it was you who hit Dale. Well—that's bad,” replied Arthurs. He got up with sober face and began to walk the floor. “I remember the eye he had. It was a sight. … But Dale's a good fellow. He'll—”
“I'd do anything on earth to make up for that,” burst out Ken.
“Good! I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Arthurs, his face brightening. “We'll go right down to Dale's room now. I'll fix it up with him somehow. The sooner the better. I'm goin' to call the baseball candidates to the cage soon.”
They put on coats and hats and went out. Evidently the coach was thinking hard, for he had nothing to say, but he kept a reassuring hand on Ken's arm. They crossed the campus along the very path where Ken had fled from the sophomores. The great circle of dormitories loomed up beyond with lights shining in many windows. Arthurs led Ken through a court-yard and into a wide, bright hallway. Their steps sounded with hollow click upon the tiled floor. They climbed three flights of stairs, and then Arthurs knocked at a door. Ken's heart palpitated. It was all so sudden; he did not know what he was going to say or do. He did not care what happened to him if Arthurs could only, somehow, put him right with the captain.
A merry voice bade them enter. The coach opened the door and led Ken across the threshold. Ken felt the glow of a warm, bright room, colorful with pennants and posters, and cozy in its disorder. Then he saw Dale and, behind him, several other students. There was a moment's silence in which Ken heard his heart beat.
Dale rose slowly from his seat, the look on his frank face changing from welcome to intense amazement and then wild elation.
“Whoop!” he shouted. “Lock the door! Worry Arthurs, this's your best bet ever!”
Dale dashed at the coach, hugged him frantically, then put his head out of the door to bawl: “Sophs! Sophs! Sophs! Hurry call! Number nine! … Oh, my!”
Then he faced about, holding the door partially open. He positively beamed upon the coach.
“Say, Cap, what's eatin' you?” asked Arthurs. He looked dumfounded. Ken hung to him desperately; he thought he knew what was coming. There were hurried footsteps in the corridor and excited voices.
“Worry, it's bully of you to bring this freshman here,” declared the captain.
“Well, what of it?” demanded the coach. “I looked him up to-night. He's got a great arm, and will be good material for the team. He told me about the little scrap you had in the lecture-room. He lost his temper, and no wonder. Anyway, he's sorry, Cap, and I fetched him around to see if you couldn't make it up. How about it, Kid?”
“I'm sorry—awfully sorry, Captain Dale,” blurted out Ken. “I was 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
