The Young Pitcher. Zane GreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 to-night, 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 to-day. 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 to-day 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 to-night. 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,