The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Gentlemen, I want my answer today,” said the coach.

  “Is there so great a hurry? Wait a little,” was the rejoinder.

  “I’m sorry, but this is April 1st, and I’ll wait no longer. I’m ready to send some of my boys up for early exams, and I want to know where I stand.”

  “Arthurs, what is it exactly that you want? Things have been in an awful mess, we know. State your case and we’ll try to give you a definite answer.”

  “I want full charge of the coachin’—the handlin’ of the team, as I always had before. I don’t want any grad coaches. The directors seem divided, one half want this, the other half that. They’ve cut out the trainin’ quarters. I’ve had no help from Murray; no baths or rub-downs or trainin’ for my candidates. Here’s openin’ day a week off and I haven’t picked my team. I want to take them to the trainin’-table and have them under my eye all the time. If I can’t have what I want I’ll resign. If I can I’ll take the whole responsibility of the team on my own shoulders.”

  “Very well, Arthurs, we’ll let you go ahead and have full charge. There has been talk this year of abolishing a private training-house and table for this green varsity. But rather than have you resign we’ll waive that. You can rest assured from now on you will not be interfered with. Give us the best team you can under the circumstances. There has been much dissension among the directors and faculty because of our new eligibility rules. It has stirred everybody up, and the students are sore. Then there has been talk of not having a professional coach this year, but we overruled that in last night’s meeting. We’re going to see what you can do. I may add, Arthurs, if you shape up a varsity this year that makes any kind of a showing against Place and Herne you will win the eternal gratitude of the directors who have fostered this change in athletics. Otherwise I’m afraid the balance of opinion will favor the idea of dispensing with professional coaches in the future.”

  Ken saw that Arthurs was white in the face when he left the room. They went out together, and Worry handed Ken a card that read for him to take his examinations at once.

  “Are you up on ’em?” asked the coach, anxiously.

  “I—I think so,” replied Ken.

  “Well, Peg, good luck to you! Go at ’em like you went at Dreer’s hit.”

  Much to his amazement it was for Ken to discover that, now the time had come for him to face his examinations, he was not at all sanguine. He began to worry. He forgot about the text-books he had mastered in his room during the long winter when he feared to venture out because of the sophomores. It was not very long till he had worked himself into a state somewhat akin to his trepidation in the varsity ball game. Then he decided to go up at once and have it done with. His whole freshman year had been one long agony. What a relief to have it ended!

  Ken passed four examinations in one morning, passed them swimmingly, smilingly, splendidly, and left College Hall in an ecstasy. Things were working out fine. But he had another examination, and it was in a subject he had voluntarily included in his course. Whatever on earth he had done it for he could not now tell. The old doctor who held the chair in that department had thirty years before earned the name of Crab. And slowly in the succeeding years he had grown crabbier, crustier, so student rumor had it. Ken had rather liked the dry old fellow, and had been much absorbed in his complex lectures, but he had never been near him, and now the prospect changed color. Foolishly Ken asked a sophomore in what light old Crab might regard a student who was ambitious to pass his exams early. The picture painted by that sophomore would have made a flaming-mouthed dragon appear tame. Nerving himself to the ordeal, Ken took his card and presented himself one evening at the doctor’s house.

  A maid ushered him into the presence of a venerable old man who did not look at all, even in Ken’s distorted sight, like a crab or a dragon. His ponderous brow seemed as if it had all the thought in the world behind it. He looked over huge spectacles at Ken’s card and then spoke in a dry, quavering voice.

  “Um-m. Sit down, Mr. Ward.”

  Ken found his breath and strangely lost his fear and trembling. The doctor dryly asked him why he thought he knew more than the other students, who were satisfied to wait months longer before examination. Ken hastened to explain that it was no desire of his; that, although he had studied hard and had not missed many lectures, he knew he was unprepared. Then he went on to tell about the baseball situation and why he had been sent up.

  “Um-m.” The professor held a glass paperweight up before Ken and asked a question about it. Next he held out a ruler and asked something about that, and also a bottle of ink. Following this he put a few queries about specific gravity, atomic weight, and the like. Then he sat thrumming his desk and appeared far away in thought. After a while he turned to Ken with a smile that made his withered, parchment-like face vastly different.

  “Where do you play?” he asked.

  “S-sir?” stammered Ken.

  “In baseball, I mean. What place do you play? Catch? Thrower? I don’t know the names much.”

  Ken replied eagerly, and then it seemed he was telling this stern old man all about baseball. He wanted to know what fouls were, and how to steal bases, and he was nonplussed by such terms as “hit-and-run.” Ken discoursed eloquently on his favorite sport, and it was like a kind of dream to be there. Strange things were always happening to him.

  “I’ve never seen a game,” said the professor. “I used to play myself long ago, when we had a yarn ball and pitched underhand. I’ll have to come out to the field some day. President Halstead, why, he likes baseball, he’s a—a—what do you call it?”

  “A fan—a rooter?” replied Ken, smiling.

  “Um-m. I guess that’s it. Well, Mr. Ward, I’m glad to meet you. You may go now.”

  Ken got up blushing like a girl. “But, Doctor, you were to—I was to be examined.”

  “I’ve examined you,” he drawled, with a dry chuckle, and he looked over his huge spectacles at Ken. “I’ll give you a passing mark. But, Mr. Ward, you know a heap more about baseball than you know about physics.”

  As Ken went out he trod upon air. What a splendid old fellow! The sophomore had lied. For that matter, when had a sophomore ever been known to tell the truth? But, he suddenly exclaimed, he himself was no longer a freshman. He pondered happily on the rosy lining to his old cloud of gloom. How different things appeared after a little time. That old doctor’s smile would linger long in Ken’s memory. He felt deep remorse that he had ever misjudged him. He hurried on to Worry Arthurs’ house to tell him the good news. And as he walked his mind was full with the wonder of it all—his lonely, wretched freshman days, now forever past; the slow change from hatred; the dawning of some strange feeling for the college and his teachers; and, last, the freedom, the delight, the quickening stir in the present.

  PRESIDENT HALSTEAD ON COLLEGE SPIRIT

  Wayne’s opening game was not at all what Ken had dreamed it would be. The opposing team from Hudson School was as ill-assorted an aggregation as Ken had ever seen. They brought with them a small but noisy company of cheering supporters who, to the shame of Ken and his fellows, had the bleachers all to themselves. If any Wayne students were present they either cheered for Hudson or remained silent.

  Hudson won, 9 to 2. It was a game that made Arthurs sag a little lower on the bench. Graves got Wayne’s two tallies. Raymond at second played about all the game from the fielding standpoint. Ken distinguished himself by trying wildly and accomplishing nothing. When he went to his room that night he had switched back to his former spirits, and was disgusted with Wayne’s ball team, himself most of all.

  That was on a Wednesday. The next day rain prevented practice, and on Friday the boys were out on the field again. Arthurs shifted the players around, trying resignedly to discover certain positions that might fit certain players. It seemed to Ken that all the candidates, except one or two, were good at fielding and throwing, but when they came to play a game they immediately went into a trance.
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  Travers College was scheduled for Saturday. They had always turned out a good minor team, but had never been known to beat Wayne. They shut Arthurs’ team out without a run. A handful of Wayne students sat in the bleachers mocking their own team. Arthurs used the two pitchers he had been trying hard to develop, and when they did locate the plate they were hit hard. Ken played or essayed to play right field for a while, but he ran around like a chicken with its head off, as a Travers player expressed it, and then Arthurs told him that he had better grace the bench the rest of the game. Ashamed as Ken was to be put out, he was yet more ashamed to feel that he was glad of it. Hardest of all to bear was the arrogant air put on by the Travers College players. Wayne had indeed been relegated to the fifth rank of college baseball teams.

  On Monday announcements were made in all the lecture-rooms and departments of the university, and bulletins were posted to the effect, that President Halstead wished to address the undergraduates in the Wayne auditorium on Tuesday at five o’clock.

  Rumor flew about the campus and Carlton Club, everywhere, that the president’s subject would be “College Spirit,” and it was believed he would have something to say about the present condition of athletics. Ken Ward hurried to the hall as soon as he got through his practice. He found the immense auditorium packed from pit to dome, and he squeezed into a seat on the steps.

  The students, as always, were exchanging volleys of paper-balls, matching wits, singing songs, and passing time merrily. When President Halstead entered, with two of his associates, he was greeted by a thunder of tongues, hands, and heels of the standing students. He was the best-beloved member of the university faculty, a distinguished, scholarly looking man, well-stricken in years.

  He opened his address by declaring the need of college spirit in college life. He defined it as the vital thing, the heart of a great educational institution, and he went on to speak of its dangers, its fluctuations. Then he made direct reference to athletics in its relation to both college spirit and college life.

  “Sport is too much with us. Of late years I have observed a great increase in the number of athletic students, and a great decrease in scholarship. The fame of the half-back and the short-stop and the stroke-oar has grown out of proportion to their real worth. The freshman is dazzled by it. The great majority of college men cannot shine in sport, which is the best thing that could be. The student’s ideal, instead of being the highest scholarship, the best attainment for his career, is apt to be influenced by the honors and friendships that are heaped upon the great athlete. This is false to university life. You are here to prepare yourselves for the battle with the world, and I want to state that that battle is becoming more and more intellectual. The student who slights his studies for athletic glory may find himself, when that glory is long past, distanced in the race for success by a student who had not trained to run the hundred in ten seconds.

  “But, gentlemen, to keep well up in your studies and then go in for athletics—that is entirely another question. It is not likely that any student who keeps to the front in any of the university courses will have too much time for football or baseball. I am, as you all know, heartily in favor of all branches of college sport. And that brings me to the point I want to make today. Baseball is my favorite game, and I have always been proud of Wayne’s teams. The new eligibility rules, with which you are all familiar, were brought to me, and after thoroughly going over the situation I approved of them. Certainly it is obvious to you all that a university ball-player making himself famous here, and then playing during the summer months at a resort, is laying himself open to suspicion. I have no doubt that many players are innocent of the taint of professionalism, but unfortunately they have become members of these summer teams after being first requested, then warned, not to do so.

  “Wayne’s varsity players of last year have been barred by the directors. They made their choice, and so should abide by it. They have had their day, and so should welcome the opportunity of younger players. But I am constrained to acknowledge that neither they nor the great body of undergraduates welcomed the change. This, more than anything, proves to me the evil of championship teams. The football men, the baseball men, the crew men, and all the student supporters want to win all the games all the time. I would like to ask you young gentlemen if you can take a beating? If you cannot, I would like to add that you are not yet fitted to go out into life. A good beating, occasionally, is a wholesome thing.

  “Well, to come to the point now: I find, after studying the situation, that the old varsity players and undergraduates of this university have been lacking in—let us be generous and say, college spirit. I do not need to go into detail; suffice it to say that I know. I will admit, however, that I attended the game between the old varsity and the new candidates. I sat unobserved in a corner, and a more unhappy time I never spent in this university. I confess that my sympathies were with the inexperienced, undeveloped boys who were trying to learn to play ball. Put yourselves in their places. Say you are mostly freshmen, and you make yourselves candidates for the team because you love the game, and because you would love to bring honor to your college. You go out and try. You meet, the first day, an implacable team of skilled veterans who show their scorn of your poor ability, their hatred of your opportunity, and ride roughshod—I should say, run with spiked shoes—over you. You hear the roar of four thousand students applauding these hero veterans. You hear your classmates, your fellow-students in Wayne, howl with ridicule at your weak attempts to compete with better, stronger players.… Gentlemen, how would you feel?

  “I said before that college spirit fluctuates. If I did not know students well I would be deeply grieved at the spirit shown that day. I know that the tide will turn.… And, gentlemen, would not you and the old varsity be rather in an embarrassing position if—if these raw recruits should happen to develop into a team strong enough to cope with Place and Herne? Stranger things have happened. I am rather strong for the new players, not because of their playing, which is poor indeed, but for the way they tried under peculiarly adverse conditions.

  “That young fellow Ward—what torture that inning of successive hard hits to his territory! I was near him in that end of the bleachers, and I watched him closely. Every attempt he made was a failure—that is, failure from the point of view of properly fielding the ball. But, gentlemen, that day was not a failure for young Ward. It was a grand success. Some one said his playing was the poorest exhibition ever seen on Grant Field. That may be. I want to say that to my mind it was also the most splendid effort ever made on Grant Field. For it was made against defeat, fear, ridicule. It was elimination of self. It was made for his coach, his fellow-players, his college—that is to say, for the students who shamed themselves by scorn for his trial.

  “Young men of Wayne, give us a little more of such college spirit!”

  NEW PLAYERS

  When practice time rolled around for Ken next day, he went upon the field once more with his hopes renewed and bright.

  “I certainly do die hard,” he laughed to himself. “But I can never go down and out now—never!”

  Something seemed to ring in Ken’s ears like peals of bells. In spite of his awkwardness Coach Arthurs had made him a varsity man; in spite of his unpreparedness old Crab had given him a passing mark; in spite of his unworthiness President Halstead had made him famous.

  “I surely am the lucky one,” said Ken, for the hundredth time. “And now I’m going to force my luck.” Ken had lately revolved in his mind a persistent idea that he meant to propound to the coach.

  Ken arrived on the field a little later than usual, to find Arthurs for once minus his worried look. He was actually smiling, and Ken soon saw the reason for this remarkable change was the presence of a new player out in centre field.

  “Hello, Peg! things are lookin’ up,” said the coach, beaming. “That’s Homans out there in centre—Roy Homans, a senior and a crackerjack ball-player. I tried to get him to come out for the team
last year, but he wouldn’t spare the time. But he’s goin’ to play this season—said the president’s little talk got him. He’s a fast, heady, scientific player, just the one to steady you kids.”

  Before Ken could reply his attention was attracted from Homans to another new player in uniform now walking up to Arthurs. He was tall, graceful, powerful, had red hair, keen dark eyes, a clean-cut profile and square jaw.

  “I’ve come out to try for the team,” he said, quietly, to the coach.

  “You’re a little late, ain’t you?” asked Worry, gruffly; but he ran a shrewd glance over the lithe form.

  “Yes.”

  “Must have been stirred up by that talk of President Halstead’s, wasn’t you?”

  “Yes.” There was something quiet and easy about the stranger, and Ken liked him at once.

  “Where do you play?” went on Worry.

  “Left.”

  “Can you hit? Talk sense now, and mebbe you’ll save me work. Can you hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you throw?”

  “Yes.” He spoke with quiet assurance.

  “Can you run?” almost shouted Worry. He was nervous and irritable those days, and it annoyed him for unknown youths to speak calmly of such things.

  “Run? Yes, a little. I did the hundred last year in nine and four-fifths.”

  “What! You can’t kid me! Who are you?” cried Worry, getting red in the face. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  “My name’s Ray.”

  “Say! Not Ray, the intercollegiate champion?”

  “I’m the fellow. I talked it over with Murray. He kicked, but I didn’t mind that. I promised to try to keep in shape to win the sprints at the intercollegiate meet.”

  “Say! Get out there in left field! Quick!” shouted Worry.… “Peg, hit him some flies. Lam ’em a mile! That fellow’s a sprinter, Peg. What luck it would be if he can play ball! Hit ’em at him!”