Worry groaned and sank into a chair crushed and beaten. Then he swore, something unusual in him. Then he began to rave at the fat-headed directors. Then he yelled that he would never coach another ball team so long as he lived.
Ken followed Reddy out of the training-house and along the street. The fact that the sprinter did not say a word showed Ken he was understood, and he felt immeasurably grateful. They crossed the campus and entered College Hall, to climb the winding stairway. To Ken that was a long, hateful climb. Andrews, and another of the directors whom Ken knew by sight, were in the office. They greeted the visitors with cordial warmth.
“Gentlemen,” began Reddy, “Ward thinks he has violated one of the eligibility rules.”
There was no beating about the bush with Reddy Ray, no shading of fact, no distortion of the truth. Coolly he stated the case. But, strangely to Ken, the very truth, told by Reddy in this way, somehow lost its terrors. Ken's shoulders seemed unburdened of a terrible weight.
Andrews and his colleague laughed heartily.
“You see—I—I forgot all about it,” said Ken.
“Yes, and since he remembered he's been worrying himself sick,” resumed Reddy. “Couldn't rest till he'd come over here.”
“Ward, it's much to your credit that you should confide something there was never any chance of becoming known,” said the president of the athletic faculty. “We appreciate it. You may relieve your mind of misgivings as to your eligibility. Even if we tried I doubt if we could twist a rule to affect your standing. And you may rest assured we wouldn't try in the case of so fine a young fellow and so splendid a pitcher for Wayne.”
Then Andrews courteously shook hands with Ken and Reddy and bowed them out. Ken danced half-way down the stairway and slid the rest on the bannister.
“Reddy, wasn't he just fine?” cried Ken, all palpitating with joy.