now I'm going to force my luck." Ken had lately revolved in his mind
a persistent idea that he meant to propound to the coach.
Ken arrived on the field a little later than usual, to find Arthurs for
once minus his worried look. He was actually smiling, and Ken soon saw
the reason for this remarkable change was the presence of a new player
out in centre field.
"Hello, Peg! things are lookin' up," said the coach, beaming. "That's
Homans out there in centre--Roy Homans, a senior and a crackerjack
ball-player. I tried to get him to come out for the team last year, but
he wouldn't spare the time. But he's goin' to play this season--said the
president's little talk got him. He's a fast, heady, scientific player,
just the one to steady you kids."
Before Ken could reply his attention was attracted from Homans to
another new player in uniform now walking up to Arthurs. He was tall,
graceful, powerful, had red hair, keen dark eyes, a clean-cut profile
and square jaw.
"I've come out to try for the team," he said, quietly, to the coach.
"You're a little late, ain't you?" asked Worry, gruffly; but he ran
a shrewd glance over the lithe form.
"Yes."
"Must have been stirred up by that talk of President Halstead's,
wasn't you?"
"Yes." There was something quiet and easy about the stranger,
and Ken liked him at once.
"Where do you play?" went on Worry.
"Left."
"Can you hit? Talk sense now, and mebbe you'll save me work. Can you hit?"
"Yes."
"Can you throw?"
"Yes." He spoke with quiet assurance.
"Can you run?" almost shouted Worry. He was nervous and irritable
those days, and it annoyed him for unknown youths to speak calmly
of such things.
"Run? Yes, a little. I did the hundred last year in nine and four-fifths."
"What! You can't kid me! Who are you?" cried Worry, getting red in the
face. "I've seen you somewhere."
"My name's Ray."
"Say! Not _Ray_, the intercollegiate champion?"
"I'm the fellow. I talked it over with Murray. He kicked, but I didn't
mind that. I promised to try to keep in shape to win the sprints at the
intercollegiate meet."
"Say! Get out there in left field! Quick!" shouted Worry.... "Peg, hit
him some flies. Lam 'em a mile! That fellow's a sprinter, Peg. What luck
it would be if he can play ball! Hit 'em at him!"
Ken took the ball Worry tossed him, and, picking up a bat, began to
knock flies out to Ray. The first few he made easy for the outfielder,
and then he hit balls harder and off to the right or left. Without
appearing to exert himself Ray got under them. Ken watched him, and
also kept the tail of his eye on Worry. The coach appeared to be
getting excited, and he ordered Ken to hit the balls high and far
away. Ken complied, but he could not hit a ball over Ray's head. He
tried with all his strength. He had never seen a champion sprinter,
and now he marvelled at the wonderful stride.
"Oh! but his running is beautiful!" exclaimed Ken.
"That's enough! Come in here!" yelled Worry to Ray.... "Peg, he makes
Dreer look slow. I never saw as fast fieldin' as that."
When Ray came trotting in without seeming to be even warmed up, Worry
blurted out: "You ain't winded--after all that? Must be in shape?"
"I'm always in shape," replied Ray.
"Pick up a bat!" shouted Worry. "Here, Duncan, pitch this fellow a few.
Speed 'em, curve 'em, strike him out, hit him--anything!"
Ray was left-handed, and he stood up to the plate perfectly erect,
with his bat resting quietly on his shoulder. He stepped straight,
swung with an even, powerful swing, and he hit the first ball clear
over the right-field bleachers. It greatly distanced Dreer's hit.
"What a drive!" gasped Ken.
"Oh!" choked Worry. "That's enough! You needn't lose my balls. Bunt one,
now."
Ray took the same position, and as the ball came up he appeared to drop
the bat upon it and dart away at the same instant.
Worry seemed to be trying to control violent emotion. "Next batter up!"
he called, hoarsely, and sat down on the bench. He was breathing hard,
and beads of sweat stood out on his brow.
Ken went up to Worry, feeling that now was the time to acquaint the
coach with his new idea. Eager as Ken was he had to force himself to
take this step. All the hope and dread, nervousness and determination
of the weeks of practice seemed to accumulate in that moment. He
stammered and stuttered, grew speechless, and then as Worry looked
up in kind surprise, Ken suddenly grew cool and earnest.
"Mr. Arthurs, will you try me in the box?"
"What's that, Peg?" queried the coach, sharply.
"Will you give me a trial in the box? I've wanted one all along. You put
me in once when we were in the cage, but you made me hit the batters."
"Pitch? you, Peg? Why not? Why didn't I think of it? I'm sure gettin'
to be like 'em fat-head directors. You've got steam, Peg, but can you
curve a ball? Let's see your fingers."
"Yes, I can curve a ball round a corner. Please give me a trial,
Mr. Arthurs. I failed in the infield, and I'm little good in the
outfield. But I know I can pitch."
The coach gave Ken one searching glance. Then he called all the
candidates in to the plate, and ordered Dean, the stocky little
catcher, to don his breast-protector, mask, and mitt.
"Peg," said the coach, "Dean will sign you--one finger for a straight
ball, two for a curve."
When Ken walked to the box all his muscles seemed quivering and tense,
and he had a contraction in his throat. This was his opportunity. He was
not unnerved as he had been when he was trying for the other positions.
All Ken's life he had been accustomed to throwing. At his home he had
been the only boy who could throw a stone across the river; the only one
who could get a ball over the high-school tower. A favorite pastime had
always been the throwing of small apples, or walnuts, or stones, and he
had acquired an accuracy that made it futile for his boy comrades to
compete with him. Curving a ball had come natural to him, and he would
have pitched all his high-school games had it not been for the fact that
no one could catch him, and, moreover, none of the boys had found any
fun in batting against him.
When Ken faced the first batter a feeling came over him that he had
never before had on the ball field. He was hot, trembling, hurried,
but this new feeling was apart from these. His feet were on solid
ground, and his arm felt as it had always in those throwing contests
where he had so easily won. He seemed to decide from McCord's position
at the plate what to throw him.
Ken took his swing. It was slow, easy, natural. But the ball travelled
with much greater speed than the batter expected from such motion. McCord
let the first two balls go by, and Arthurs called them both strikes. Then
Ken pitched an out-curve which McCord fanned at helplessly. Arthurs sent
Trace up next. Ken saw that the coach was sending up the weaker hitters
first. Trace could not even make a foul. Raymond was third up, and Ken
had to smile at the scowling second-baseman. Remembering his weakness
for pulling away from the plate, Ken threw Raymond two fast curves on
the outside, and then a slow wide curve, far out. Raymond could not have
hit the first two with a paddle, and the third lured him irresistibly
out of position and made him look ridiculous. He slammed his bat down
and slouched to the bench. Duncan turned out to be the next easy victim.
Four batters had not so much as fouled Ken. And Ken knew he was holding
himself in--that, in fact, he had not let out half his speed. Blake, the
next player, hit up a little fly that Ken caught, and Schoonover made
the fifth man to strike out.
Then Weir stood over the plate, and he was a short, sturdy batter, hard
to pitch to. He looked as if he might be able to hit any kind of a ball.
Ken tried him first with a straight fast one over the middle of the plate.
Weir hit it hard, but it went foul. And through Ken's mind flashed the
thought that he would pitch no more speed to Weir or players who swung
as he did. Accordingly Ken tried the slow curve that had baffled Raymond.
Weir popped it up and retired in disgust.
The following batter was Graves, who strode up smiling, confident,
sarcastic, as if he knew he could do more than the others. Ken imagined
what the third-baseman would have said if the coach had not been present.
Graves always ruffled Ken the wrong way.
"I'll strike him out if I break my arm!" muttered Ken to himself. He
faced Graves deliberately and eyed his position at bat. Graves as
deliberately laughed at him.
"Pitch up, pitch up!" he called out.
"Right over the pan!" retorted Ken, as quick as an echo. He went hot as
fire all over. This fellow Graves had some strange power of infuriating
him.
Ken took a different swing, which got more of his weight in motion, and
let his arm out. Like a white bullet the ball shot plateward, rising a
little so that Graves hit vainly under it. The ball surprised Dean,
knocked his hands apart as if they had been paper, and resounded from
his breast-protector. Ken pitched the second ball in the same place with
a like result, except that Dean held on to it. Graves had lost his smile
and wore an expression of sickly surprise. The third ball travelled by
him and cracked in Dean's mitt, and Arthurs called it a strike.
"Easy there--that'll do!" yelled the coach. "Come in here, Peg. Out on
the field now, boys."
Homans stopped Ken as they were passing each other, and Ken felt himself
under the scrutiny of clear gray eyes.
"Youngster, you look good to me," said Homans.
Ken also felt himself regarded with astonishment by many of the candidates;
and Ray ran a keen, intuitive glance over him from head to foot. But it was
the coach's manner that struck Ken most forcibly. Worry was utterly unlike
himself.
"Why didn't you tell me about this before--you--you--" he yelled, red as
a beet in the face. He grasped Ken with both hands, then he let him go,
and picking up a ball and a mitt he grasped him again. Without a word he
led Ken across the field and to a secluded corner behind the bleachers.
Ken felt for all the world as if he was being led to execution.
Worry took off his coat and vest and collar. He arranged a block of wood
for a plate and stepped off so many paces and placed another piece of
wood to mark the pitcher's box. Then he donned the mitt.
"Peg, somethin's comin' off. I know it. I never make mistakes in sizin'
up pitchers. But I've had such hard luck this season that I can't believe
my own eyes. We've got to prove it. Now you go out there and pitch to me.
Just natural like at first."
Ken pitched a dozen balls or more, some in-curves, some out-curves. Then
he threw what he called his drop, which he executed by a straight overhand
swing.
"Oh--a beauty!" yelled Worry. "Where, Peg, where did you learn that?
Another, lower now."
Worry fell over trying to stop the glancing drop.
"Try straight ones now, Peg, right over the middle. See how many you
can pitch."
One after another, with free, easy motion, Ken shot balls squarely over
the plate. Worry counted them, and suddenly, after the fourteenth pitch,
he stood up and glared at Ken.
"Are you goin' to keep puttin' 'em over this pan all day that way?"
"Mr. Arthurs, I couldn't miss that plate if I pitched a week,"
replied Ken.
"Stop callin' me Mister!" yelled Worry. "Now, put 'em where I hold my
hands--inside corner... outside corner... again... inside now, low...
another... a fast one over, now... high, inside. Oh, Peg, this ain't
right. I ain't seein' straight. I think I'm dreamin'. Come on with 'em!"
Fast and true Ken sped the balls into Worry's mitt. Seldom did the
coach have to move his hands at all.
"Peg Ward, did you know that pitchin' was all control, puttin' the ball
where you wanted to?" asked Worry, stopping once more.
"No, I didn't," replied Ken.
"How did you learn to peg a ball as straight as this?"
Ken told him how he had thrown at marks all his life.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" Worry seemed not to be able to get
over Ken's backwardness. "Look at the sleepless nights and the gray
hairs you could have saved me." He stamped around as if furious, yet
underneath the surface Ken saw that the coach was trying to hide his
elation. "Here now," he shouted, suddenly, "a few more, and _peg_ 'em!
See? Cut loose and let me see what steam you've got!"
Ken whirled with all his might and delivered the ball with all his
weight in the swing. The ball seemed to diminish in size, it went so
swiftly. Near the plate it took an upward jump, and it knocked Worry's
mitt off his hand.
Worry yelled out, then he looked carefully at Ken, but he made no effort
to go after the ball or pick up the mitt.
"Did I say for you to knock my block off?... Come here, Peg. You're only
a youngster. Do you think you can keep that? Are you goin' to let me teach
you to pitch? Have you got any nerve? Are you up in the air at the thought
of Place and Herne?"
Then he actually hugged Ken, and kept hold of him as if he might get away.
He was panting and sweating. All at once he sat down on one of the braces
of the bleachers and began mopping his face. He seemed to cool down, to
undergo a subtle change.
"Peg," he said, quietly, "I'm as bad as some of 'em fat-head directors....
You see I didn't have no kind of a pitcher to work on this spring. I kept
on hopin'. Strange why I didn't quit. And now--my boy, you're a kid, but
you're a natural born pitcher."
XI
STATE UNIVERSITY GAME
Arthurs returned to the diamond and called the squad around him. He might
have been another coach from the change that was manifest in him.
"Boys, I've picked the varsity, and sorry I am to say you all can't be on
it. Ward, Dean, McCord, Raymond, Weir, Graves, Ray, Homans, Trace, Duncan,
and Schoonover--these men will report at once to Trainer Murray and obey
his orders. Then pack your trunks and report to me at 36 Spring Street
to-night. That's all--up on your toes now.... The rest of you boys will
each get his uniform and sweater, but, of course, I can't give you the
varsity letter. You've all tried hard and done your best. I'm much obliged
to you, and hope you'll try again next year."
Led by Arthurs, the players trotted across the field to Murray's
quarters. Ken used all his eyes as he went in. This was the sacred
precinct of the chosen athletes, and it was not open to any others.
He saw a small gymnasium, and adjoining it a large, bright room with
painted windows that let in the light, but could not be seen through.
Around the room on two sides were arranged huge box-like bins with holes
in the lids and behind them along the wall were steam-pipes. On the other
two sides were little zinc-lined rooms, with different kinds of pipes,
which Ken concluded were used for shower baths. Murray, the trainer,
was there, and two grinning negroes with towels over their shoulders,
and a little dried-up Scotchman who was all one smile.
"Murray, here's my bunch. Look 'em over, and to-morrow start 'em in for
keeps," said Arthurs.
"Well, Worry, they're not a bad-looking lot. Slim and trim. We won't
have to take off any beef. Here's Reddy Ray. I let you have him this
year, Worry, but the track team will miss him. And here's Peg Ward.
I was sure you'd pick him, Worry. And this is Homans, isn't it? I
remember you in the freshmen games. The rest of you boys I'll have
to get acquainted with. They say I'm a pretty hard fellow, but that's
on the outside. Now, hustle out of your suits, and we'll give you all
a good stew and a rub-down."
What the stew was soon appeared plain to Ken. He was the first player
undressed, and Murray, lifting up one of the box-lids, pushed Ken inside.
"Sit down and put your feet in that pan," he directed. "When I drop the
lid let your head come out the hole. There!" Then he wrapped a huge towel
around Ken's neck, being careful to tuck it close and tight. With that
he reached round to the back of the box and turned on the steam.
Ken felt like a jack-in-the-box. The warm steam was pleasant. He looked
about him to see the other boys being placed in like positions. Raymond
had the box on one side, and Reddy Ray the one on the other.
"It's great," said Ray, smiling at Ken. "You'll like it."
Raymond looked scared. Ken wondered if the fellow ever got any enjoyment
out of things. Then Ken found himself attending to his own sensations.
The steam was pouring out of the pipe inside the box, and it was growing
wetter, thicker, and hotter. The pleasant warmth and tickling changed to
a burning sensation. Ken found himself bathed in a heavy sweat. Then he
began to smart in different places, and he was hard put to it to keep
rubbing them. The steam grew hotter; his body was afire; his breath
labored in great heaves. Ken felt that he must cry out. He heard
exclamations, then yells, from some of the other boxed-up players,
and he glanced quickly around. Reddy Ray was smiling, and did not
look at all uncomfortable. But Raymond was scarlet in the face, and
he squirmed his head to and fro.
"_Ough!_" he bawled. "Let me out of here!"
One of the negro attendants lifted the lid and helped Raymond out.
He danced about as if on hot bricks. His body was the color of a
boiled lobster. The attendant put him under one of the showers and
turned the water on. Raymond uttered one deep, low, "O-o-o-o!" Then
McCord begged to be let out; Weir's big head, with its shock of hair,
resembled that of an angry lion; little Trace screamed, and Duncan
yelled.
"Peg, how're you?" asked Murray, walking up to Ken. "It's always pretty
hot the first few times. But afterward it's fine. Look at Reddy."
"Murray, give Peg a good stewin'," put in Arthurs. "He's got a great
arm, and we must take care of it."
Ken saw the other boys, except Ray, let out, and he simply could not
endure the steam any longer.
"I've got--enough," he stammered.
"Scotty, turn on a little more stew," ordered Murray, cheerfully; then
he rubbed his hand over Ken's face. "You're not hot yet."
Scotty turned on more steam, and Ken felt it as a wet flame. He was
being flayed alive.
"Please--please--let me out!" he implored.
With a laugh Murray lifted the lid, and Ken hopped out. He was as red
as anything red he had ever seen. Then Scotty shoved him under a shower,
and as the icy water came down in a deluge Ken lost his breath, his
chest caved in, and he gasped. Scotty led him out into the room, dried
him with a towel, rubbed him down, and then, resting Ken's arm on his
shoulder, began to pat and beat and massage it. In a few moments Ken
thought his arm was a piece of live India rubber. He had never been in
such a glow. When he had dressed he felt as light as air, strong, fresh,
and keen for action.
"Hustle now, Peg," said Arthurs. "Get your things packed. Supper to-night
at the trainin'-house."
It was after dark when Ken got an expressman to haul his trunk to the
address on Spring Street. The house was situated about the middle of
a four-storied block, and within sight of Grant Field. Worry answered
his ring.
"Here you are, Peg, the last one. I was beginnin' to worry about you.
Have your trunk taken right up, third floor back. Hurry down, for dinner
will be ready soon."
Ken followed at the heels of the expressman up to his room. He was
surprised and somewhat taken back to find Raymond sitting upon the
bed.
"Hello! excuse me," said Ken. "Guess I've got the wrong place."
"The coach said you and I were to room together," returned Raymond.
"Us? Room-mates?" ejaculated Ken.
Raymond took offence at this.
"Wull, I guess I can stand it," he growled.
"I hope I can," was Ken's short reply. It was Ken's failing that he
could not help retaliating. But he was also as repentant as he was
quick-tempered. "Oh, I didn't mean that.... See here, Raymond, if
we've got to be room-mates--"
Ken paused in embarrassment.
"Wull, we're both on the varsity," said Raymond.
"That's so," rejoined Ken, brightening. "It makes a whole lot of
difference, doesn't it?"
Raymond got off the bed and looked at Ken.
"What's your first name?" queried he. "I don't like 'Peg.'"
"Kenneth. Ken, for short. What's yours?"
"Mine's Kel. Wull, Ken--"
Having gotten so far Raymond hesitated, and it was Ken who first
offered his hand. Raymond eagerly grasped it. That broke the ice.
"Kel, I haven't liked your looks at all," said Ken, apologetically.
"Ken, I've been going to lick you all spring."
They went down-stairs arm in arm.
It was with great interest and curiosity that Ken looked about the cozy
and comfortable rooms. The walls were adorned with pictures of varsity
teams and players, and the college colors were much in evidence. College
magazines and papers littered the table in the reading-room.
"Boys, we'll be pretty snug and nice here when things get to runnin'
smooth. The grub will be plain, but plenty of it."
There were twelve in all at the table, with the coach seated at the head.
The boys were hungry, and besides, as they had as yet had no chance to
become acquainted, the conversation lagged. The newness and strangeness,
however, did not hide the general air of suppressed gratification. After
dinner Worry called them all together in the reading-room.
"Well, boys, here we are together like one big family, and we're shut
in for two months. Now, I know you've all been fightin' for places on
the team, and have had no chance to be friendly. It's always that way
in the beginnin', and I dare say there'll be some scraps among you
before things straighten out. We'll have more to say about that later.
The thing now is you're all varsity men, and I'm puttin' you on your
word of honor. Your word is good enough for me. Here's my rules, and
I'm more than usually particular this year, for reasons I'll tell later.
"You're not to break trainin'. You're not to eat anything anywhere but
here. You're to cut out cigarettes and drinks. You're to be in bed at
ten o'clock. And I advise, although I ain't insistin', that if you have
any leisure time you'll spend most of it here. That's all."
For Ken the three days following passed as so many hours. He did not in
the least dread the approaching game with State University, but his mind
held scarcely anything outside of Arthurs' coaching. The practice of the
players had been wholly different. It was as if they had been freed from
some binding spell. Worry kept them at fielding and batting for four full
hours every afternoon. Ken, after pitching to Dean for a while, batted
to the infield and so had opportunity to see the improvement. Graves was
brilliant at third, Weir was steady and sure at short, Raymond seemed
to have springs in his legs and pounced upon the ball with wonderful
quickness, and McCord fielded all his chances successfully.
On the afternoon of the game Worry waited at the training-house until
all the players came down-stairs in uniform.
"Boys, what's happened in the past doesn't count. We start over to-day.
I'm not goin' to say much or confuse you with complex team coachin'.
But I'm hopeful. I sort of think there's a nigger in the woodpile. I'll
tell you to-night if I'm right. Think of how you have been roasted by
the students. Play like tigers. Put out of your mind everything but
tryin'. Nothin' counts for you, boys. Errors are nothin'; mistakes
are nothin'. Play the game as one man. Don't think of yourselves. You
all know when you ought to hit or bunt or run. I'm trustin' you. I won't
say a word from the bench. And don't underrate our chances. Remember
that I think it's possible we may have somethin' up our sleeves. That's
all from me till after the game."
Worry walked to Grant Field with Ken. He talked as they went along, but
not on baseball. The State team was already out and practising. Worry
kept Ken near him on the bench and closely watched the visitors in
practice. When the gong rang to call them in he sent his players out,
with a remark to Ken to take his warming-up easily. Ken thought he had
hardly warmed up at all before the coach called him in.
"Peg, listen!" he whispered. His gaze seemed to hypnotize Ken. "Do you
have any idea what you'll do to this bunch from State?"
"Why--no--I--"
"Listen! I tell you I know they won't be able to touch you.... Size up
batters in your own way. If they look as if they'd pull or chop on a
curve, hand it up. If not, peg 'em a straight one over the inside corner,
high. If you get in a hole with runners on bases use that fast jump ball,
as hard as you can drive it, right over the pan.... Go in with perfect
confidence. I wouldn't say that to you, Peg, if I didn't feel it myself,
honestly. I'd say for you to do your best. But I've sized up these
State fellows, and they won't be able to touch you. Remember what I
say. That's all."
"I'll remember," said Ken, soberly.