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 do with you—hasn't it, fellows?” said Dale, in slow, tantalizing voice.
Worry Arthurs lost his worried look and began to smile and rub his hands.
“Ward, look here,” added Dale, now speaking sharply. “You've been picked for the bowl-man!”
“Me—me?” stammered Ken.
“No other. The freshmen were late in choosing a man this year. To-day, after your stunt—holding up that bunch of sophomores—they had a meeting in Carlton Club and picked you. Most of them didn't even know your name. I'll bet the whole freshman class is hunting for you right now.”
“What for?” queried Ken, weakly.
“Why, I told you. The bowl-fight is only a week off—and here you are. And here you'll stay until that date's past!”
Ken drew a quick breath. He began to comprehend. The sudden huzzahs of Dale's companions gave him further enlightenment.
“But, Captain Dale,” he said, breathlessly, “if it's so—if my class has picked me—I can't throw them down. I don't know a soul in my class. I haven't a friend. But I won't throw them down—not to be forever free of dodging Sophs—not even to square myself with you.”
“Ward, you're all right!” shouted Dale, his eyes shining.
In the quiet moment that followed, with all the sophomores watching him intently, Ken Ward instinctively felt that his measure had been taken.
“I won't stay here,” said Ken, and for the first time his voice rang.
“Oh yes, you will,” replied Dale, laughing.
Quick as a cat Ken leaped for the door and got it unlocked and half open before some one clutched him. Then Dale was on him close and hard. Ken began to struggle. He was all muscle, and twice he broke from them.
“His legs! Grab his legs! He's a young bull!”
“We'll trim you now, Freshie!”
“You potato-masher!”
“Go for his wind!”
Fighting and wrestling with all his might Ken went down under a half dozen sophomores. Then Dale was astride his chest, and others were sitting on his hands and feet.
“Boys, don't hurt that arm!” yelled Worry Arthurs.
“Ward, will you be good now and stop scrapping or shall we tie you?” asked Dale. “You can't get away. The thing to do is to give your word not to try. We want to make this easy for you. Your word of honor, now?”
“Never!” cried Ken.
“I knew you wouldn't,” said Dale. “We'll have to keep you under guard.”
They let him get up. He was panting, and his nose was bleeding, and one of his knuckles was skinned. That short struggle had been no joke. The Sophs certainly meant to keep him prisoner. Still, he was made to feel at ease. They could not do enough for him.
“It's tough luck, Ward, that you should have fallen into our hands this way,” said Dale. “But you couldn't help it. You will be kept in my rooms until after the fifteenth. Meals will be brought you, and your books; everything will be done for your comfort. Your whereabouts, of course, will be a secret, and you will be closely watched. Worry, remember you are bound to silence. And Ward, perhaps it wasn't an ill wind that blew you here. You've had your last scrap with a Soph, that's sure. As for what brought you here—it's more than square; and I'll say this: if you can play ball as well as you can scrap, old Wayne has got a star.”
The Call for Candidates
There were five rooms in Dale's suite in the dormitory, and three other sophomores shared them with him. They confined Ken in the end room, where he was safely locked and guarded from any possible chance to escape.
For the first day or two it was irksome for Ken; but as he and his captors grew better acquainted the strain eased up, and Ken began to enjoy himself as he had not since coming to the university.
He could not have been better provided for. His books were at hand, and even notes of the lectures he was missing were brought to him. The college papers and magazines interested him, and finally he was much amused by an account of his mysterious disappearance. All in a day he found himself famous. Then Dale and his room-mates were so friendly and jolly that if his captivity had not meant the disgrace of the freshman class, Ken would have rejoiced in it. He began to thaw out, though he did not lose his backwardness. The life of the great university began to be real to him. Almost the whole sophomore class, in squads of twos and threes and sixes, visited Dale's rooms during that week. No Soph wanted to miss a sight of a captive bowl-man. Ken felt so callow and fresh in their presence that he scarcely responded to their jokes. Worry Arthur's nickname of “Kid” vied with another the coach conferred on Ken, and that was “Peg.” It was significant slang expressing the little baseball man's baseball notion of Ken's throwing power.
The evening was the most interesting time for Ken. There was always something lively going on. He wondered when the boys studied. When some of the outside students dropped in there were banjo and guitar playing, college songs, and college gossip.
“Come on, Peg, be a good fellow,” they said, and laughed at his refusal to smoke or drink beer.
“Molly!” mocked one.
“Willy-boy!” added another.
Ken was callow, young, and backward; but he had a temper, and this kind of banter roused it easily. The red flamed into his cheeks.
“I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke or drink or gamble while I was in college,” he retorted, struggling with shame and anger. “And I—I won't.”
Dale stopped the good-natured chaff. “Fellows, stop guying Ward; cut it out, I tell you. He's only a kid freshman, but he's liable to hand you a punch, and if he does you'll remember it. Besides, he's right. … Look here, Ward, you stick to that promise. It's a good promise to stick to, and if you're going in for athletics it's the best ever.”
Worry Arthurs happened to be present on this evening, and he seconded Dale in more forceful speech. “There's too much boozin' and smokin' of them coffin nails goin' on in this college. It's none of my affair except with the boys I'm coachin', and if I ketch any one breakin' my rules after we go to the trainin'-table he'll sit on the bench. There's Murray; why, he says there are fellows in college who could break records if they'd train. Half of sprintin' or baseball or football is condition.”
“Oh, Worry, you and Mac always make a long face over things. Wayne has won a few championships, hasn't she?”
“The varsity ball team will be a frost this year, that's sure,” replied Arthurs, gloomily.
“How do you make that out?” demanded Dale, plainly nettled. “You've hinted it before to me. Why won't we be stronger than last season? Didn't we have a crackerjack team, the fastest that ever represented
