“Look at that fuzzy gosling with the yellow pants!”
“Keep your shanks out of the way, Freshie!”
“Couldn't hit a balloon!”
Whenever a batter hit a ball into the crowd of dodging players down the cage these students howled with glee. Ken discovered that he was standing near Captain Dale and other members of the barred varsity.
“Say, Dale, how do the candidates shape up?” asked a student.
“This is a disgrace to Wayne,” declared Dale, bitterly. “I never saw such a mob of spindle-legged kids in my life. Look at them! Scared to death! That fellow never swung at a ball before—that one never heard of a bunt—they throw like girls—Oh! this is sickening, fellows. I see where Worry goes to his grave this year and old Wayne gets humbled by one-horse colleges.”
Ken took one surprised glance at the captain he had admired so much and then he slipped farther over in the crowd. Perhaps Dale had spoken truth, yet somehow it jarred upon Ken's sensitive nature. The thing that affected Ken most was the earnestness of the uniformed boys trying their best to do well before the great coach. Some were timid, uncertain; others were rash and over-zealous. Many a ball cracked off a player's knee or wrist, and more than once Ken saw a bloody finger. It was cold in the cage. Even an ordinarily hit ball must have stung the hands, and the way a hard grounder cracked was enough to excite sympathy among those scornful spectators, if nothing more. But they yelled in delight at every fumble, at everything that happened. Ken kept whispering to himself: “I can't see the fun in it. I can't!”
Arthurs dispensed with the bunting and ordered one hit each for the batters. “Step up and hit!” he ordered, hoarsely. “Don't be afraid—never mind that crowd—step into the ball and swing natural.... Next! Hurry, boys!”
Suddenly a deep-chested student yelled out with a voice that drowned every other sound.
“Hard luck, Worry! No use! You'll never find a hitter among those misfits!”