When practice time rolled around for Ken next day, he went upon the field once more with his hopes renewed and bright.
“I certainly do die hard,” he laughed to himself. “But I can never go down and out now—never!”
Something seemed to ring in Ken's ears like peals of bells. In spite of his awkwardness Coach Arthurs had made him a varsity man; in spite of his unpreparedness old Crab had given him a passing mark; in spite of his unworthiness President Halstead had made him famous.
“I surely am the lucky one,” said Ken, for the hundredth time. “And now I'm going to force my luck.” Ken had lately revolved in his mind a persistent idea that he meant to propound to the coach.
Ken arrived on the field a little later than usual, to find Arthurs for once minus his worried look. He was actually smiling, and Ken soon saw the reason for this remarkable change was the presence of a new player out in centre field.
“Hello, Peg! things are lookin' up,” said the coach, beaming. “That's Homans out there in centre—Roy Homans, a senior and a crackerjack ball-player. I tried to get him to come out for the team last year, but he wouldn't spare the time. But he's goin' to play this season—said the president's little talk got him. He's a fast, heady, scientific player, just the one to steady you kids.”
Before Ken could reply his attention was attracted from Homans to another new player in uniform now walking up to Arthurs. He was tall, graceful, powerful, had red hair, keen dark eyes, a clean-cut profile and square jaw.
“I've come out to try for the team,” he said, quietly, to the coach.
“You're a little late, ain't you?” asked Worry, gruffly; but he ran a shrewd glance over the lithe form.
“Yes.”