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 was I who slugged Captain Dale and caused that big rush between the freshmen and sophomores. I've lived like a hermit ever since.”
“So 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—”