CHAPTER I The New Man at Cascade

Boys, young men, men advanced in years but not in spirit, laughed, shouted greetings, pounded each other upon backs and gripped hands—all inspired with the joy of reunion. The shadows of the gray buildings of Cascade College were sharply outlined upon the lawns and walks in the brightness of California sunshine. Behind them the mountains sloped steeply down from the forest-crowned heights to spread over the shelf-like plateau which had been transformed from a wooded wilderness of giant trees to a semi-tropical garden.

Mask-faced Chinese youths in the severest of black clothing, a few in the rustling gorgeousness of their native silks; Nipponese, who wore the clothing of Americans as if they had crept into the garments without disturbing the work of the tailor; American boys from ranch and mountain, from desert and vineyard, in the loose freedom of Western clothing; boys from San Francisco, garbed a month ahead of Broadway style; clear-skinned, handsome Hawaiian youths; a group of dark-skinned East Indian lads; representatives of East and West drawn together by common pursuit of knowledge, pressed steadily toward the wide portals of Ridgeway Hall.

“Oh you Big Bill!”

“Hello, Old Scout! How are the Rangers?”

“Missed you at Honolulu, Dick.”

“Did the mine pan out?”

“Did you strike oil, Jimmy?”

“Wow, there’s Nikki. Hi, you Nikki, how’s Yeddo?”

Brown, yellow, black, red and white, they shouted the greetings and brought the word from all parts of the world, while they importuned each other for news of the long summer vacation. They spoke of Hawaii, the Philippines, China, Japan, of mines in the mountains, ranches in the desert, oil in the foothills, of oranges, pears and apples, of lumbering, of Alaska, of sea voyages and hunting trips, of work and play.

The students of Cascade College were returning for the fall semester—each with a wonder tale to tell. To Eastern college men the scene would have seemed strange; for under the college spirit and the bubbling joy of the return there was a deeper note. They were boys again—schoolboys back from vacation—but during the two months they had played the parts of men and they had the air of having had a part in the big world outside the classroom.

Standing alone, and feeling lonely during all the merriment, James Lawrence Kirkland watched the reunion. Half a dozen times he had started as if to join the press of students to reach the registrar’s office and conclude the ordeal of matriculation, but each time he had stopped as if fascinated by the sight of so many interesting boys. He found himself liking and disliking them and striving to pick out those who would be his friends and those who would be his enemies during the four years to come. He saw an alert, keen-eyed little Nipponese youth running to meet a giant of a boy in a broad Stetson hat.

“Mr. Sunderland,” cried the brown youth.

“Oh you Nikko,” yelled the giant, and lifted the lighter youth in his arms and danced with him.

This was Sunderland, the famous football player and hammer-thrower, and Jimmy Kirkland watched him with new interest. And as he gazed he saw upon the lapel of the coat of the little brown youth a service medal that told of a year with Oku’s army in Manchuria.

Larry felt suddenly insignificant and unimportant among these fellows, scarcely older than he was, who had played a part of the world’s great events. His confidence and assurance were evaporating, and he found himself lonely among them all. He turned quickly and, jostling through the glad throngs, he reached the registrar’s office and was enrolled. The card which he filled in read:

James Lawrence Kirkland. Residence, Shasta View Ranch, Pearton, Oregon. Age, eighteen.

He breathed more easily and carried himself with a new respect as he descended the stairs. He was a full Freshman, with fewer conditions to make up than he expected. His self-confidence returned, and he emerged upon the campus again, walking lightly.

He was an excellent type of athletic youth as he strolled slowly through the throngs, keeping a sharp lookout for some familiar face. In spite of his appearance of youth and his slenderness he possessed a magnificent pair of shoulders, and his blue eyes looked fearlessly into the eyes of those to whom he spoke. He carried himself jauntily, because of his lightness of foot, and his sandy, rebellious hair that bordered upon red, called attention to the well-formed head well set upon the wide shoulders.

Larry Kirkland was the ward of Major James Lawrence, owner of Shasta View, one of the wealthiest men on the Pacific coast. He and Larry’s father had been chums for years, and when the boy was left an orphan, the Major had taken him, to make him his heir. Larry had organized the boys of the ranch into a baseball team which, under his guidance and by the advice of Bill Krag, a major league pitcher, had triumphed over all opponents. His experience as manager of the Shasta View team, and his athletic ability and experience in handling the boys who played with him, had made it easy for Larry to become the leading athlete of the preparatory school, near Portland. During his two years there he had been captain of the baseball and track teams and had played on the football team, and he had entered college with the expectation of being greeted as a valuable acquisition. The fact that no one among all the throng of students paid the slightest attention to him, caused him to feel resentful. His buoyant spirit asserted itself.

The scant respect with which the upper classmen showed to new men and to the Freshmen irritated him. He was accustomed to being looked up to for advice, to being a leader, and to dictating the course of action to his associates, and to find himself treated as a small boy was humiliating. He was standing upon a terrace, unnoticed save when some passing Sophomore gave him a careless glance. He was angry with himself for permitting the feeling of resentment to upset him when a shout caused him to turn.

“Larry Kirkland!”

Larry whirled to see a small, lithe, brown boy leaping toward him on the terrace, hands outstretched in greeting and a glad smile on his face.

“Katty!” he exclaimed in surprise. “You here? Where did you come from?”

He seized the hands of the Nipponese boy and shook them heartily.

“I was just wishing I could see some one I knew,” said Larry. “But this is beyond what I hoped for. How are you? Are you in college?”

“I am in the college,” replied Katsura proudly. “My uncle is in merchandising. When I left Shasta View I came to live with him. He sends me to the college that some day I may return to Nippon and serve our Emperor.”

“How are you pitching now?” asked Larry joyously.

“I have pitched but little since I left the ranch,” said Katsura. “Twice during the summer I pitched for our boys. I am stronger, and I think would be better with practice.”

“Well, we must practice then,” said Larry enthusiastically. “We must practice the old javelin throw. Can you still do it?”

“Yes,” said Katsura proudly. “I have tried it often. It is natural, the old motion of my fathers in throwing the spear, and it helps me add speed. How is the Shasta View team?”

“Fine,” cried Larry joyously. “We beat Pearton three times this summer, and we had three teams down from Portland and won two of the games from them.”

“Who is pitcher now?” inquired Katsura a little jealous of his successor.

“Watson. You didn’t know him. He came after you left us. He is about my age and he is faster than Benny Arnett was. But he never has learned to pitch a slow curve the way you could.”

“I have wanted to go back and pitch again.”

“We’ll have to try for the team here. If we both make it what an honor that will be for Shasta View! Are there any other boys here I know?”

“Only Harry Baldwin, from Rogue River ranch,” replied Katsura gravely. “To him I never speak. He has been here two years.”

“I guess he won’t be glad to see me,” laughed Larry. “I haven’t seen him for a year. His father and Uncle Jim hate each other more than ever. Do you remember the time we beat Rogue River ranch team?”

“Yes,” said Katsura, brightening at the recollection, then suddenly growing serious again. “He has not forgotten it either. He never loses an opportunity to attempt to insult or injure me. See, there he is now.”

Larry’s eyes turned in the direction indicated and he saw Harry Baldwin, son of Barney Baldwin, his guardian’s feudal foe. Harry was standing talking to a group of flashily dressed, “sporty-looking” youths. Presently the group moved slowly along the walk near which Larry Kirkland and Katsura were standing. Harry Baldwin was talking, when his eyes suddenly caught the gaze of Larry Kirkland. A sneer came to his face and as he turned his eyes away, he said to his companions:

“Not much material for the athletic teams this fall.”

“I thought it looked good,” argued one of his companions. “I laid some bets before leaving home that we would win everything.”

“It doesn’t promise much,” responded Baldwin. “Fellow up from Los Angeles who ought to be good in the sprints, and two from Fresno who seem good baseball material, not much else.”

“What has Baldwin to do with athletics, Katty?” asked Larry, who had overheard the remarks.

“He is the leader of the sporty crowd here,” replied Katsura. “He is a great friend of the coach, and pretends to run things. He plays on the baseball team and they say he will be captain in the spring.”

“Whew!” whistled Larry in surprise and consternation. “Then I won’t have much chance to make the team.”

“How about this new fellow, Kirkland, from up near you, Harry?” asked one of the flashily-dressed youths. “I heard he was a wonder, and that he had a fine team on his ranch.”

“He’s a fresh little pup,” responded Baldwin, raising his voice and flashing a look toward Larry. “Awful case of swelled head. He thinks he owns the earth, but he is not game. We played a game with them a couple of years ago and they beat us by accident, then refused to play us again. He thinks because he can play on a team his uncle owns he is going to run everything, but he’ll find himself mistaken.”

Larry turned red at the insult flung at him and took an impulsive step forward. Katsura, who had overheard, laid a hand upon his arm.

“Pretend we did not hear,” he said quietly. “He raised his voice to make us hear, and he’ll be hurt if he thinks we didn’t.”

“Well, I know how the land lays,” said Larry, recovering himself with an effort. “That is a frank enough declaration of war. But I’m going to make the team, whether he wants me to or not.”

CHAPTER II Larry Clashes With the Coach

Candidates for the Baseball Team

Report at the Athletic Field

at Three o’Clock To-day.

Bring Uniforms.

HAXTON, Coach.

The announcement, plastered prominently upon the bulletin board in the main hallway of the administration building, attracted a swarm of youths who read in it the opportunity for winning fame upon the athletic field.

The returning students had waited impatiently through four days of rain and fog for the call for volunteers to defend the honor of the college on the diamond. Since the opening of the term the chief topics of conversation among the lower classmen had been as to the material from which the team was to be made. Only five of the veterans of the preceding spring were on hand, and the students demanded that a team be organized that could regain the laurels lost in the annual game with Golden University, the great rival school.

Larry Kirkland stood before the bulletin board. He was struggling between his desire to rush forward and announce himself a candidate and what he conceived to be his duty to his studies. He was behind with his classes, and carrying a heavy burden of conditions that were yet to be worked off. He had determined not to make any of the athletic teams until he was abreast the others in his studies. Three years of careless and unsystematic studying at the ranch under a tutor and in a fashionable but not thorough private school, had left him in arrears to his books. The discovery, made soon after he entered college, that he was behind other boys of his age, had aroused his pride, and during the autumn and winter, he had worked hard, and made rapid progress. In spite of this, however, there remained a burden of extra work to carry before he could leave the Freshman class, and he was debating whether or not he dared take the time for baseball. But spring was in the air; the California spring with its fogs and chills, broken by fevers of sunshine and summer.

The trades were blowing, sweeping the hills clean to let the brightness and sunshine develop the flowers and renew the greenness, then bringing the fog and chill from the sea to lay a gray blanket over all.

But where winter and spring meet eternally, it is always spring in the veins of the youth of the land. The baseball season was at hand, and the delayed call was out. Larry was longing to get into his uniform, which he had worn ever since Krag, the great Giant pitcher had presented it to him, and flaunt Shasta View in the face of the college youths. The thought that he would not be able to make the team never came to his mind. He felt confident that he could win his way, and the only problem was as to whether or not it would be the right thing to do. He was still hesitating when Katsura came leaping down the steps of the hall.

“Are you going to try for the team?” he inquired laughingly. “Of course you are.”

“No,” said Larry with sudden decision. “I’m afraid I won’t have the time this spring. I’m behind in math, and have two conditions to work off, and it will keep me grinding.”

“I hoped you would try,” said Katsura admiringly. “Shasta View ought to be represented.”

“Why don’t you try, Katty?” asked Larry. “You ought to be able to make it, with practice.”

“I have serious duties,” replied the brown boy gravely. “Besides I would fear to arouse the feeling against my race. It is strong here among some of the students.”

“Oh, I guess Haxton wouldn’t be that narrow, if you could pitch,” said Larry. “He wants to win.”

“I distrust Mr. Haxton,” said Katsura. “He always is with the sporty crowd. Those who have money are his friends.”

“That’s bad for the school,” replied Larry. “Let’s walk over and watch the practice, anyhow.”

The two boys found a vantage spot on the grass at the edge of the wide playing field and, reclining at ease, watched the efforts of the youths who were straining every muscle to prove their ability and right to play for the honor of the school. Both Katsura and Larry felt keenly the renunciation they had made, and each laughingly accused the other of purposely dragging him into temptation.

Boys of every height, of many ages, and many colors, creeds and races, attired in makeshift uniforms, were working desperately to attract the attention of the coach or his advisors. Some wore white shirts, with the wreckage of old football or baseball trousers. Some wore trousers abbreviated by the simple operation of cutting off at the knees. Many wore socks, with great lengths of bare leg showing. Roommates possessing one uniform had divided the treasure, one taking the trousers and one the shirt. There were track suits, golf suits, white ducks, and one youth drew a laugh by appearing in an undershirt and a wide pair of Chinese trousers that flapped with every move. But all were in deadly earnest.

Haxton, the coach, strolled around among the perspiring, eager candidates, stopping frequently to watch the movement of some one. Occasionally he caused some youngster to thrill by inquiring his name and jotting it upon a pad of paper. He smiled at the awkwardness of some who possessed more zeal than skill. At times he talked with the veterans of the preceding season, directing them to watch certain of the boys who had shown symptoms of skill in catching or throwing.

Larry, remembering his own trials in selecting the teams at Shasta View ranch and at preparatory school, watched Haxton’s methods with keen interest. He observed with a feeling of resentment that Harry Baldwin walked with the coach offering advice, and sometimes pointing to some youngster.

“Baldwin seems to be his right-hand man,” remarked Larry.

“They are friends,” said Katsura. “It is said that Baldwin goes with him around the cities, and spends large sums of money.”

“The sports seem to control athletics here.”

“There was much complaint last year,” remarked Katsura gravely. “The rich and the sporty ran the teams—and we were beaten. Many blamed Haxton.”

Haxton blew his whistle at that moment and ended further discussion. The candidates gathered around the big coach, and he quickly divided them into teams, pairing off pitchers and catchers, and telling them to work easily. The fielders whose names he had taken were placed in double lines for infield and outfield, and two of the veterans were set to batting balls for them to field.

The dozen or more pitchers and catchers had lined up near where Larry and Katsura were sitting and the boys watched with considerable amusement the efforts of some of the boys, and commenting upon the speed and ability of others. They laughed as they talked of their own first efforts.

“We probably would have looked greener than these fellows,” said Larry. “Yet we thought we were good.”

“I remember,” Katsura replied, smiling, “that when you told me to bat, my idea was to stand on the plate and face the ball.”

“We learned rapidly, though,” laughed Larry. “Mr. Krag’s letters of advice were worth a month of ordinary coaching.”

“Do you ever hear from Mr. Krag now?”

“No.” Larry’s face became troubled. “He never has written me since the day the Giants released him. He wrote that his arm had snapped while he was pitching and was useless. Then he stopped writing.”

“I wish I could have known him,” said the little brown boy. “To think of a famous pitcher taking an interest in us, way out here!”

“I’m afraid he is in ill luck,” said Larry. “He never saved money—he was too generous. The papers said he had little saved when the accident ended his career. I wrote and offered to help him, but he never replied.”

“Trying to make it curve?” Larry broke off his recital quickly and called to a tall, slender young fellow who was working hard, and who caught as if playing patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man.

“Yes, but somehow I can’t do it. I seem to have lost the knack. I’m sure I made it curve a few days ago.”

“Let me show you how,” Larry volunteered, springing to his feet and running forward, unable longer to resist the impulse to play. “Come on Katty. Catch a few minutes and we’ll show them how.”

He took the ball and explained to the tall youth the proper manner of gripping it for the different curves, and the method of releasing it from the hand.

“For the real curve—the fast breaking one that darts down and out—let it go this way,” he said, hooking his arm in a wide swing, that ended with a sudden snap of the wrist that sent the ball darting down and outward into Katsura’s hands.

“Now watch him,” he remarked, as Katsura lazily floated a slow twisting curve back at him.

“I can’t do much until my arm warms up,” said Larry. “Must start easy. I was foolish to throw that curve first, but couldn’t resist the temptation.”

For five minutes he explained and demonstrated, showing the tall youth little tricks and motions, until finally the slender boy sent a curve to Katsura.