by Zane Grey
That afternoon Wayne played the strong Hornell University nine.
Blake, new at third base for Wayne, was a revelation. He was all legs and arms. Weir accepted eight chances. Raymond, sick or not, was all over the infield, knocking down grounders, backing up every play. To McCord, balls in the air or at his feet were all the same. Trace caught a foul fly right off the bleachers. Homans fielded with as much speed as the old varsity’s centre and with better judgment. Besides, he made four hits and four runs. Reddy Ray drove one ball into the bleachers, and on a line-drive to left field he circled the bases in time that Murray said was wonderful. Dean stood up valiantly to his battering, and for the first game had no passed balls. And Ken Ward whirled tirelessly in the box, and one after another he shot fast balls over the plate. He made the Hornell players hit; he had no need to extend himself to the use of the long swing and whip of his arm that produced the jump ball; and he shut them out without a run, and gave them only two safe hits. All through the game Worry Arthurs sat on the bench without giving an order or a sign. His worried look had vanished with the crude playing of his team.
That night the Hornell captain, a veteran player of unquestionable ability, was entertained at Carlton Club by Wayne friends, and he expressed himself forcibly: “We came over to beat Wayne’s weak team. It’ll be some time till we discover what happened. Young Ward has the most magnificent control and speed. He’s absolutely relentless. And that frog-legged second-baseman—oh, say, can’t he cover ground! Homans is an all-round star. Then, your red-headed Ray, the sprinter—he’s a marvel. Ward, Homans, Ray—they’re demons, and they’re making demons of the kids. I can’t understand why Wayne students don’t support their team. It’s strange.”
What the Hornell captain said went from lip to lip throughout the club, and then it spread, like a flame in wind-blown grass, from club to dormitory, and thus over all the university.
“Boys, the college is wakin’ up,” said Worry, rubbing his hands. “Yesterday’s game jarred ’em. They can’t believe their own ears. Why, Hornell almost beat Dale’s team last spring. Now, kids, look out. We’ll stand for no fussin’ over us. We don’t want any jollyin’. We’ve waited long for encouragement. It didn’t come, and now we’ll play out the string alone. There’ll be a rush to Grant Field. It cuts no ice with us. Let ’em come to see the boys they hissed and guyed early in the spring. We’ll show ’em a few things. We’ll make ’em speechless. We’ll make ’em so ashamed they won’t know what to do. We’ll repay all their slights by beatin’ Place.”
Worry was as excited as on the day he discovered that Ken was a pitcher.
“One more word, boys,” he went on. “Keep together now. Run back here to your rooms as quick as you get leave from college. Be civil when you are approached by students, but don’t mingle, not yet. Keep to yourselves. Your reward is comin’. It’ll be great. Only wait!”
And that was the last touch of fire which moulded Worry’s players into a family of brothers. Close and warm and fine was the culmination of their friendship. On the field they were dominated by one impulse, almost savage in its intensity. When they were off the field the springs of youth burst forth to flood the hours with fun.
In the mornings when the mail-man came there was always a wild scramble for letters. And it developed that Weir received more than his share. He got mail every day, and his good-fortune could not escape the lynx eyes of his comrades. Nor could the size and shape of the envelope and the neat, small handwriting fail to be noticed. Weir always stole off by himself to read his daily letter, trying to escape a merry chorus of tantalizing remarks.
“Oh! Sugar!”
“Dreamy Eyes!”
“Gawge, the pink letter has come!”
Weir’s reception of these sallies earned him the name of Puff.
One morning, for some unaccountable reason, Weir did not get downstairs when the mail arrived. Duncan got the pink letter, scrutinized the writing closely, and put the letter in his coat. Presently Weir came bustling down.
“Who’s got the mail?” he asked, quickly.
“No letters this morning,” replied someone.
“Is this Sunday?” asked Weir, rather stupidly.
“Nope. I meant no letters for you.”
Weir looked blank, then stunned, then crestfallen. Duncan handed out the pink envelope. The boys roared, and Weir strode off in high dudgeon.
That day Duncan purchased a box of pink envelopes, and being expert with a pen, he imitated the neat handwriting and addressed pink envelopes to every boy in the training-house. Next morning no one except Weir seemed in a hurry to answer the postman’s ring. He came in with the letters and his jaw dropping. It so happened that his letter was the very last one, and when he got to it the truth flashed over him. Then the peculiar appropriateness of the nickname Puff was plainly manifest. One by one the boys slid off their chairs to the floor, and at last Weir had to join in the laugh on him.
Each of the boys in turn became the victim of some prank. Raymond betrayed Ken’s abhorrence of any kind of perfume, and straightway there was a stealthy colloquy. Cheap perfume of a most penetrating and paralyzing odor was liberally purchased. In Ken’s absence from his room all the clothing that he did not have on his back was saturated. Then the conspirators waited for him to come up the stoop, and from their hiding-place in a window of the second floor they dropped an extra quart upon him.
Ken vowed vengeance that would satisfy him thrice over, and he bided his time until he learned who had perpetrated the outrage.
One day after practice his opportunity came. Raymond, Weir, and Trace, the guilty ones, went with Ken to the training quarters to take the steam bath that Murray insisted upon at least once every week. It so turned out that the four were the only players there that afternoon. While the others were undressing, Ken bribed Scotty to go out on an errand, and he let Murray into his scheme. Now, Murray not only had acquired a strong liking for Ken, but he was exceedingly fond of a joke.
“All I want to know,” whispered Ken, “is if I might stew them too much—really scald them, you know?”
“No danger,” whispered Murray. “That’ll be the fun of it. You can’t hurt them. But they’ll think they’re dying.”
He hustled Raymond, Weir, and Trace into the tanks and fastened the lids, and carefully tucked towels round their necks to keep in the steam.
“Lots of stew today,” he said, turning the handles. “Hello! Where’s Scotty?… Peg, will you watch these boys a minute while I step out?”
“You bet I will,” called Ken to the already disappearing Murray.
The three cooped-in boys looked askance at Ken.
“Wull, I’m not much stuck—” Raymond began glibly enough, and then, becoming conscious that he might betray an opportunity to Ken, he swallowed his tongue.
“What’d you say?” asked Ken, pretending curiosity. Suddenly he began to jump up and down. “Oh, my! Hullabelee! Schoodoorady! What a chance! You gave it away!”
“Look what he’s doing!” yelled Trace.
“Hyar!” added Weir.
“Keep away from those pipes!” chimed in Raymond.
“Boys, I’ve been laying for you, but I never thought I’d get a chance like this. If Murray only stays out three minutes—just three minutes!”
“Three minutes! You idiot, you won’t keep us in here that long?” asked Weir, in alarm.
“Oh no, not at all.… Puff, I think you can stand a little more steam.”
Ken turned the handle on full.
“Kel, a first-rate stewing will be good for your daily grouch.”
To the accompaniment of Raymond’s threats he turned the second handle.
“Trace, you little poll-parrot, you will throw perfume on me? Now roast!”
The heads of the imprisoned boys began to jerk and bob around, and their faces to take on a flush. Ken leisurely surveyed them and then did an Indian war-dance in the middle of the room.
“Here, let me out! Ken, you know how delicat
e I am,” implored Raymond.
“I couldn’t entertain the idea for a second,” replied Ken.
“I’ll lick you!” yelled Raymond.
“My lad, you’ve got a brain-storm,” returned Ken, in grieved tones. “Not in the wildest flights of your nightmares have you ever said anything so impossible as that.”
“Ken, dear Ken, dear old Peggie,” cried Trace, “you know I’ve got a skinned place on my hip where I slid yesterday. Steam isn’t good for that, Worry says. He’ll be sore. You must let me out.”
“I intend to see, Willie, that you’ll be sore too, and skinned all over,” replied Ken.
“Open this lid! At once!” roared Weir, in sudden anger. His big eyes rolled.
“Bah!” taunted Ken.
Then all three began to roar at Ken at once. “Brute! Devil! Help! Help! Help! We’ll fix you for this!… It’s hotter! it’s fire! Aghh! Ouch! Oh! Ah-h-h!… O-o-o-o!… Murder! Murder-r!”
At this juncture Murray ran in.
“What on earth! Peg, what did you do?”
“I only turned on the steam full tilt,” replied Ken, innocently.
“Why, you shouldn’t have done that,” said Murray, in pained astonishment.
“Stop talking about it! Let me out!” shrieked Raymond.
Ken discreetly put on his coat and ran from the room.
THE YOUNG PITCHER [Part 2]
THE HERNE GAME
On the morning of the first of June, the day scheduled for the opening game with Herne, Worry Arthurs had Ken Ward closeted with Homans and Reddy Ray. Worry was trying his best to be soberly calculating in regard to the outcome of the game. He was always trying to impress Ken with the uncertainty of baseball. But a much younger and less observing boy than Ken could have seen through the coach. Worry was dead sure of the result, certain that the day would see a great gathering of Wayne students, and he could not hide his happiness. And the more he betrayed himself the more he growled at Ken.
“Well, we ain’t goin’ to have that balloon-ascension today, are we?” he demanded. “Here we’ve got down to the big games, and you haven’t been up in the air yet. I tell you it ain’t right.”
“But, Worry, I couldn’t go off my head and get rattled just to please you, could I?” implored Ken. To Ken this strain of the coach’s had grown to be as serious as it was funny.
“Aw! talk sense,” said Worry. “Why, you haven’t pitched to a college crowd yet. Wait! Wait till you see that crowd over to Place next week! Thousands of students crazier ’n Indians, and a flock of girls that’ll make you bite your tongue off. Ten thousand yellin’ all at once.”
“Let them yell,” replied Ken; “I’m aching to pitch before a crowd. It has been pretty lonesome at Grant Field all season.”
“Let ’em yell, eh?” retorted Worry. “All right, my boy, it’s comin’ to you. And if you lose your nut and get slammed all over the lot, don’t come to me for sympathy.”
“I wouldn’t. I can take a licking. Why, Worry, you talk as if—as if I’d done something terrible. What’s the matter with me? I’ve done every single thing you wanted—just as well as I could do it. What are you afraid of?”
“You’re gettin’ swelled on yourself,” said the coach, deliberately.
The blood rushed to Ken’s face until it was scarlet. He was so astounded and hurt that he could not speak. Worry looked at him once, then turning hastily away, he walked to the window.
“Peg, it ain’t much wonder,” he went on, smoothly, “and I’m not holdin’ it against you. But I want you to forget yourself—”
“I’ve never had a thought of myself,” retorted Ken, hotly.
“I want you to go in today like—like an automatic machine,” went on Worry, as if Ken had not spoken. “There’ll be a crowd out, the first of the season. Mebbe they’ll throw a fit. Anyway, it’s our first big game. As far as the university goes, this is our trial. The students are up in the air; they don’t know what to think. Mebbe there won’t be a cheer at first.… But, Peg, if we beat Herne today they’ll tear down the bleachers.”
“Well, all I’ve got to say is that you can order new lumber for the bleachers—because we’re going to win,” replied Ken, with a smouldering fire in his eyes.
“There you go again! If you’re not stuck on yourself, it’s too much confidence. You won’t be so chipper about three this afternoon, mebbe. Listen! The Herne players got into town last night, and some of them talked a little. It’s just as well you didn’t see the morning papers. It came to me straight that Gallagher, the captain, and Stern, the first-baseman, said you were pretty good for a kid freshman, but a little too swelled to stand the gaff in a big game. They expect you to explode before the third innin’. I wasn’t goin’ to tell you, Peg, but you’re so—”
“They said that, did they?” cried Ken. He jumped up with paling cheek and blazing eye, and the big hand he shoved under Worry’s nose trembled like a shaking leaf. “What I won’t do to them will be funny! Swelled! Explode! Stand the gaff! Look here, Worry, maybe it’s true, but I don’t believe it.… I’ll beat this Herne team! Do you get that?”
“Now you’re talkin’,” replied Worry, with an entire change of manner. “You saw the Herne bunch play. They can field, but how about hittin’?”
“Gallagher, Stern, Hill, and Burr are the veterans of last year’s varsity,” went on Ken, rapidly, as one who knew his subject. “They can hit—if they get what they like.”
“Now you’re talkin’. How about Gallagher?”
“He hits speed. He couldn’t hit a slow ball with a paddle.”
“Now you’re talkin’. There’s Stern, how’d you size him?”
“He’s weak on a low curve, in or out, or a drop.”
“Peg, you’re talkin’ some now. How about Hill?”
“Hill is a bunter. A high ball in close, speedy, would tie him in a knot.”
“Come on, hurry! There’s Burr.”
“Burr’s the best of the lot, a good waiter and hard hitter, but he invariably hits a high curve up in the air.”
“All right. So far so good. How about the rest of the team?”
“I’ll hand them up a straight, easy ball and let them hit. I tell you I’ve got Herne beaten, and if Gallagher or any one else begins to guy me I’ll laugh in his face.”
“Oh, you will?… Say, you go down to your room now, and stay there till time for lunch. Study or read. Don’t think another minute about this game.”
Ken strode soberly out of the room.
It was well for Ken that he did not see what happened immediately after his exit. Worry and Homans fell into each other’s arms.
“Say, fellows, how I hated to do it!” Worry choked with laughter and contrition. “It was the hardest task I ever had. But, Cap, you know we had to make Peg sore. He’s too blamed good-natured. Oh, but didn’t he take fire! He’ll make some of those Herne guys play low-bridge today. Wouldn’t it be great if he gave Gallagher the laugh?”
“Worry, don’t you worry about that,” said Homans. “And it would please me, too, for Gallagher is about as wordy and pompous as any captain I’ve seen.”
“I think you were a little hard on Ken,” put in Reddy. His quiet voice drew Worry and Homans from their elation. “Of course, it was necessary to rouse Ken’s fighting blood, but you didn’t choose the right way. You hurt his feelings. You know, Worry, that the boy is not in the least swelled.”
“’Course I know it, Reddy. Why, Peg’s too modest. But I want him to be dead in earnest today. Mind you, I’m thinkin’ of Place. He’ll beat Herne to a standstill. I worked on his feelin’s just to get him all stirred up. You know there’s always the chance of rattles in any young player, especially a pitcher. If he’s mad he won’t be so likely to get ’em. So I hurt his feelin’s. I’ll make it up to him, don’t you fear for that, Reddy.”
“I wish you had waited till we go over to Place next week,” replied Ray. “You can’t treat him that way twice. Over there’s where I would l
ook for his weakening. But it may be he won’t ever weaken. If he ever does it’ll be because of the crowd and not the players.”
“I think so, too. A yellin’ mob will be new to Peg. But, fellows, I’m only askin’ one game from Herne and one, or a good close game, from Place. That’ll give Wayne the best record ever made. Look at our standin’ now. Why, the newspapers are havin’ a fit. Since I picked the varsity we haven’t lost a game. Think of that! Those early games don’t count. We’ve had an unbroken string of victories, Peg pitchin’ twelve, and Schoonover four. And if wet grounds and other things hadn’t cancelled other games we’d have won more.”
“Yes, we’re in the stretch now, Worry, and running strong. We’ll win three out of these four big games,” rejoined Reddy.
“Oh, say, that’d be too much! I couldn’t stand it! Oh, say, Cap, don’t you think Reddy, for once, is talkin’ about as swift as he sprints?”
“I’m afraid to tell you, Worry,” replied Homans, earnestly. “When I look back at our work I can’t realize it. But it’s time to wake up. The students over at college are waking up. They will be out today. You are the one to judge whether we’re a great team or not. We keep on making runs. It’s runs that count. I think, honestly, Worry, that after today we’ll be in the lead for championship honors. And I hold my breath when I tell you.”
It was remarkably quiet about the training-house all that morning. The coach sent a light lunch to the boys in their rooms. They had orders to be dressed, and to report in the reading-room at one-thirty.
Raymond came down promptly on time.
“Where’s Peg?” asked Worry.
“Why, I thought he was here, ahead of me,” replied Raymond, in surprise.
A quick survey of the uniformed players proved the absence of Ken Ward and Reddy Ray. Worry appeared startled out of speech, and looked helplessly at Homans. Then Ray came downstairs, bat in one hand, shoes and glove in the other. He seated himself upon the last step and leisurely proceeded to put on his shoes.
“Reddy, did you see Peg?” asked Worry, anxiously.
“Sure, I saw him,” replied the sprinter.
