The Young Pitcher | Page 8

mad
and scared, too--then you fellows hurt me. So I hit right out.... But I'll
take my medicine."
"So--oh!" ejaculated Dale. "Well, this beats the deuce! That's why
you're here?"
The door opened wide to admit half a dozen eager-faced youths.
"Fellows, here's a surprise," said Dale. "Young Ward, the freshman! the
elusive slugging freshman, fast on his feet, and, as Worry here says, a
lad with a great arm!"
"WARD!" roared the Sophs in unison.
"Hold on, fellows--wait--no rough-house yet--wait," ordered Dale.

"Ward's here of his own free will!"
Silence ensued after the captain spoke. While he turned to lock the door
the Sophs stared open-mouthed at Ken. Arthurs had a worried look, and
he kept his hand on Ken. Dale went to a table and began filling his pipe.
Then he fixed sharp, thoughtful eyes upon his visitors.
"Worry, you say you brought this freshman here to talk baseball?" he
asked.
"Sure I did," blustered Arthurs. It was plain now where he got the name
that Dale called him. "What's in the wind, anyhow?"
Dale then gravely spoke to Ken. "So you came here to see me? Sorry
you slugged me once? Want to make up for it somehow, because you
think you've a chance for the team, and don't want me to be sore on you?
That it?"
"Not exactly," replied Ken. "I'd want to let you get square with me even
if you weren't the varsity captain."
"Well, you've more than squared yourself with me--by coming here.
You'll realize that presently. But don't you know what's happened, what
the freshmen have done?"
"No; I don't."
"You haven't been near the university since this afternoon when you
pulled off the potato stunt?"
"I should say I haven't."
This brought a laugh from the Sophs.
"You were pretty wise," went on Dale. "The Sophs didn't love you then.
But they're going to--understand?"
Ken shook his head, too bewildered and mystified to reply.

"Well, now, here's Giraffe Boswick. Look what you did to him!"
Ken's glance followed the wave of Dale's hand and took in the tall,
bronze-haired sophomore who had led the chase that afternoon.
Boswick wore a huge discolored bruise over his left eye. It was hideous.
Ken was further sickened to recollect that Boswick was one of the
varsity pitchers. But the fellow was smiling amiably at Ken, as amiably
as one eye would permit. The plot thickened about Ken. He felt his legs
trembling under him.
"Boswick, you forgive Ward, don't you--now?" continued Dale, with a
smile.
"With all my heart!" exclaimed the pitcher. "To see him here would
make me forgive anything."
Coach Arthurs was ill at ease. He evidently knew students, and he did
not relish the mystery, the hidden meaning.
"Say, you wise guys make me sick," he called out, gruffly. "Here's a
kid that comes right among you. He's on the level, and more'n that, he's
game! Now, Cap, I fetched him here, and I won't stand for a whole lot.
Get up on your toes! Get it over!"
"Sit down Worry, here's a cigar--light up," said Dale, soothingly. "It's
all coming right, lovely, I say. Ward was game to hunt me up, a
thousand times gamer than he knows.... See here, Ward, where are you
from?"
"I live a good long day's travel from the university," answered Ken,
evasively.
"I thought so. Did you ever hear of the bowl-fight, the great event of
the year here at Wayne University?"
"Yes, I've heard--read a little about it. But I don't know what it is."
"I'll tell you," went on Dale. "There are a number of yearly rushes and

scrapes between the freshmen and sophomores, but the bowl-fight is
the one big meeting, the time-honored event. It has been celebrated
here for many years. It takes place on a fixed date. Briefly, here's what
comes off: The freshmen have the bowl in their keeping this year
because they won it in the last fight. They are to select one of their
number, always a scrappy fellow, and one honored by the class, and
they call him the bowl-man. A week before the fight, on a certain date,
the freshmen hide this bowl-man or protect him from the sophomores
until the day of the fight, when they all march to Grant field in
fighting-togs. Should the sophomores chance to find him and hold him
prisoner until after the date of the bowl-fight they win the bowl. The
same applies also in case the bowl is in possession of the sophomores.
But for ten years neither class has captured the other's bowl-man. So
they have fought it out on the field until the bowl was won."
"Well, what has all that got to do with me?" asked Ken. He felt
curiously light-headed.
"It has a little to