[Illustration: CRACK! CAME A REPORT THAT SOUNDED OVER THE WHOLE FIELD.]
THE
CRIMSON BANNER
A Story of College Baseball
BY
WILLIAM D. MOFFAT
Author of “A Schoolboy’s Honor,” “The County
Pennant,” “Dirkman’s Luck,” etc.
_ILLUSTRATED_
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
CLEVELAND
MADE IN U. S. A.
Copyright, 1907, by
CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY
PRESS OF
THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO.
CLEVELAND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A SINGULAR LETTER 9
II. SHALL WE JOIN THE LEAGUE? 17
III. THE NEW PRESIDENT 26
IV. LEN HOWARD AGAIN 34
V. UNEXPECTED NEWS 42
VI. AN INTERCEPTED LETTER 52
VII. OPEN ENEMIES 63
VIII. CHOOSING THE NINE 70
IX. A COUNCIL OF WAR 80
X. A NIGHT EXPEDITION 88
XI. A STARTLING DÉNOUEMENT 93
XII. A PRISONER 105
XIII. BEFORE THE FACULTY 112
XIV. THE PENALTY 121
XV. A VISIT TO PROFESSOR FULLER 130
XVI. SERVING OUR TERM 140
XVII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 148
XVIII. THE FIRST GAME 160
XIX. FRED HARRISON 170
XX. CAUGHT IN THE ACT 177
XXI. A TERRIBLE CONFESSION 183
XXII. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND 194
XXIII. RENEWED HOPES 203
XXIV. A TURN OF LUCK 211
XXV. THE SECOND GAME 220
XXVI. GENEROUS HOSTS 231
XXVII. OUR RECEPTION AT BERKELEY 239
XXVIII. THE THIRD GAME 246
XXIX. THE RETURN TO BELMONT 256
XXX. BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL 262
XXXI. GOOD NEWS 268
XXXII. THE FINAL GAME 277
THE CRIMSON BANNER
CHAPTER I
A SINGULAR LETTER
One pleasant evening during the first week in April I left my room
in Colver Hall, and started across the campus of Belmont College
toward the main street of the town. As I approached the gateway at the
entrance to the grounds, I noticed several of the boys sitting upon and
around the two large cannons that stood on either side of the gateway,
mounted upon their old fashioned iron carriages.
These old cannons were landmarks of the college, and dear to the
heart of every inmate. Many years before they had been discovered by
a rambling party of students in a deserted part of the hilly country
about ten miles west of Belmont. It was believed that they had been
left there by a section of the army during the war of 1812. However
that might be, they were appropriated and dragged home to the college,
where they were enthusiastically adopted by the students, and soon
became favorite lounging posts. Almost every warm afternoon or evening
would find several fellows perched on the old artillery or seated near
by, reading, chatting, or singing college songs.
Through the deepening twilight I recognized two of my classmates
leaning against one of the cannon.
“Hello, Miller,” I called out, “where is Tony Larcom?”
“Down by the lake, I think,” was the answer. “He was here about twenty
minutes ago, and said he was going to the boat house to look after his
canoe.”
Retracing my steps, I hurried around old Burke Hall, the main building
of the college, and crossed the back quadrangle. Then, leaving the
circuitous path to the boat house, I struck out on a straight line down
through the underbrush toward the shore of the lake. There I stood a
moment, close to the dock, looking out over the water.
The dusk prevented my seeing further than fifty yards ahead, and in
that space no sign of Tony’s boat appeared, so, putting my hands to my
mouth, I called out at the top of my voice,
“Hello, Tony Larcom!”
The cry rang out over the quiet sheet of water, and echoed back from
the rugged sides of Mount Bell, which loomed up in the evening sky
beyond the lake.
Receiving no reply, I repeated my call several times with increasing
force.
Suddenly a queer chuckling noise sounded almost immediately beside me,
and peering through the bushes, I saw the face of Tony Larcom not four
feet in front of me. He was seated quietly in his canoe, and with
difficulty repressing his laughter.
“Did you speak?” he asked, straightening his face into an expression of
gravity, when he found he had been discovered.
“Oh, no,” I answered sarcastically. “I was only breathing hard. What do
you mean by sitting there without a word while I was shouting myself
hoarse?”
“Why, I didn’t recognize you at first, Harry. You had your mouth open
so wide I couldn’t see you at all. What do you want?”
“Do you realize the fact that there is to be a mass meeting of the
college in the Latin room at half past seven to consider baseball
matters, and that you, as secretary of the association, must be there?”
“I do,” said Tony.
“Then what are you doing down here by the lake? I’ve been looking all
over for you, and was afraid you were going to play us your old trick
of forgetting all about an important engagement.”
“Oh, no, not this time. I wouldn’t miss the mass meeting for the world.
There was plenty of time, and I wanted to see how my canoe had stood
the winter, so I came down to try her on the water. She will be all
right with a little paint. Give me a hand here and help me get her out.”
Tony paddled along toward the boat house, while I accompanied him,
pushing my way through the bushes that grew thickly by the water’s
edge.
When we had reached the dock I helped him drag out the canoe and carry
it into the boat house.
As he made it fast to the wall, Tony remarked,
“There will be something besides baseball to interest the boys tonight.
I have a letter to read.”
“From whom?”
“From Park College.”
“What about?”
“Read it and see,” said Tony, taking a letter from his pocket and
handing it to me.
I opened it, and, standing in the light of the single oil lamp fastened
against the wall, I read as follows:
_To the Students of Belmont College_:
On a number of occasions during late years your attention has
been called to the claims of Park College to the cannons which
stand upon your campus. Enough evidence has been produced to
convince an unprejudiced mind of our right of ownership of said
cannons, but this evidence has in every case been rejected by
you. We, the students of Park College, have at length decided
to take a positive stand in the matter, and, accordingly,
submit to you this formal demand for the surrender of the
cannons to us. Should this be disregarded, we shall take more
active steps to secure our rights. We trust this will secure
your immediate attention, and await the favor of your reply.
I looked up in amazement. Tony winked.
“How is that for a game of bluff?” he asked.
“What in the world do they mean by ‘active steps’?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Legal proceedings would be simply absurd. My idea is
that they think because their college is a trifle larger than ours
that they can bully us. They have always wanted the cannons, you know.”
“Yes, but I thought they had given up all claims several years ago
when the subject was thoroughly discussed in the college papers. You
remember, they claimed that the cannons were in their country, two
miles from Berkeley, and so belonged to them. But it was decided then
that they belonged to nobody, and as our students had found them,
they were ours by right of treasure trove as well as forty years’
possession.”
“Yes, but you know how it is in college: a new batch of students comes
in and revives old sores. Now they are at it again, and now it is _our_
business to meet them as it was our predecessor’s.”
“Well, we will, and with a vengeance, too, if necessary. Did you show
the letter to Edwards?”
Edwards was the managing editor of the college paper, the _Belmont
Chronicle_.
“No; I received it only two hours ago in the late afternoon mail.
Come up to Burke Hall, and we will have some fun with it. Watch the
sensation when I read it to the boys in the mass meeting.”
Closing the side door of the boat house, Tony padlocked it, and we
started back again toward the campus.
“Have you seen Ray Wendell this afternoon?” I asked.
“No; but of course he will be on hand. What would a baseball meeting
be without Ray Wendell? By the way, what a scare he gave me last month
when he hinted about resigning the captaincy.”
“That was a queer notion. What started it, I wonder?”
“He said he was afraid it would interfere with his studies, especially
his preparation for his final examinations.”
“Bosh!”
“Well, you know he is working for one of the honorary orations at
commencement, and he said he would have to work hard, for there is to
be a good deal of competition this year.”
“Nonsense, Wendell is sure of an oration, and probably the valedictory.
There isn’t a smarter man in the Senior class. There is no reason why
baseball should interfere at all.”
“Certainly not. If we are to have a winning team this year it will only
be with Ray Wendell as captain――and so I told him. I showed him that
all the fellows looked to him, and the college reputation rested in his
hands. That soon brought him to terms, and he has never mentioned the
matter since. I can’t help thinking, however, that there was more back
of that freak of his than he said.”
“He knows as well as the rest of us how necessary he is to the nine,” I
rejoined.
“And for that very reason I think something must have influenced
him. At first I thought perhaps his father had asked him to give up
baseball, but then I remembered that Mr. Wendell always seemed to be
as proud of Ray’s athletics as he was of his high rank in his class.
Still, I don’t care, now that he has let the matter drop.”
“What is that crowd doing outside of Burke Hall?” I asked. “Do you
suppose that old Ferguson has forgotten to unlock the Latin room door?”
“Looks like it,” said Tony. “Still he must be there, for the windows
are bright. He must be lighting up now.”
The question was promptly settled, for, while we were speaking there
was a sudden outburst of cheers, and the crowd surged into the
building. The doors had evidently just been opened.
Pandemonium reigned within as we entered. The room was crowded to
suffocation with a noisy, jostling mass of students. Every seat was
full, and many of the boys were standing along the side walls. The din
was almost deafening. Suddenly Tony Larcom’s presence was detected and
immediately his name was on every one’s lips.
“There’s Tony. Take the chair, Tony. Pass him up to the platform,
fellows.”
He was seized unceremoniously by a dozen pairs of hands, and half
dragged, half carried, to the desk. There he stood a moment, laughing
and kicking, until he was released, when he sobered down, took out his
note book, and seated himself at a small desk in front of the platform,
ready for business.
I made my way to the front row where Dick Palmer had reserved a place
for me with considerable difficulty, by sitting in one seat and putting
his feet in the next one.
At this moment Clinton Edwards, who had been asked by Tony to open the
meeting, went upon the platform and summoned the crowd to order by
hammering on the desk with a heavy ruler.
As all were intensely interested in the subject for which the meeting
was called, the room soon became perfectly still.