JIMMY KIRKLAND
OF THE
CASCADE COLLEGE TEAM
BY
HUGH S. FULLERTON
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES PAXSON GRAY
PHILADELPHIA
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1915, by
The John C. Winston Company.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
[Illustration: “So You Quit—Quit Cold?”]
To
Amos Alonzo Stagg
Player, coach and teacher, who has made the ideal of purity and
honesty in college sport a reality, this volume is respectfully
inscribed.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. The New Man at Cascade 9
II. Larry Clashes with the Coach 21
III. Larry Seeks Revenge 33
IV. An Old Friend Is Found 46
V. Krag Reads Larry a Lesson 58
VI. A Friend in the Foe’s Camp 66
VII. A Lesson in Obedience 74
VIII. A Victory Over Self 82
IX. The Pig in the Parlor 91
X. “Peeg” Excitement 99
XI. “Paw” Lattiser Has a Plan 109
XII. The Plan Succeeds 119
XIII. The “Peeg Mystery” Cleared 128
XIV. The Prodigal Pig Returns 137
XV. Helen in Trouble 145
XVI. A Treacherous Blow 156
XVII. The Game with Golden 168
XVIII. Larry Gets Some Facts 179
XIX. “Paw” Lattiser to the Rescue 188
XX. The Captain of Cascade 197
XXI. Temptation 207
XXII. A Game and An Ally Won 217
XXIII. Helen Appeals for Help 226
XXIV. The Quarrel with the Major 236
XXV. The Final Game 247
XXVI. Facing the World 258
ILLUSTRATIONS
“So You Quit—Quit Cold?” Frontispiece
Page
The Pig Was Borne up the Back Stair 97
“How Can I Be a Professional?” 158
“Oh Larry, Take Me Away!” 235
JIMMY KIRKLAND OF THE
CASCADE COLLEGE
TEAM
CHAPTER I
_The New Man at Cascade_
Boys, young men, men advanced in years but not in spirit, laughed,
shouted greetings, pounded each other upon backs and gripped hands—all
inspired with the joy of reunion. The shadows of the gray buildings of
Cascade College were sharply outlined upon the lawns and walks in the
brightness of California sunshine. Behind them the mountains sloped
steeply down from the forest-crowned heights to spread over the
shelf-like plateau which had been transformed from a wooded wilderness
of giant trees to a semi-tropical garden.
Mask-faced Chinese youths in the severest of black clothing, a few in
the rustling gorgeousness of their native silks; Nipponese, who wore the
clothing of Americans as if they had crept into the garments without
disturbing the work of the tailor; American boys from ranch and
mountain, from desert and vineyard, in the loose freedom of Western
clothing; boys from San Francisco, garbed a month ahead of Broadway
style; clear-skinned, handsome Hawaiian youths; a group of dark-skinned
East Indian lads; representatives of East and West drawn together by
common pursuit of knowledge, pressed steadily toward the wide portals of
Ridgeway Hall.
“Oh you Big Bill!”
“Hello, Old Scout! How are the Rangers?”
“Missed you at Honolulu, Dick.”
“Did the mine pan out?”
“Did you strike oil, Jimmy?”
“Wow, there’s Nikki. Hi, you Nikki, how’s Yeddo?”
Brown, yellow, black, red and white, they shouted the greetings and
brought the word from all parts of the world, while they importuned each
other for news of the long summer vacation. They spoke of Hawaii, the
Philippines, China, Japan, of mines in the mountains, ranches in the
desert, oil in the foothills, of oranges, pears and apples, of
lumbering, of Alaska, of sea voyages and hunting trips, of work and
play.
The students of Cascade College were returning for the fall
semester—each with a wonder tale to tell. To Eastern college men the
scene would have seemed strange; for under the college spirit and the
bubbling joy of the return there was a deeper note. They were boys
again—schoolboys back from vacation—but during the two months they had
played the parts of men and they had the air of having had a part in the
big world outside the classroom.
Standing alone, and feeling lonely during all the merriment, James
Lawrence Kirkland watched the reunion. Half a dozen times he had started
as if to join the press of students to reach the registrar’s office and
conclude the ordeal of matriculation, but each time he had stopped as if
fascinated by the sight of so many interesting boys. He found himself
liking and disliking them and striving to pick out those who would be
his friends and those who would be his enemies during the four years to
come. He saw an alert, keen-eyed little Nipponese youth running to meet
a giant of a boy in a broad Stetson hat.
“Mr. Sunderland,” cried the brown youth.
“Oh you Nikko,” yelled the giant, and lifted the lighter youth in his
arms and danced with him.
This was Sunderland, the famous football player and hammer-thrower, and
Jimmy Kirkland watched him with new interest. And as he gazed he saw
upon the lapel of the coat of the little brown youth a service medal
that told of a year with Oku’s army in Manchuria.
Larry felt suddenly insignificant and unimportant among these fellows,
scarcely older than he was, who had played a part of the world’s great
events. His confidence and assurance were evaporating, and he found
himself lonely among them all. He turned quickly and, jostling through
the glad throngs, he reached the registrar’s office and was enrolled.
The card which he filled in read:
James Lawrence Kirkland. Residence, Shasta View Ranch, Pearton,
Oregon. Age, eighteen.
He breathed more easily and carried himself with a new respect as he
descended the stairs. He was a full Freshman, with fewer conditions to
make up than he expected. His self-confidence returned, and he emerged
upon the campus again, walking lightly.
He was an excellent type of athletic youth as he strolled slowly through
the throngs, keeping a sharp lookout for some familiar face. In spite of
his appearance of youth and his slenderness he possessed a magnificent
pair of shoulders, and his blue eyes looked fearlessly into the eyes of
those to whom he spoke. He carried himself jauntily, because of his
lightness of foot, and his sandy, rebellious hair that bordered upon
red, called attention to the well-formed head well set upon the wide
shoulders.
Larry Kirkland was the ward of Major James Lawrence, owner of Shasta
View, one of the wealthiest men on the Pacific coast. He and Larry’s
father had been chums for years, and when the boy was left an orphan,
the Major had taken him, to make him his heir. Larry had organized the
boys of the ranch into a baseball team which, under his guidance and by
the advice of Bill Krag, a major league pitcher, had triumphed over all
opponents. His experience as manager of the Shasta View team, and his
athletic ability and experience in handling the boys who played with
him, had made it easy for Larry to become the leading athlete of the
preparatory school, near Portland. During his two years there he had
been captain of the baseball and track teams and had played on the
football team, and he had entered college with the expectation of being
greeted as a valuable acquisition. The fact that no one among all the
throng of students paid the slightest attention to him, caused him to
feel resentful. His buoyant spirit asserted itself.
The scant respect with which the upper classmen showed to new men and to
the Freshmen irritated him. He was accustomed to being looked up to for
advice, to being a leader, and to dictating the course of action to his
associates, and to find himself treated as a small boy was humiliating.
He was standing upon a terrace, unnoticed save when some passing
Sophomore gave him a careless glance. He was angry with himself for
permitting the feeling of resentment to upset him when a shout caused
him to turn.
“Larry Kirkland!”
Larry whirled to see a small, lithe, brown boy leaping toward him on the
terrace, hands outstretched in greeting and a glad smile on his face.
“Katty!” he exclaimed in surprise. “You here? Where did you come from?”
He seized the hands of the Nipponese boy and shook them heartily.
“I was just wishing I could see some one I knew,” said Larry. “But this
is beyond what I hoped for. How are you? Are you in college?”
“I am in the college,” replied Katsura proudly. “My uncle is in
merchandising. When I left Shasta View I came to live with him. He sends
me to the college that some day I may return to Nippon and serve our
Emperor.”
“How are you pitching now?” asked Larry joyously.
“I have pitched but little since I left the ranch,” said Katsura. “Twice
during the summer I pitched for our boys. I am stronger, and I think
would be better with practice.”
“Well, we must practice then,” said Larry enthusiastically. “We must
practice the old javelin throw. Can you still do it?”
“Yes,” said Katsura proudly. “I have tried it often. It is natural, the
old motion of my fathers in throwing the spear, and it helps me add
speed. How is the Shasta View team?”
“Fine,” cried Larry joyously. “We beat Pearton three times this summer,
and we had three teams down from Portland and won two of the games from
them.”
“Who is pitcher now?” inquired Katsura a little jealous of his
successor.
“Watson. You didn’t know him. He came after you left us. He is about my
age and he is faster than Benny Arnett was. But he never has learned to
pitch a slow curve the way you could.”
“I have wanted to go back and pitch again.”
“We’ll have to try for the team here. If we both make it what an honor
that will be for Shasta View! Are there any other boys here I know?”
“Only Harry Baldwin, from Rogue River ranch,” replied Katsura gravely.
“To him I never speak. He has been here two years.”
“I guess he won’t be glad to see me,” laughed Larry. “I haven’t seen him
for a year. His father and Uncle Jim hate each other more than ever. Do
you remember the time we beat Rogue River ranch team?”
“Yes,” said Katsura, brightening at the recollection, then suddenly
growing serious again. “He has not forgotten it either. He never loses
an opportunity to attempt to insult or injure me. See, there he is now.”
Larry’s eyes turned in the direction indicated and he saw Harry Baldwin,
son of Barney Baldwin, his guardian’s feudal foe. Harry was standing
talking to a group of flashily dressed, “sporty-looking” youths.
Presently the group moved slowly along the walk near which Larry
Kirkland and Katsura were standing. Harry Baldwin was talking, when his
eyes suddenly caught the gaze of Larry Kirkland. A sneer came to his
face and as he turned his eyes away, he said to his companions:
“Not much material for the athletic teams this fall.”
“I thought it looked good,” argued one of his companions. “I laid some
bets before leaving home that we would win everything.”
“It doesn’t promise much,” responded Baldwin. “Fellow up from Los
Angeles who ought to be good in the sprints, and two from Fresno who
seem good baseball material, not much else.”
“What has Baldwin to do with athletics, Katty?” asked Larry, who had
overheard the remarks.
“He is the leader of the sporty crowd here,” replied Katsura. “He is a
great friend of the coach, and pretends to run things. He plays on the
baseball team and they say he will be captain in the spring.”
“Whew!” whistled Larry in surprise and consternation. “Then I won’t have
much chance to make the team.”
“How about this new fellow, Kirkland, from up near you, Harry?” asked
one of the flashily-dressed youths. “I heard he was a wonder, and that
he had a fine team on his ranch.”
“He’s a fresh little pup,” responded Baldwin, raising his voice and
flashing a look toward Larry. “Awful case of swelled head. He thinks he
owns the earth, but he is not game. We played a game with them a couple
of years ago and they beat us by accident, then refused to play us
again. He thinks because he can play on a team his uncle owns he is
going to run everything, but he’ll find himself mistaken.”
Larry turned red at the insult flung at him and took an impulsive step
forward. Katsura, who had overheard, laid a hand upon his arm.
“Pretend we did not hear,” he said quietly. “He raised his voice to make
us hear, and he’ll be hurt if he thinks we didn’t.”
“Well, I know how the land lays,” said Larry, recovering himself with an
effort. “That is a frank enough declaration of war. But I’m going to
make the team, whether he wants me to or not.”