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 on the bronze head it struck with a sharp crack. Like a tenpin the Soph went down. He plumped into the next two fellows, knocking them off their slippery footing. The three fell helplessly and piled up their comrades in a dense wedge half-way down the steps. If the Sophs had been yelling before, it was strange to note how they were yelling now.
Deliberately Ken fired the heavy missiles. They struck with sodden thuds against the bodies of the struggling sophomores. A poor thrower could not very well have missed that mark, and Ken Ward was remarkably accurate. He had a powerful overhand swing, and the potatoes flew like bullets. One wild-eyed Soph slipped out of the tangle to leap up the steps. Ken, throwing rather low, hit him on the shin. He buckled and dropped down with a blood-curdling yell. Another shook himself loose and faced upward. A better-aimed shot took him in the shoulder. He gave an exhibition of a high and lofty somersault. Then two more started up abreast. The first Ken hit over the eye with a very small potato, which popped like an explosive bullet and flew into bits. As far as effect was concerned a Martini could not have caused a more beautiful fall. Ken landed on the second fellow in the pit of the stomach with a very large potato. There was a sound as of a suddenly struck bass-drum. The Soph crumpled up over the railing, slid down, and fell among his comrades, effectually blocking the stairway.
For the moment Ken had stopped the advance. The sophomores had been checked by one wild freshman. There was scarcely any doubt about Ken's wildness. He had lost his hat; his dishevelled hair stood up like a mane; every time he hurled a potato he yelled. But there was nothing wild about his aim.
All at once he turned his battery on the students gathering below the crush, trying to find a way through the kicking, slipping mass on the narrow stairs. He scattered them as if they had been quail. Some ran out of range. Others dove for cover and tried to dodge. This dodging brought gleeful howls from Ken.
“Dodge, you Indian!” yelled Ken, as he threw. And seldom it was that dodging was of any use. Then, coming to the end of his ammunition, he surveyed the battle-field beneath him and, turning, ran across the avenue and down a street. At the corner of the block he looked back. There was one man coming, but he did not look like a student. So Ken slackened his pace and bent his steps toward his boarding-house.
“By George! I stole those potatoes!” he exclaimed, presently. “I wonder how I can make that good.”
Several times as he turned to look over his shoulder he saw the man he had noticed at first. But that did not trouble him, for he was sure no one else was following him. Ken reached his room exhausted by exertion and excitement. He flung himself upon his bed to rest and calm his mind so that he could think. If he had been in a bad light before, what was his position now? Beyond all reasoning with, however, was the spirit that gloried in his last stand.
“By George!” he kept saying. “I wouldn't have missed that—not for anything. They made my life a nightmare. I'll have to leave college—go somewhere else—but I don't care.”
Later, after dinner as he sat reading, he heard a door-bell ring, a man's voice, then footsteps in the hall. Some one tapped on his door. Ken felt a strange, cold sensation, which soon passed, and he spoke:
“Come in.”
The door opened to admit a short man with little, bright eyes sharp as knives.
“Hello, Kid,” he said. Then he leisurely removed his hat and overcoat and laid them on the bed.
Ken's fear of he knew not what changed to amazement. At least his visitor did not belong to the faculty. There was something familiar about the man, yet Ken could not place him.
“Well up in your studies?” he asked, cordially. Then he seated himself, put a hand on each knee, and deliberately and curiously studied Ken.
“Why, yes, pretty well up,” replied Ken. He did not know how to take the man. There was a kindliness about him which relieved Ken, yet there was also a hard scrutiny that was embarrassing.
“All by your lonely here,” he said.
“It is lonely,” replied Ken, “but—but I don't get on very well with the students.”
“Small wonder. Most of 'em are crazy.”
He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him. Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached over and grasped Ken's right arm.
“How's the whip?”
“What?” asked Ken.
“The wing—your arm, Kid, your arm.”
“Oh—Why, it's all right.”
“It's not sore—not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?”
Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. “It's weak to-night, but not sore.”
“These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth. Say, how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“What! No more than that?”
“No.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“About one hundred and fifty-six.”
“I thought you had some beef back of that stunt of yours to-day. Say, Kid, it was the funniest and the best thing I've seen at the university in ten years—and I've seen some fresh boys do some stunts, I have. Well … Kid, you've a grand whip—a great arm—and we're goin' to do some stunts with it.”
Ken felt something keen and significant in the very air.
“A great arm! For what? … who are you?”
“Say, I thought every boy in college knew me. I'm Arthurs.”
“The baseball coach! Are you the baseball coach?” exclaimed Ken, jumping up with his heart in his throat.
“That's me, my boy; and I'm lookin' you up.”
Ken suddenly choked with thronging emotions and sat down as limp as a rag.
“Yes, Kid, I'm after you strong. The way you pegged 'em to-day got me. You've a great arm!”
Prisoner of the Sophs
“But if—it's really true—that I've a great arm,” faltered Ken, “it won't ever do me any good. I could never get on the varsity.”
“Why not?” demanded the coach. “I'll make a star of a youngster like you, if you'll take coachin'. Why not?”
“Oh, you don't know,” returned Ken, with a long face.
“Say, you haven't struck me as a kid with no nerve. What's wrong with you?”
“It
