PARKINSON HAS A CHANGE OF HEART
Humphrey was waiting when Ira returned from supper. "Thought I might as
well go along and see the fun," he observed carelessly.
They reached the auditorium, on the second floor of Parkinson
Hall, in good time but found it already half-full. A dozen rather
conscious-looking fellows stood or sat about the stage: Fred Lyons, De
Wolf Lowell, Gene Goodloe, the four class presidents, Steve Crocker,
baseball captain, and several whom Ira didn't know. Mr. Driscoll,
followed by Billy Goode, the trainer, came in a few minutes later and
joined the assemblage on the stage. There was a good deal of noise in
the hall, for everyone was talking or laughing. It was evident not only
that about every fellow in school was to be on hand but that they were
here principally with the idea of finding amusement. Ira and Humphrey
found seats on the left about midway between the stage and the green
swinging doors with the oval lights at the other end of the auditorium.
By five minutes to eight all the seats were occupied and a fringe of
boys lined the wall at the back. Ira saw several of the faculty in the
audience: Mr. Morgan, Mr. Talbot and Mr. Tasser. Their presence was
easily explained since they were the faculty members of the Athletic
Committee.
At eight by the big, round clock over the stage, Hodges, fourth class
president, who had evidently accepted the office of chairman, arose
and the noise quieted to furtive scraping of feet or coughing. Hodges
explained unemotionally the purpose of the meeting and introduced
Lowell. The best feature of Hodges' introduction was its brevity,
and the best feature of the manager's talk was doubtless its strict
attention to facts and figures. He undoubtedly showed conclusively
that the Football Association was sadly in need of funds; the figures
which he paraded proved it; but figures and facts are dull things and
by the time he had finished the quiet had gone. Many fellows were
whispering behind their hands and many others were frankly yawning.
Ira knew that they needed stirring up and hoped that the next speaker
would do it. But the next was Fred Lyons, and although Fred wanted very
much to make an appeal that would reach his audience, he failed most
dismally. Perhaps it was because he wanted to do it too hard that he
couldn't. His earnestness was convincing enough, but it so closely
approached solemnity that it was better calculated to produce tears
than enthusiasm. Fred apologised for the poor showing made by the team
in recent years and made the mistake, possibly, of placing a share of
the blame on the lack of support supplied by the school. No audience
cares to listen to a recital of its shortcomings unless it is in a
particularly sympathetic mood, and this one wasn't. Fred asked the
school to get behind the team, to believe in it and to aid it.
"It's your team and it will do what you want it to if you will give
it support. It can't win without that support. We've got good players
and a fine coach, and we're all eager to do our best, fellows. But we
need your help, moral and financial. Manager Lowell has told you how
we stand regarding money. Last season was a poor one financially and
we started this year with a practically empty treasury. So far we have
managed to worry along from one game to the next, but we need a lot of
supplies, we owe money for printing and we owe Mr. Driscoll half his
salary. What Lowell didn't tell you is that he has dug into his own
pocket several times, just as I have, for that matter, in order to keep
going. Comparatively few season tickets have been taken this year,
nearly eighty less than last, and the attendance at the games, with one
exception, has been poor. We need money, fellows, quite a lot of money,
and I'm hoping you will give it to us. And we need even more; to feel
that you are behind us and want us to come through. If you will do your
part we'll do ours, every one of us, players, coach, management and
trainer. I think that's all I have to say. Thank you."
Fred sat down amidst a salvo of applause, but Ira somehow knew that his
address had not carried conviction and that the applause was for Fred
personally rather than for his appeal. And Fred's countenance said that
he realised the fact.
Coach Driscoll spoke briefly, dwelling on the ability of the team and
the spirit of it and paying a tribute to Captain Lyons that again
brought applause. He ended by echoing Fred's request for support and
stepped back to a hearty clapping of hands. Gene Goodloe did his
best, but Gene was sadly out of his element. His embarrassment was
so evident that it brought a ripple of laughter, and Ira had hopes.
But Gene made the mistake of resenting it and finished his remarks
amidst a deep and discouraging silence. Others followed, but the first
speakers had, so to say, sounded the tone of the meeting and each
succeeding speaker seemed more lugubrious than the last. Feet shuffled
impatiently and many eyes were fixed longingly on the doors. A few
of those near the entrance had already slipped away. The meeting was
proving long-drawn-out and dismal to a degree. Audible remarks began
to be heard, such as: "Pass the hat and call it a day!" "Question,
Mr. Speaker! Question!" "Let's have a song!" It was Hodges who,
recognising the attitude of the audience, tried to induce Billy Goode
to say something. But Billy resolutely refused to be dragged from his
chair, even though the audience, scenting possible relief from the dead
solemnity of the proceedings, clapped loudly and demanded a speech. In
the end, Hodges gave the trainer up and took the floor himself.
"Well, you've heard us all, fellows. You know what is wanted of you. So
let's get down to business. We've got some slips here and some pencils
and some of us are going to pass them around to you in a minute. I hope
every fellow will contribute. The Association needs about three hundred
dollars to get to the Kenwood game with. That means that some of us
must give liberally. But before we start the collection perhaps there's
someone that would like to say something. If there is let's hear from
him. Debate is open."
No one, however, seemed to have any message to deliver, although there
was plenty of whispering and subdued laughter. Finally, though, a tall,
lean youth with an earnest manner arose at one side of the hall and
cleared his throat nervously. Hodges recognised him and sat down.
"Who's the giraffe?" whispered Humphrey. Ira shook his head.
"Mr. President--er--Chairman, and Fellow Students," began the earnest
one. "I've listened carefully to what has been said and as near as I
can see it doesn't amount to much." Some applause and a good deal of
laughter rewarded him. "This football team of ours needs money to go on
with, they tell us," continued the speaker, encouraged by the applause,
"but I ask them: Why? This is an age of efficiency, gentlemen, and
when something is proven inefficient it is discarded. Seems to me this
football team has proved itself about as inefficient as anything could
be. Seems to me a football team's excuse for existence is--er--is
winning games. If that's so, this football team of ours stopped being
efficient three years ago. I ask you what use there is in contributing
money for the benefit of something that has outlived its usefulness. I
claim that it's poor business, gentlemen. I maintain----"
But he didn't get any further, for the audience was laughing and
shouting its applause by that time. At last someone had waked them up!
The idea of discarding the team appealed to their sense of humour and
while the tall youth went on making faces and waving his hands the
audience gave way to hilarity.
"Good scheme! Discharge the team!"
"Pay 'em off and let 'em go!"
"No wins, no wages! How about it, Fred?"
On the stage the fellows were smiling, but not very comfortably. Fred
Lyons was whispering to Lowell, and the latter was shaking his head
helplessly. Somewhere in the back of the hall a second speaker was
demanding recognition and there was a general craning of necks as
Hodges rapped for order. Someone pulled the long-necked youth to his
chair, still talking and gesticulating.
"Mr. Chairman!" began the new speaker, "I want to say that most of us
fellows would support the football team if it would show itself worth
supporting. Isn't that so, fellows?"
Laughing agreement arose about him.
"That team hasn't won anything worth winning for so long that no one
remembers what it was they won. They talk about wanting three hundred
dollars. Well, maybe they do. But I say let them show something first.
This school is just as loyal to its teams as any school, but it wants
something for its money. I say let's give the team a hundred dollars
now and tell them to earn the rest!"
"That's right!" someone called. "We're from Missouri!"
A young, second class fellow jumped up and declared in a thin, high
voice that he "seconded the motion." Hodges rapped for silence.
"No motion has been put. If you want to put a motion we will vote on
it. But I must say that many of you are wrong when you think this is a
vaudeville show. Please try to talk sense. Are there any more remarks?"
There were several, but they weren't serious and the speakers didn't
stand up. Hodges looked slowly around the hall and then turned toward
the table beside him.
"If there aren't," he announced, "we will proceed with the purpose of
the meeting."
"Mr. Chairman!"
"Mister--" The chairman paused, at a loss, and Fred Lyons whispered
across to him--"Mr. Rowland?"
Ira, on his feet, conscious of Humphrey's wide-open mouth and of the
four hundred and more curious gazes, moistened his lips and took a deep
breath. He had acted quite on impulse, which was something he seldom
did do, and he was still a bit surprised to find himself standing there
facing the meeting.
"Shoot!" called someone, and many laughed.
"Mr. Chairman and--and fellows," began Ira slowly, "I----"
"Louder!" came a demand from the back of the auditorium.
Ira made a new start, facing so that he could make himself heard at the
back of the hall. "I want to tell a story," he said.
[Illustration: "I want to tell a story," he said]
"Naughty! Naughty!" cried a facetious youth.
Ira smiled. "It's about a horse race. Down in Maine, where I come from,
there was an old man who owned a horse." There was a nasal twang in
his voice that brought chuckles from many and smiles of anticipated
amusement from more. "She wasn't much of a horse, fellows. She was
about fourteen years old, and her front knees sorter knocked together
and she had the spring-halt in the left hind leg and she was blind in
one eye and couldn't see any too well outer the other. And she was
fat and she was lazy because this man I'm telling about didn't use
her except to drive to the village once a week in an old rattletrap
buckboard to get a pound of coffee and a sack of flour and so on. Well,
one time when he was in the village he saw a notice about a trotting
meeting to be held at the Fair Grounds a week or so later. So all the
way home that day he talked it over with Old Bess and she switched her
tail and flicked her ears and between them they decided to enter the
race. So he went in to the village again and put down his entry fee and
borrowed an old sulky of Peters, the blacksmith. It wasn't a very good
sulky to look at, but Peters put a new rim on one wheel and tied some
baling wire around it here and there and the old man hitched it on back
of the buckboard and fetched it home. And every day after that you'd
see him and Old Bess jogging along the turnpike.
"Well, it came the day of the meeting and the old man and Bess went
to the Fair Grounds. There was a heap of betting going on and the
old man he strolled around and strolled around and pretty soon he'd
met about everyone he knew and he didn't have a red cent left in his
pockets, and he calculated that if Old Bess won he'd be about fifteen
hundred dollars to the good, because everyone he laid a bet with gave
him perfectly scandalous odds. When it came Old Bess's time he drove
out on the track and everyone howled and the judges got down out of
the stand and asked him to go away and keep the peace. But he wouldn't
listen to 'em and so they had to let Old Bess start. And that's about
all she did do. Once on a time she'd been a pretty good trotter, but
that was a long way off, and maybe the old man didn't realise it. There
was just the one heat for Old Bess. When the other horses started she
switched her tail once or twice, looked around over her shoulder and
jogged away. Pretty soon they met the other horses coming back, but
Old Bess didn't take any notice of 'em. She just jogged on. And after
awhile a man came running up to them and asked wouldn't they please
get off the track because they were starting the next heat. And so the
old man he turned Old Bess around and she jogged back. And that's all
there was to it. But one of the men that had laid a bet with the old
man was sorter sorry for him, guessing he was just about cleaned out,
and he said: 'Old Man, ain't you got nary sense at all? Didn't you know
that horse o' yourn had spring-halt and epizootics and was knock-kneed
in front and fallin' away behind?' 'Why, yes,' replied the old man, 'I
knowed that, I guess.' 'An' you knew she was fourteen or fifteen years
old, didn't you?' 'Ought to, I lived right with her all the time.'
'An' you knew she was stone-blind in one eye, didn't you?' 'Yes, I
knowed that, too.' 'An' you knew she was too fat, anyway, didn't you?'
'I sorter suspected it.' 'Well, then why in tarnation did you bet on
her for?' 'Well, I'll tell you,' says the old man. 'She's _my_ horse,
an' what's mine I stands back of. An' win or not win, she's the finest
horse an' the fastest trotter in the State o' Maine! Get ap, Bess!'"
Ira sat down.
The clapping and stamping and laughter might have been heard across
on Faculty Row. It went on and on, and Hodges, smiling broadly as he
pounded his gavel, might just as well have been hitting a feather bed
with a broom-straw!
"Get up!" urged Humphrey. "Go on! They want more!"
"There isn't any more," said Ira, smiling. "And they don't need any
more."
And maybe they didn't, for it was a vastly different gathering that
scrambled for the slips of paper and put down figures and names.
Perhaps tomorrow or still later some of them would regret the size
of the figures, but just now they were in the mood to be generous,
for Ira's story had succeeded where all the rest of the oratory had
failed. They still chuckled as they passed the slips along and were
still smiling when the pledges were dumped on the table. Among them was
one which bore the inscription "$2.00--Humphrey Nead."
The meeting broke up then, but most of the audience waited until
those on the stage had hurriedly reckoned up the pledges, and when
Hodges held up his hand for silence and announced the total to be
three hundred and forty-one dollars they cheered loudly and long. And
when Steve Crocker pushed past Hodges and called for "a regular cheer
for the Team, fellows, and make it good!" the result indicated that
Parkinson School had experienced a change of heart!