PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT
There was a buzz of excitement among the college students when the
notice had been read, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee,
to straighten out a financial tangle. There were various comments, and,
though some remarked that it was "always that way," and that a "few
fellows had to be depended on for the money," and like sentiments, the
majority of opinion was that the sum needed would quickly be subscribed.
"Why don't they make the ball nine a stock concern?" asked Mort
Eddington, whose father was an "operator" in Wall street. "If they sold
stock, lots of fellows would be glad to buy."
"Yes, considering that the nine has made a barrel of money every year,
it would be a paying proposition," added Holly Cross. "But we don't do
business that way, Eddington, as you'll learn when you've been here more
than one term. What money we have left over at the end of the season
goes to help some college club, or a team that hasn't done so well.
We're not stock jobbers in Randall."
"That's all right. Maybe you'll be glad of some money you could have
from selling stock, before you're through," sneered the "operator's"
son.
"Oh, I guess not," responded Dutch. "The fellows will toe the mark with
the rocks all right."
"My uncle says it's all in how a team is managed," began a voice, and
Ford Fenton strolled up. "My uncle says----"
"Get out of here, you shrimp!" cried Holly Cross, making a rush at
Ford. "If your uncle heard you, he'd take you out of this college for
disgracing him."
"That's right," agreed Dutch, making a playful attempt to trip up Ford,
which the much-uncled youth skillfully avoided.
"You're right, just the same," declared Bert Bascome, who came up at
that juncture. "The team hasn't been managed right, and I'm going to
have something to say about it at the meeting."
The session called by Tom to consider financial matters was well
attended. Tom, by general consent, was made chairman.
"You all know what we're here for," began the captain, who was not fond
of long speeches. "The nine needs money to help it out of a hole."
"Who got it in the hole?" asked Bascome with a sneer.
"Bang!" went Tom's gavel.
"You'll have a chance to speak when the time comes," said the pitcher
sharply. "I'll be through in a minute."
Bascome sat down, muttering something about "manager" and "money."
"We need cash," went on Tom, "to carry us over a certain period. After
that we'll have plenty. We haven't made as much as we expected. Now we'd
like subscriptions, and if any fellow feels that he can't afford to give
the money outright, don't let that stand in his way. We'll only borrow
it, and pay it back at the end of the season. Of course, if any one
wants to give it without any strings on it, so much the better. I've got
ten dollars that goes that way."
"So have I!"
"Here too!"
"Put me down for fifteen!"
"I've got five that isn't working!"
These were some of the cries that greeted Tom's closing words.
"I'll let the treasurer take it," announced the chairman. "Get busy,
Snowden. We've got enough now to take the team out of town."
Phil, who was sitting near Sid, looked at his chum, and remarked:
"You're going to help us out, aren't you, Sid? Seems to me I saw you
with a fair-sized roll yesterday."
"I--I'd like to help, first rate," answered Sid, in some confusion,
"only I'm broke now."
Phil did not reply, but there was a queer look on his face. He was
wondering what Sid had done with his money. This was the second time he
had unexpectedly "gone broke."
Subscriptions were pouring in on Snowden, and it began to look as if
Tom's prophecy would hold good, and that the boys only need be told of
the needs of the nine to have them attended to. Bert Bascome, who had
been whispering with Ford Fenton, and some of his cronies, suddenly
arose.
"Mr. Chairman," began Bascome.
"Mr. Bascome," responded Tom.
"I rise to a question of personal privilege," he went on pompously.
"What is it?" asked Tom, trying not to smile.
"I would like to know why it is that the nine hasn't made money enough
to carry itself so far this season, when it has played a number of
games, and won several?" went on Bascome.
"One reason is that the attendance was not large enough to cover
expenses, and leave a sufficiently large sum to be divided between our
team and the ones we played," stated the captain, wondering what Bascome
was driving at.
"I would like to inquire if it is not because the team was not properly
managed?" shot out Bascome. "I believe that if Ford Fenton had been
elected we----"
"Drop it!"
"Dry up!"
"Put him out!"
"Treason!"
"Fresh! Fresh!"
A score of lads were on their feet, shouting, yelling, demanding to be
recognized, shaking their fists at Bascome and uttering dire threats.
"Mr. Chairman, may I spake wan wurd!" cried Bricktop Molloy, in his
excitement lapsing into a rich brogue.
Tom was banging away with his gavel, but he managed to make his voice
heard above the tumult.
"Mr. Bascome has the floor!" he cried.
"Put him out!"
"Who is he, anyhow?"
"Whoever heard of Bascome?"
Again the cries; again the banging of the gavel, and at last Tom
succeeded in producing quiet.
"Mr. Bascome has the floor," the chairman announced. "Do I understand
that you ask that as a point of information?" and Tom gazed at the
wealthy freshman, who, through all the tumult, had maintained his
place, sneeringly indifferent to the threats made against him.
"That's what I want to know," he stated.
"I'll let the entire college answer that if necessary," declared Tom.
"Mr. Bascome has asked a question----"
"Don't answer him!" yelled Dutch.
Bang! went the gavel. From his corner where he had been seated, doing
some figuring, Ed Kerr arose--his face white.
"Mr. Chairman! A question of personal privilege!" he cried.
"Go on!" answered Tom, forgetting his parliamentary language.
"I beg to tender my resignation as manager of the Randall baseball
nine!" cried Ed.
"No! No!"
"We won't take it!"
"Make him sit down!"
"Don't listen to him!"
"Let's haze Bascome!"
"Fellows, will you be quiet?" begged Tom. "I won't recognize anyone
until you're quiet!" and he banged away.
Gradually there came a hush, while both Bascome and Kerr remained on
their feet.
"There is a question before the house," went on the captain, "and until
that is settled I can't listen to anything else. Mr. Bascome wants to
know whether the present financial trouble of the nine is not due to the
manager. How do you answer him?"
"No! No! No!" came in a great chorus.
Tom turned to Ed Kerr.
"Are there any who think otherwise?" asked the chairman.
"Yes," called Bascome, and he was supported by half a dozen, including
Ford Fenton. There were groans of protest, but Tom silenced them.
"I think Mr. Bascome has his answer," declared the chairman. "You
have an almost overwhelming vote of confidence, Mr. Manager, and
I congratulate you. Is there any further business to come before
the meeting. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. How are you making out, Mr.
Treasurer?"
"Fine!" cried Snowden. "All we need and more, too."
"Good! Then the meeting is adjourned. We don't need any motion," and Tom
started to leave the little platform.
"Look here!" blustered Bert Bascome, "I'm a member of the athletic
committee, and you can't carry things in this high-handed manner. I move
that we go into executive session and consider the election of a new
manager. Mr. Kerr has resigned, as I understand it."
"Forget it!" advised Dutch Housenlager, and he stretched out his foot,
and skillfully tripped up the noisy objector, who went down in a heap,
with Ford Fenton on top of him.
"Here! Quit! I'll have you expelled for that!" spluttered Bascome,
rising and making a rush for Dutch. But he was surrounded by a mass of
students, who laughed and joked with him, shoving him from side to side
until he was so mauled and hauled and mistreated that he was glad to
make his escape.
"Little rat!" muttered Holly Cross, as he saw Bascome and Ford going off
together. "That's all they're good for--to make trouble."
"Yes," agreed Tom, "Bascome's been sore ever since he couldn't have his
way about electing Ford Fenton manager. But I guess we're out of the
woods now. Get in good shape for the Richfield game Saturday, fellows."
The crowd rushed from the gymnasium, laughing and shouting, and refusing
to listen to Kerr, who still talked of resigning, though he was finally
shown that the objection to him amounted to nothing. It was still light
enough for some practice, and most of the lads headed for the diamond.
Tom, Phil and Sid walked along together. As they passed under the side
window of the East Dormitory, where the freshmen and seniors roomed,
Phil spied, hanging from a casement, a tall, silk hat.
"Get on to the tile!" he cried. "Some blooming freshman must have hung
it there to air, ready for a shindig to-night. Bet you can't hit it,
Tom. Two out of three. If you do I'll stand for sodas for the bunch."
"It's a go!" agreed the pitcher.
"Here's a ball," remarked Sid, handing Tom one. "Let's see what you can
do."
Tom fingered the horsehide, glanced critically at the hat, which hung on
a stick out of the window, and then drew back his arm.
"Here goes!" he cried, and, an instant later the ball was whizzing
through the air. Straight as the proverbial arrow it went, and so
skillfully had Tom thrown, that the spheroid went right into the
hat--and, came out on the other side, through the top of the crown,
making a disastrous rent. Then ball and hat came to the ground together.
"Fine shot!" cried Phil admiringly.
"That hat won't do duty to-night," observed Sid. "You knocked the top
clean out, Tom," and he ran forward to pick it up. As he did so he was
aware of an indignant figure coming from the dormitory. So, in fact,
were Phil and Tom. A moment later, as Sid held the ruined silk hat in
his hands, Professor Emerson Tines confronted the lads.
"May I ask what you young gentlemen are doing with my hat?" he asked in
frigid tones.
"Your--your hat?" stammered Tom.
"My hat," repeated the stern teacher. "I was a witness to your act of
vandalism. You may come with me to Dr. Churchill at once!"