The Young Pitcher by Zane Grey (popular ebook readers TXT) 📖

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

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 down-stairs 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 some one.

“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 to-day,” 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 delicate 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 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 to-day, 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 to-day like—like an automatic machine,” went on Worry, as if Ken had not spoken.