Grey, Zane, 1872-1939 / 2008-11-19 00:00:00
"
He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him.
Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached
over and grasped Ken's right arm.
"How's the whip?"
"What?" asked Ken.
"The wing--your arm, Kid, your arm."
"Oh--Why, it's all right."
"It's not sore--not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?"
Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. "It's weak to-night, but
not sore."
"These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth.
Say, how old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"What! No more than that?"
"No."
"How much do you weigh?"
"About one hundred and fifty-six."
"I thought you had some beef back of that stunt of yours to-day. Say,
Kid, it was the funniest and the best thing I've seen at the university
in ten years--and I've seen some fresh boys do some stunts, I have.
Well... Kid, you've a grand whip--a great arm--and we're goin' to do
some stunts with it."
Ken felt something keen and significant in the very air.
"A great arm! For what?... who are you?"
"Say, I thought every boy in college knew me. I'm Arthurs."
"The baseball coach! Are you the baseball coach?" exclaimed Ken,
jumping up with his heart in his throat.
"That's me, my boy; and I'm lookin' you up.
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