“Ken, he's always smuggling pie and cake and candy into his room. I've had some of it. Trace said he'd brought in something to drink, too.”
“It's a shame,” cried Ken, in anger. “I never liked him and I've tried hard to change it. Now I'm glad I couldn't.”
“He doesn't have any use for you,” replied Kel. “He's always running you down to the other boys. What'd you ever do to him, Ken?”
“Oh, it was that potato stunt of mine last fall. He's a Soph, and I hit him, I guess.”
“I think it's more than that,” went on Raymond. “Anyway, you look out for him, because he's aching to spoil your face.”
“He is, is he?” snapped Ken.
Ken was too angry to talk any more, and so the boys went to bed. The next few days Ken discovered that either out of shame or growing estrangement Raymond avoided him, and he was bitterly hurt. He had come to like the little second-baseman, and had hoped they would be good friends. It was easy to see that Graves became daily bolder, and more lax in training, and his influence upon several of the boys grew stronger. And when Dean, Schoonover, and Duncan appeared to be joining the clique, Ken decided he would have to talk to some one, so he went up to see Ray and Homans.
The sprinter was alone, sitting by his lamp, with books and notes spread before him.
“Hello, Peg! come in. You look a little glum. What's wrong?”
Reddy Ray seemed like an elder brother to Ken, and he found himself blurting out his trouble. Ray looked thoughtful, and after a moment he replied in his quiet way: