The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “No, I don’t smoke. Besides, it’s breaking training,” said Ken.

  “You make me sick, Ward,” retorted Graves. “You’re a wet blanket. Do you think we’re going to be as sissy as that? It’s hard enough to stand the grub we get here, without giving up a little smoke.”

  Ken made no reply, but he found it difficult to smother a hot riot in his breast. When the other boys had gone to their rooms Ken took Kel to task about his wrong-doing.

  “Do you think that’s the right sort of thing? What would Worry say?”

  “Ken, I don’t care about it, not a bit,” replied Kel, flinging his cigarette out of the window. “But Graves is always asking me to do things—I hate to refuse. It seems so—”

  “Kel, if Worry finds it out you’ll lose your place on the team.”

  “No!” exclaimed Raymond, staring.

  “Mark what I say. I wish you’d stop letting Graves coax you into things.”

  “Ken, he’s always smuggling pie and cake and candy into his room. I’ve had some of it. Trace said he’d brought in something to drink, too.”

  “It’s a shame,” cried Ken, in anger. “I never liked him and I’ve tried hard to change it. Now I’m glad I couldn’t.”

  “He doesn’t have any use for you,” replied Kel. “He’s always running you down to the other boys. What’d you ever do to him, Ken?”

  “Oh, it was that potato stunt of mine last fall. He’s a Soph, and I hit him, I guess.”

  “I think it’s more than that,” went on Raymond. “Anyway, you look out for him, because he’s aching to spoil your face.”

  “He is, is he?” snapped Ken.

  Ken was too angry to talk any more, and so the boys went to bed. The next few days Ken discovered that either out of shame or growing estrangement Raymond avoided him, and he was bitterly hurt. He had come to like the little second-baseman, and had hoped they would be good friends. It was easy to see that Graves became daily bolder, and more lax in training, and his influence upon several of the boys grew stronger. And when Dean, Schoonover, and Duncan appeared to be joining the clique, Ken decided he would have to talk to someone, so he went up to see Ray and Homans.

  The sprinter was alone, sitting by his lamp, with books and notes spread before him.

  “Hello, Peg! come in. You look a little glum. What’s wrong?”

  Reddy Ray seemed like an elder brother to Ken, and he found himself blurting out his trouble. Ray looked thoughtful, and after a moment he replied in his quiet way:

  “Peg, it’s new to you, but it’s an old story to me. The track and crew men seldom break training, which is more than can be said of the other athletes. It seems to me baseball fellows are the most careless. They really don’t have to train so conscientiously. It’s only a kind of form.”

  “But it’s different this year,” burst out Ken. “You know what Worry said, and how he trusts us.”

  “You’re right, Peg, only you mustn’t take it so hard. Things will work out all right. Homans and I were talking about that today. You see, Worry wants the boys to elect a captain soon. But perhaps he has not confided in you youngsters. He will suggest that you elect Homans or me. Well, I won’t run for the place, so it’ll be Homans. He’s the man to captain us, that’s certain. Graves thinks, though, that he can pull the wires and be elected captain. He’s way off. Besides, Peg, he’s making a big mistake. Worry doesn’t like him, and when he finds out about this break in training we’ll have a new third-baseman. No doubt Blake will play the bag. Graves is the only drag in Worry’s baseball machine now, and he’ll not last.… So, Peg, don’t think any more about it. Mind you, the whole team circles round you. You’re the pivot, and as sure as you’re born you’ll be Wayne’s captain next year. That’s something for you to keep in mind and work for. If Graves keeps after you—hand him one! That’s not against rules. Punch him! If Worry knew the truth he would pat you on the back for slugging Graves. Cheer up, Peg! Even if Graves has got all the kids on his side, which I doubt, Homans and I are with you. And you can just bet that Worry Arthurs will side with us.… Now run along, for I must study.”

  This conversation was most illuminating to Ken. He left Reddy’s room all in a quiver of warm pleasure and friendliness at the great sprinter’s quiet praise and advice. To make such a friend was worth losing a hundred friends like Graves. He dismissed the third-baseman and his scheming from mind, and believed Reddy as he had believed Arthurs. But Ken thought much of what he divined was a glimmering of the inside workings of a college baseball team. He had one wild start of rapture at the idea of becoming captain of Wayne’s varsity next year, and then he dared think no more of that.

  The day dawned for Ken to go to Washington, and he was so perturbed at his responsibilities that he quite forgot to worry about the game Wayne had to play in his absence. Arthurs intended to pitch Schoonover in that game, and had no doubt as to its outcome. The coach went to the station with Ken, once more repeated his instructions, and saw him upon the train. Certainly there was no more important personage on board that Washington Limited than Ken Ward. In fact, Ken was so full of importance and responsibility that he quite divided his time between foolish pride in his being chosen to “size up” the great college teams and fearful conjecture as to his ability.

  At any rate, the time flew by, the trip seemed short, and soon he was on the Georgetown field. It was lucky that he arrived early and got a seat in the middle of the grand-stand, for there was a throng in attendance when the players came on the diamond. The noisy bleachers, the merry laughter, the flashing colors, and especially the bright gowns and pretty faces of the girls gave Ken pleasurable consciousness of what it would mean to play before such a crowd. At Wayne he had pitched to empty seats. Remembering Worry’s prophecy, however, he was content to wait.

  From that moment his duty absorbed him. He found it exceedingly fascinating to study the batters, and utterly forgot his responsibility. Not only did he jot down on his card his idea of the weakness and strength of the different hitters, but he compared what he would have pitched to them with what was actually pitched. Of course, he had no test of his comparison, but he felt intuitively that he had the better of it. Watching so closely, Ken had forced home to him Arthurs’ repeated assertion that control of the ball made a pitcher. Both pitchers in this game were wild. Locating the plate with them was more a matter of luck than ability. The Herne pitcher kept wasting balls and getting himself in the hole, and then the heavy Georgetown players would know when he had to throw a strike, if he could, and accordingly they hit hard. They beat Herne badly.

  The next day in the game with Place it was a different story. Ken realized he was watching a great team. They reminded him of Dale’s varsity, though they did not play that fiendish right-field-hitting game. Ken had a numbness come over him at the idea of facing this Place team. It soon passed, for they had their vulnerable places. It was not so much that they hit hard on speed and curves, for they got them where they wanted them. Keene flied out on high fast balls over the inside corner; Starke bit on low drops; Martin was weak on a slow ball; MacNeff, the captain, could not touch speed under his chin, and he always struck at it. On the other hand, he killed a low ball. Prince was the only man who, in Ken’s judgment, seemed to have no weakness. These men represented the batting strength of Place, and Ken, though he did not in the least underestimate them, had no fear. He would have liked to pitch against them right there.

  “It’s all in control of the ball,” thought Ken. “Here are seventeen bases on balls in two games—four pitchers. They’re wild.… But suppose I got wild, too?”

  The idea made Ken shiver.

  He travelled all night, sleeping on the train, and got home to the training-house about nine the next morning. Worry was out, Scotty said, and the boys had all gone over to college. Ken went upstairs and found Raymond in bed.

  “Why, Kel, what’s the matter?” asked Ken.

  “I’m sick,” replied Kel. He was pale and appeared to be in di
stress.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Can’t I do something? Get you some medicine? Call Murray?”

  “Ken, don’t call anybody, unless you want to see me disgraced. Worry got out this morning before he noticed my absence from breakfast. I was scared to death.”

  “Scared? Disgraced?”

  “Ken, I drank a little last night. It always makes me sick. You know I’ve a weak stomach.”

  “Kel, you didn’t drink, say you didn’t!” implored Ken, sitting miserably down on the bed.

  “Yes, I did. I believe I was half drunk. I can’t stand anything. I’m sick, sick of myself, too, this morning. And I hate Graves.”

  Ken jumped up with kindling eyes.

  “Kel, you’ve gone back on me—we’d started to be such friends—I tried to persuade you—”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Ken. But I really liked you best. I was—you know how it is, Ken. If only Worry don’t find it out!”

  “Tell him,” said Ken, quickly.

  “What?” groaned Kel, in fright.

  “Tell him. Let me tell him for you.”

  “No—no—no. He’d fire me off the team, and I couldn’t stand that.”

  “I’ll bet Worry wouldn’t do anything of the kind. Maybe he knows more than you think.”

  “I’m afraid to tell him, Ken. I just can’t tell him.”

  “But you gave your word of honor not to break training. The only thing left is to confess.”

  “I won’t tell, Ken. It’s not so much my own place on the team—there are the other fellows.”

  Ken saw that it was no use to argue with Raymond while he was so sick and discouraged, so he wisely left off talking and did his best to make him comfortable. Raymond dropped asleep after a little, and when he awakened just before lunch-time he appeared better.

  “I won’t be able to practise today,” he said; “but I’ll go down to lunch.”

  As he was dressing the boys began to come in from college and ran whistling up the stairs.

  Graves bustled into the room with rather anxious haste.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Pretty rocky. Graves—I told Ward about it,” said Raymond.

  Upon his hurried entrance Graves had not observed Ken.

  “What did you want to do that for?” he demanded, arrogantly.

  Raymond looked at him, but made no reply.

  “Ward, I suppose you’ll squeal,” said Graves, sneeringly. “That’ll about be your speed.”

  Ken rose and, not trusting himself to speak, remained silent.

  “You sissy!” cried Graves, hotly. “Will you peach on us to Arthurs?”

  “No. But if you don’t get out of my room I’ll hand you one,” replied Ken, his voice growing thick.

  Graves’s face became red as fire.

  “What? Why, you white-faced, white-haired freshman! I’ve been aching to punch you!”

  “Well, why don’t you commence?”

  With the first retort Ken had felt a hot trembling go over him, and having yielded to his anger he did not care what happened.

  “Ken—Graves,” pleaded Raymond, white as a sheet. “Don’t—please!” He turned from one to the other. “Don’t scrap!”

  “Graves, it’s up to someone to call you, and I’m going to do it,” said Ken, passionately. “You’ve been after me all season, but I wouldn’t care for that. It’s your rotten influence on Kel and the other boys that makes me wild. You are the drag in this baseball team. You are a crack ball-player, but you don’t know what college spirit means. You’re a mucker!”

  “I’ll lick you for that!” raved Graves, shaking his fists.

  “You can’t lick me!”

  “Come outdoors. I dare you to come outdoors. I dare you!”

  Ken strode out of the room and started down the hall. “Come on!” he called, grimly, and ran down the stairs. Graves hesitated a moment, then followed.

  Raymond suddenly called after them:

  “Give it to him, Ken! Slug him! Beat him all up!”

  FRIENDSHIP

  A half-hour or less afterward Ken entered the training-house. It chanced that the boys, having come in, were at the moment passing through the hall to the dining-room, and with them was Worry Arthurs.

  “Hello! you back? What’s the matter with you?” demanded the coach.

  Ken’s lips were puffed and bleeding, and his chin was bloody. Sundry red and dark marks disfigured his usually clear complexion. His eyes were blazing, and his hair rumpled down over his brow.

  “You’ve been in a scrap,” declared Worry.

  “I know it,” said Ken. “Let me go up and wash.”

  Worry had planted himself at the foot of the stairway in front of Ken. The boys stood silent and aghast. Suddenly there came thumps upon the stairs, and Raymond appeared, jumping down three steps at a time. He dodged under Worry’s arm and plunged at Ken to hold him with both hands.

  “Ken! You’re all bloody!” he exclaimed, in great excitement. “He didn’t lick you? Say he didn’t! He’s got to fight me, too! You’re all bunged up!”

  “Wait till you see him!” muttered Ken.

  “A-huh!” said Worry. “Been scrappin’ with Graves! What for?”

  “It’s a personal matter,” replied Ken.

  “Come, no monkey-biz with me,” said the coach, sharply. “Out with it!”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Mr. Arthurs, it’s my fault,” burst out Raymond, flushed and eager. “Ken was fighting on my account.”

  “It wasn’t anything of the kind,” retorted Ken, vehemently.

  “Yes it was,” cried Raymond, “and I’m going to tell why.”

  The hall door opened to admit Graves. He was dishevelled, dirty, battered, and covered with blood. When he saw the group in the hall he made as if to dodge out.

  “Here, come on! Take your medicine,” called Worry, tersely.

  Graves shuffled in, cast down and sheepish, a very different fellow from his usual vaunting self.

  “Now, Raymond, what’s this all about?” demanded Worry.

  Raymond changed color, but he did not hesitate an instant.

  “Ken came in this morning and found me sick in bed. I told him I had been half drunk last night—and that Graves had gotten me to drink. Then Graves came in. He and Ken had hard words. They went outdoors to fight.”

  “Would you have told me?” roared the coach in fury. “Would you have come to me with this if I hadn’t caught Peg?”

  Raymond faced him without flinching.

  “At first I thought not—when Ken begged me to confess I just couldn’t. But now I know I would.”

  At that Worry lost his sudden heat, and then he turned to the stricken Graves.

  “Mebbe it’ll surprise you, Graves, to learn that I knew a little of what you’ve been doin’. I told Homans to go to you in a quiet way and tip off your mistake. I hoped you’d see it. But you didn’t. Then you’ve been knockin’ Ward all season, for no reason I could discover but jealousy. Now, listen! Peg Ward has done a lot for me already this year, and he’ll do more. But even if he beats Place, it won’t mean any more to me than the beatin’ he’s given you. Now, you pack your things and get out of here. There’s no position for you on this varsity.”

  Without a word in reply and amid intense silence Graves went slowly upstairs. When he disappeared Worry sank into a chair, and looked as if he was about to collapse. Little Trace walked hesitatingly forward with the manner of one propelled against his will.

  “Mr. Arthurs, I—I,” he stammered—“I’m guilty, too. I broke training. I want to—”

  The coach waved him back. “I don’t want to hear it, not another word—from anybody. It’s made me sick. I can’t stand any more. Only I see I’ve got to change my rules. There won’t be any rules any more. You can all do as you like. I’d rather have you all go stale than practise deceit on me. I cut out the trainin’ rules.”

  “No!” The team rose up as one man and flu
ng the refusal at the coach.

  “Worry, we won’t stand for that,” spoke up Reddy Ray. His smooth, cool voice was like oil on troubled waters. “I think Homans and I can answer for the kids from now on. Graves was a disorganizer—that’s the least I’ll say of him. We’ll elect Homans captain of the team, and then we’ll cut loose like a lot of demons. It’s been a long, hard drill for you, Worry, but we’re in the stretch now and going to finish fast. We’ve been a kind of misfit team all spring. You’ve had a blind faith that something could be made out of us. Homans has waked up to our hidden strength. And I go further than that. I’ve played ball for years. I know the game. I held down left field for two seasons on the greatest college team ever developed out West. That’s new to you. Well, it gives me license to talk a little. I want to tell you that I can feel what’s in this team. It’s like the feeling I have when I’m running against a fast man in the sprints. From now on we’ll be a family of brothers with one idea. And that’ll be to play Place off their feet.”

  Coach Arthurs sat up as if he had been given the elixir of life. Likewise the members of the team appeared to be under the spell of a powerful stimulus. The sprinter’s words struck fire from all present.

  Homans’ clear gray eyes were like live coals. “Boys! One rousing cheer for Worry Arthurs and for Wayne!”

  Lusty, strained throats let out the cheer with a deafening roar.

  It was strange and significant at that moment to see Graves, white-faced and sullen, come down the stairs and pass through the hall and out of the door. It was as if discord, selfishness, and wavering passed out with him. Arthurs and Homans and Ray could not have hoped for a more striking lesson to the young players.

  Dave, the colored waiter, appeared in the doorway of the dining-room. “Mr. Arthurs, I done call yo’ all. Lunch is sho’ gittin’ cold.”