The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  THE CAGE

  Ken Ward dug down into his trunk for his old baseball suit and donned it with strange elation. It was dirty and torn, and the shoes that went with it were worn out, but Ken was thinking of what hard ball-playing they represented. He put his overcoat on over his sweater, took up his glove and sallied forth.

  A thin coating of ice and snow covered the streets. Winter still whistled in the air. To Ken in his eagerness spring seemed a long way off. On his way across the campus he saw strings of uniformed boys making for Grant Field, and many wearing sweaters over their every-day clothes. The cage was situated at one end of the field apart from the other training-quarters. When Ken got there he found a mob of players crowding to enter the door of the big barn-like structure. Others were hurrying away. Near the door a man was taking up tickets like a doorkeeper of a circus, and he kept shouting: “Get your certificates from the doctor. Every player must pass a physical examination. Get your certificates.”

  Ken turned somewhat in disgust at so much red tape and he jostled into a little fellow, almost knocking him over.

  “Wull! Why don’t you fall all over me?” growled this amiable individual. “For two cents I’d hand you one.”

  The apology on Ken’s lips seemed to halt of its own accord.

  “Sorry I haven’t any change in these clothes,” returned Ken. He saw a wiry chap, older than he was, but much smaller, and of most aggressive front. He had round staring eyes, a protruding jaw, and his mouth turned down at the corners. He wore a disreputable uniform and a small green cap over one ear.

  “Aw! don’t get funny!” he replied.

  Ken moved away muttering to himself: “That fellow’s a grouch.” Much to his amazement, when he got to the training-house, Ken found that he could not get inside because so many players were there ahead of him. After waiting an hour or more he decided he could not have his physical examination at that time, and he went back to the cage. The wide door was still blocked with players, but at the other end of the building Ken found an entrance. He squeezed into a crowd of students and worked forward until stopped by a railing.

  Ken was all eyes and breathless with interest. The cage was a huge, open, airy room, lighted by many windows, and, with the exception of the platform where he stood, it was entirely enclosed by heavy netting. The floor was of bare ground well raked and loosened to make it soft. This immense hall was full of a motley crowd of aspiring ball-players.

  Worry Arthurs, with his head sunk in the collar of his overcoat, and his shoulders hunched up as if he was about to spring upon something, paced up and down the rear end of the cage. Behind him a hundred or more players in line slowly marched toward the slab of rubber which marked the batting position. Ken remembered that the celebrated coach always tried out new players at the bat first. It was his belief that batting won games.

  “Bunt one and hit one!” he yelled to the batters.

  From the pitcher’s box a lanky individual was trying to locate the plate. Ken did not need a second glance to see that this fellow was no pitcher.

  “Stop posin’, and pitch!” yelled Arthurs.

  One by one the batters faced the plate, swung valiantly or wildly at balls and essayed bunts. Few hit the ball out and none made a creditable bunt. After their turn at bat they were ordered to the other end of the cage, where they fell over one another trying to stop the balls that were hit. Every few moments the coach would yell for one of them, any one, to take a turn at pitching. Ken noticed that Arthurs gave a sharp glance at each new batter, and one appeared to be sufficient. More and more ambitious players crowded into the cage, until there were so many that batted balls rarely missed hitting someone.

  Presently Ken Ward awoke from his thrilling absorption in the scene to note another side of it. The students around him were making game of the players.

  “What a bunch!”

  “Look at that fuzzy gosling with the yellow pants!”

  “Keep your shanks out of the way, Freshie!”

  “Couldn’t hit a balloon!”

  Whenever a batter hit a ball into the crowd of dodging players down the cage these students howled with glee. Ken discovered that he was standing near Captain Dale and other members of the barred varsity.

  “Say, Dale, how do the candidates shape up?” asked a student.

  “This is a disgrace to Wayne,” declared Dale, bitterly. “I never saw such a mob of spindle-legged kids in my life. Look at them! Scared to death! That fellow never swung at a ball before—that one never heard of a bunt—they throw like girls—Oh! this is sickening, fellows. I see where Worry goes to his grave this year and old Wayne gets humbled by one-horse colleges.”

  Ken took one surprised glance at the captain he had admired so much and then he slipped farther over in the crowd. Perhaps Dale had spoken truth, yet somehow it jarred upon Ken’s sensitive nature. The thing that affected Ken most was the earnestness of the uniformed boys trying their best to do well before the great coach. Some were timid, uncertain; others were rash and over-zealous. Many a ball cracked off a player’s knee or wrist, and more than once Ken saw a bloody finger. It was cold in the cage. Even an ordinarily hit ball must have stung the hands, and the way a hard grounder cracked was enough to excite sympathy among those scornful spectators, if nothing more. But they yelled in delight at every fumble, at everything that happened. Ken kept whispering to himself: “I can’t see the fun in it. I can’t!”

  Arthurs dispensed with the bunting and ordered one hit each for the batters. “Step up and hit!” he ordered, hoarsely. “Don’t be afraid—never mind that crowd—step into the ball and swing natural.… Next! Hurry, boys!”

  Suddenly a deep-chested student yelled out with a voice that drowned every other sound.

  “Hard luck, Worry! No use! You’ll never find a hitter among those misfits!”

  The coach actually leaped up in his anger and his face went from crimson to white. Ken thought it was likely that he recognized the voice.

  “You knocker! You knocker!” he cried. “That’s a fine college spirit, ain’t it? You’re a fine lot of students, I don’t think. Now shut up, every one of you, or I’ll fire you out of the cage.… And right here at the start you knockers take this from me—I’ll find more than one hitter among those kids!”

  A little silence fell while the coach faced that antagonistic crowd of spectators. Ken was amazed the second time, and now because of the intensity of feeling that seemed to hang in the air. Ken felt a warm rush go over him, and that moment added greatly to his already strong liking for Worry Arthurs.

  Then the coach turned to his work, the batting began again, and the crack of the ball, the rush of feet, the sharp cries of the players mingled once more with the laughter and caustic wit of the unsympathetic audience.

  Ken Ward went back to his room without having removed his overcoat. He was thoughtful that night and rebellious against the attitude of the student body. A morning paper announced the fact that over three hundred candidates had presented themselves to Coach Arthurs. It went on to say that the baseball material represented was not worth considering and that old Wayne’s varsity team must be ranked with those of the fifth-rate colleges. This, following Ken’s experience at the cage on the first day, made him angry and then depressed. The glamour of the thing seemed to fade away. Ken lost the glow, the exhilaration of his first feelings. Everybody took a hopeless view of Wayne’s baseball prospects. Ken Ward, however, was not one to stay discouraged long, and when he came out of his gloom it was with his fighting spirit roused. Once and for all he made up his mind to work heart and soul for his college, to be loyal to Arthurs, to hope and believe in the future of the new varsity, whether or not he was lucky enough to win a place upon it.

  Next day, going early to the training-quarters, he took his place in a squad waiting for the physical examination. It was a wearisome experience. At length Ken’s turn came with two other players, one of whom he recognized as the sour-complexioned fellow of the day before.
r />   “Wull, you’re pretty fresh,” he said to Ken as they went in. He had a most exasperating manner.

  “Say, I don’t like you a whole lot,” retorted Ken.

  Then a colored attendant ushered them into a large room in which were several men. The boys were stripped to the waist.

  “Come here, Murray,” said the doctor. “There’s some use in looking these boys over, particularly this husky youngster.”

  A tall man in a white sweater towered over Ken. It was the famous trainer. He ran his hands over Ken’s smooth skin and felt of the muscles.

  “Can you run?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Ken.

  “Are you fast?”

  “Yes.”

  Further inquiries brought from Ken his name, age, weight, that he had never been ill, had never used tobacco or intoxicating drinks.

  “Ward, eh? ‘Peg’ Ward,” said Murray, smiling. “Worry Arthurs has the call on you—else, my boy, I’d whisper football in your ear. Mebbe I will, anyhow, if you keep up in your studies. That’ll do for you.”

  Ken’s companions also won praise from the trainer. They gave their names as Raymond and Weir. The former weighed only one hundred and twenty-two, but he was a knot of muscles. The other stood only five feet, but he was very broad and heavy, his remarkably compact build giving an impression of great strength. Both replied in the negative to the inquiries as to use of tobacco or spirits.

  “Boys, that’s what we like to hear,” said the doctor. “You three ought to pull together.”

  Ken wondered what the doctor would have said if he had seen the way these three boys glared at each other in the dressing-room. And he wondered, too, what was the reason for such open hostility. The answer came to him in the thought that perhaps they were both trying for the position he wanted on the varsity. Most likely they had the same idea about him. That was the secret of little Raymond’s pugnacious front and Weir’s pompous air; and Ken realized that the same reason accounted for his own attitude toward them. He wanted very much to tell Raymond that he was a little grouch and Weir that he looked like a puffed-up toad. All the same Ken was not blind to Weir’s handsome appearance. The sturdy youngster had an immense head, a great shock of bright brown hair, flashing gray eyes, and a clear bronze skin.

  “They’ll both make the team, I’ll bet,” thought Ken. “They look it. I hope I don’t have to buck against them.” Then as they walked toward the cage Ken forced himself to ask genially: “Raymond, what’re you trying for? And you, Weir?”

  “Wull, if it’s any of your fresh business, I’m not trying for any place. I’m going to play infield. You can carry my bat,” replied Raymond, sarcastically.

  “Much obliged,” retorted Ken, “I’m not going to substitute. I’ve a corner on that varsity infield myself.”

  Weir glanced at them with undisguised disdain. “You can save yourselves useless work by not trying for my position. I intend to play infield.”

  “Wull, puff-up, now, puff-up!” growled Raymond.

  Thus the three self-appointed stars of the varsity bandied words among themselves as they crossed the field. At the cage door they became separated to mingle with the pushing crowd of excited boys in uniforms.

  By dint of much squeezing and shoulder-work Ken got inside the cage. He joined the squad in the upper end and got in line for the batting. Worry Arthurs paced wildly to and fro yelling for the boys to hit. A dense crowd of students thronged the platform and laughed, jeered, and stormed at the players. The cage was in such an uproar that Arthurs could scarcely be heard. Watching from the line Ken saw Weir come to bat and stand aggressively and hit the ball hard. It scattered the flock of fielders. Then Raymond came along, and, batting left-handed, did likewise. Arthurs stepped forward and said something to both. After Ken’s turn at bat the coach said to him: “Get out of here. Go run round the track. Do it every day. Don’t come back until Monday.”

  As Ken hurried out he saw and felt the distinction with which he was regarded by the many players whom he crowded among in passing. When he reached the track he saw Weir, Raymond, and half a dozen other fellows going round at a jog-trot. Weir was in the lead, setting the pace. Ken fell in behind.

  The track was the famous quarter-mile track upon which Murray trained his sprinters. When Ken felt the spring of the cinder-path in his feet, the sensation of buoyancy, the eager wildfire pride that flamed over him, he wanted to break into headlong flight. The first turn around the track was delight; the second pleasure in his easy stride; the third brought a realization of distance. When Ken had trotted a mile he was not tired, he still ran easily, but he began to appreciate that his legs were not wings. The end of the second mile found him sweating freely and panting.

  Two miles were enough for the first day. Ken knew it and he began to wonder why the others, especially Weir, did not know it. But Weir jogged on, his head up, his hair flying, as if he had not yet completed his first quarter. The other players stretched out behind him. Ken saw Raymond’s funny little green cap bobbing up and down, and it made him angry. Why could not the grouch get a decent cap, anyway?

  At the end of the third mile Ken began to labor. His feet began to feel weighted, his legs to ache, his side to hurt. He was wringing wet; his skin burned; his breath whistled. But he kept doggedly on. It had become a contest now. Ken felt instinctively that every runner would not admit he had less staying power than the others. Ken declared to himself that he could be as bull-headed as any of them. Still to see Weir jogging on steady and strong put a kind of despair on Ken. For every lap of the fourth mile a runner dropped out, and at the half of the fifth only Weir, Raymond, and Ken kept to the track.

  Ken hung on gasping at every stride. He was afraid his heart would burst. The pain in his side was as keen as a knife thrust. His feet were lead. Every rod he felt must be his last, yet spurred on desperately, and he managed to keep at the heels of the others. It might kill him, but he would not stop until he dropped. Raymond was wagging along ready to fall any moment, and Weir was trotting slowly with head down. On the last lap of the fifth mile they all stopped as by one accord. Raymond fell on the grass; Ken staggered to a bench, and Weir leaned hard against the fence. They were all blowing like porpoises and regarded each other as mortal enemies. Weir gazed grandly at the other two; Raymond glowered savagely at him and then at Ken; and Ken in turn gave them withering glances. Without a word the three contestants for a place on the varsity then went their several ways.

  OUT ON THE FIELD

  When Ken presented himself at the cage on the following Monday it was to find that Arthurs had weeded out all but fifty of the candidates. Every afternoon for a week the coach put these players through batting and sliding practice, then ordered them out to run around the track. On the next Monday only twenty-five players were left, and as the number narrowed down the work grew more strenuous, the rivalry keener, and the tempers of the boys more irascible.

  Ken discovered it was work and not by any means pleasant work. He fortified himself by the thought that the pleasure and glory, the real play, was all to come as a reward. Worry Arthurs drove them relentlessly. Nothing suited him; not a player knew how to hold a bat, to stand at the plate, to slide right, or to block a ground ball.

  “Don’t hit with your left hand on top—unless you’re left-handed. Don’t grip the end of the bat. There! Hold steady now, step out and into the ball, and swing clean and level. If you’re afraid of bein’ hit by the ball, get out of here!”

  It was plain to Ken that not the least of Arthurs’ troubles was the incessant gibing of the students on the platform. There was always a crowd watching the practice, noisy, scornful, abusive. They would never recover from the shock of having that seasoned champion varsity barred out of athletics. Every once in a while one of them would yell out: “Wait, Worry! oh! Worry, wait till the old varsity plays your yanigans!” And every time the coach’s face would burn. But he had ceased to talk back to the students. Besides, the athletic directors were alway
s present. They mingled with the candidates and talked baseball to them and talked to Arthurs. Some of them might have played ball once, but they did not talk like it. Their advice and interference served only to make the coach’s task harder.

  Another Monday found only twenty players in the squad. That day Arthurs tried out catchers, pitchers, and infielders. He had them all throwing, running, fielding, working like Trojans. They would jump at his yell, dive after the ball, fall over it, throw it anywhere but in the right direction, run wild, and fight among themselves. The ever-flowing ridicule from the audience was anything but a stimulus. So much of it coming from the varsity and their adherents kept continually in the minds of the candidates their lack of skill, their unworthiness to represent the great university in such a popular sport as baseball. So that even if there were latent ability in any of the candidates no one but the coach could see it. And often he could not conceal his disgust and hopelessness.

  “Battin’ practice!” he ordered, sharply. “Two hits and a bunt today. Get a start on the bunt and dig for first. Hustle now!”

  He placed one player to pitch to the hitters, another to catch, and as soon as the hitters had their turn they took to fielding. Two turns for each at bat left the coach more than dissatisfied.

  “You’re all afraid of the ball,” he yelled. “This ain’t no dodgin’ game. Duck your nut if the ball’s goin’ to hit you, but stop lookin’ for it. Forget it. Another turn now. I’m goin’ to umpire. Let’s see if you know the difference between a ball and a strike.”

  He changed the catcher and, ordering Ken to the pitcher’s box, he stepped over behind him. “Peg,” he said, speaking low, “you’re not tryin’ for pitcher, I know, but you’ve got speed and control and I want you to peg ’em a few. Mind now, easy with your arm. By that I mean hold in, don’t whip it. And you peg ’em as near where I say as you can; see?”