
exams two months or more ahead of time. That scare you?"
"Not a bit. I could pass mine right now," answered Ken, confidently.
"Kid, you and me are goin' to get along.... Well, good-night, and don't
forget what I said."