The Young Pitcher | Page 5

he knew he would stop and take
what they had to give, and retaliate as best he could. Only, what would
they do to him when they did catch him? He remembered his watch, his
money, and clothes, never recovered after that memorable tug-of-war.
He minded the loss of his watch most; that gift could never be replaced.
It seemed to him that he had been the greater sufferer.
One Saturday in January Ken hurried from his class-room. He was
always in a hurry and particularly on Saturdays, for that being a short
day for most of the departments, there were usually many students
passing to and fro. A runaway team clattering down the avenue
distracted him from his usual caution, and he cut across the campus.
Some one stopped the horses, and a crowd collected. When Ken got
there many students were turning away. Ken came face to face with a

tall, bronze-haired, freckle-faced sophomore, whom he had dodged
more than once. There was now no use to dodge; he had to run or stand
his ground.
"Boys, here's that slugging Freshie!" yelled the Soph. "We've got him
now."
He might have been an Indian chief so wild was the whoop that
answered him.
"Lead us to him!"
"Oh, what we won't do to that Freshie!"
"Come on, boys!"
Ken heard these yells, saw a number of boys dash at him, then he broke
and ran as if for his life. The Sophs, a dozen strong, yelling loudly,
strung out after him. Ken headed across the campus. He was fleet of
foot, and gained on his pursuers. But the yells brought more Sophs on
the scene, and they turned Ken to the right. He spurted for Carlton Hall,
and almost ran into the arms of still more sophomores. Turning tail, he
fled toward the library. When he looked back it was to see the
bronze-haired leader within a hundred yards, and back of him a long
line of shouting students.
If there was a place to hide round that library Ken could not find it. In
this circuit he lost ground. Moreover, he discovered he had not used
good judgment in choosing that direction. All along the campus was a
high iron fence. Ken thought desperately hard for an instant, then with
renewed speed he bounded straight for College Hall.
This was the stronghold of the sophomores. As Ken sped up the gravel
walk his pursuers split their throats.
"Run, you Freshie!" yelled one.
"The more you run--" yelled another.

"The more we'll skin you!" finished a third.
Ken ran into the passageway leading through College Hall.
It was full of Sophs hurrying toward the door to see where the yells
came from. When Ken plunged into their midst some one recognized
him and burst out with the intelligence. At the same moment Ken's
pursuers banged through the swinging doors.
A yell arose then in the constricted passageway that seemed to Ken to
raise College Hall from its foundation. It terrified him. Like an eel he
slipped through reaching arms and darted forward. Ken was heavy and
fast on his feet, and with fear lending him wings he made a run through
College Hall that would have been a delight to the football coach. For
Ken was not dodging any sophomores now. He had played his
humiliating part of dodger long enough. He knocked them right and left,
and many a surprised Soph he tumbled over. Reaching the farther door,
he went through out into the open.
The path before him was clear now, and he made straight for the
avenue. It was several hundred yards distant, and he got a good start
toward it before the Sophs rolled like a roaring stream from the passage.
Ken saw other students running, and also men and boys out on the
avenue; but as they could not head him off he kept to his course. On
that side of the campus a high, narrow stairway, lined by railings, led
up to the sidewalk. When Ken reached it he found the steps covered
with ice. He slipped and fell three times in the ascent, while his frantic
pursuers gained rapidly.
Ken mounted to the sidewalk, gave vent to a gasp of relief, and,
wheeling sharply, he stumbled over two boys carrying a bushel basket
of potatoes. When he saw the large, round potatoes a daring inspiration
flashed into his mind. Taking the basket from the boys he turned to the
head of the stairway.
The bronze-haired Soph was half-way up the steps. His followers,
twelve or more, were climbing after him. Then a line of others
stretched all the way to College Hall.

With a grim certainty of his mastery of the situation Ken threw a huge
potato at his leading pursuer. Fair and square