by Zane Grey
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 someone 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 situat
ion 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 tonight, 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 today. 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 today got me. You’ve a great arm!”
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 tonight. 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.
