THE MASS-MEETING
On the Wednesday for which the mass-meeting was called Jack returned
to the house at quarter after five, and, as was his custom, stopped
in at Anthony’s room to spend half an hour before dinner. Anthony
had improvised a window-seat out of a packing-case, covering it with
an old red table-cloth and installing upon it his one cushion, a not
over-soft and very flamboyant creation in purple and white. When Jack
entered he found Anthony perched thereon before the open casement. The
seat was not very long and so the occupant was obliged to either let
his legs hang over the edge or fold them up beneath him. At present he
had adopted the latter tactics, and a ludicrous figure he presented.
Jack subsided on to the edge of the bed and giggled with delight until
Anthony tossed the book he was studying at his head.
“What are you crying about?” he demanded.
“I’m not cr--crying,” gurgled Jack. “I’m la--laughing at you.”
“What’s the matter with me?”
“You look so--so funny!”
“Do I?” Anthony grinned and unfolded himself. “I was thinking a while
ago that I was like a pair of scissors I saw once. The blades tucked
back against the handles. How’d the game come out?”
“Pretty well; seven to nothing. Millport came pretty near getting a
run in the fourth, but after that she didn’t have a ghost of a show.
I didn’t, either. I didn’t get in for a minute; just sat on that old
bench and looked on and nearly froze to death.”
“Too bad,” sympathized Anthony.
“Wasn’t it? However, I don’t care very much. Hanson sat with me a while
and we had a long talk. He knows a whole lot about baseball; stuff I
never thought of; scientific part of the game, you know.”
“Hanged if I do!” answered Anthony. “I don’t know a baseball from a
longstop.”
“A what?” gasped Jack.
“Longstop; isn’t that it?”
“Shortstop, you mean.”
“Well, knew it was some kind of a stop. Might as well call it one thing
as the other, I guess.”
“Why don’t you come out and see a game some day?”
“Going to some afternoon, when I’ve nothing to do.”
“Huh! I guess you’ll never come, then. You’re always grinding.”
“Oh, I’ll take a vacation some Saturday and go and watch you play.”
“Don’t know whether you will or not,” said Jack dolefully. “King played
in left-field all the game to-day. Pretty nearly every sub except me
went in. I wish they’d give me a place to try for and let me see if
I can’t make it. I hope, though, they don’t put me out in the field.
Perkins told me yesterday that there’s no use in my trying for pitcher
this year, and I guess he’s right. Gilberth played a great game to-day;
struck seven men out and gave only two bases.”
“How are you and he getting on nowadays?” Anthony asked.
“All right. He never has anything to say to me, and I let him alone.”
“Guess he won’t trouble you any more,” said Anthony.
“Perhaps not. Sometimes, though, I think he’s saving up for something
particularly unpleasant. I don’t care, though. He can go hang.”
Anthony closed the window, drew down the stained green shade, and
lighted the gas-stove. Jack lay back on the bed for a time and watched
the dinner preparations in silence.
“What’s the _pièce de résistance_ to-night?” he finally asked, as there
came a sputtering from the pan.
“Hamburger steak with onions,” answered Anthony.
“Ugh!”
“Don’t you like it?” asked his host in surprise.
“Not a bit; and I don’t like the beastly smell, either. So I’m going
home.” He stretched his arms luxuriously and sat up. Then, “Did you
ever wish you were rich, Anthony?” he asked.
Anthony paused a moment with fork outstretched, and looked thoughtfully
across the room. Finally, he shook his head.
“No, I don’t believe I ever did. What’s the use?”
“No use, I suppose. But I have, often. I wish so now. Do you know what
I’d do if I had fifty thousand dollars?”
“No; but something silly, I guess,” answered the other, prodding the
steak till it sizzled.
“Well, I’d throw that foolish, lying clock out of the window and get
your watch back. Then I’d take you to--to--Boston, I guess, and buy
you a ripping good dinner for once in your life. We’d have quail and
asparagus, and-- Do you like chocolate éclairs?”
“Don’t know; never ate any. What are they like?”
“Well, we’d have them, anyway. Wish I had one now. And-- But I’m
getting hungry, myself.”
“Better stay and have some Hamburger and onions,” advised Anthony, with
a smile. But Jack fled toward the door, ostentatiously holding his nose.
At half past seven they set out for the mass-meeting together. When
they had crossed the Common and had entered the yard they found
themselves in one of a number of little eddies of laughing, chattering
fellows that flowed across the campus and merged in front of Grace Hall
into a stream that filled the doorway and staircase from side to side.
“Going to have a full house,” observed Anthony.
At the door of the meeting-room they ran into Joe Perkins. He grabbed
Anthony and sent him, under charge of Patterson, the manager, to a seat
on the platform. Then he put a detaining hand on Jack’s arm.
“Cheer like everything, Weatherby!” he whispered.
Then a six-foot sophomore, leading a flying wedge consisting of a
handful of his classmates, bucked Jack between the shoulders and he
went rushing up the aisle, tossing the crowd to either side, until
he managed to avoid the men behind by slipping into a vacant seat.
The big sophomore banged him on the shoulder as he charged on. “Bully
interference!” he cried. Followed by his companions, he leaped over the
intervening row of occupied seats and subsided in a heap among a little
throng of delighted friends. “Down here!” he yelled. Some one imitated
a referee’s whistle and a falsetto voice called: “Third down and a yard
to gain!”
Jack found himself seated next to a group of second-nine men. The
little freshman Clover was his immediate neighbor, and beyond that
youth sat Showell, the fellow whom Jack had fooled with his pitching on
that first day of outdoor practise. They had met but seldom since then,
but Showell had never missed an opportunity to annoy Jack, if possible,
or, failing that, to show his dislike. His annoyances usually took the
form of allusions to the incident at the river, plain enough, yet so
petty that Jack never regarded them as worth noticing. Clover greeted
Jack with evident pleasure. The latter returned his greeting and then
nodded to the fellows farther along. Only Showell failed to respond.
Turning to the man on the other side of him he asked:
“Been down to the river lately?”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled his neighbor, scowling at him.
“Cut what out?” asked Showell, pretending great bewilderment. “The
river?”
“Let him alone, can’t you?” whispered the other.
“If you can’t, take your old jokes somewhere else,” advised Clover.
Jack had not missed any of it, and for the first time Showell’s
pleasantries aroused his anger.
“What’s the matter with you dubs?” Showell asked, grinning. “Can’t I
talk about the river? All right, then, I’ll talk about the weather.
Nice, dry evening, isn’t it? Any of you fellows get your feet wet?”
Jack touched Clover on the shoulder. “Do you mind changing seats with
me?” he asked. Clover looked doubtful a moment; then he got up and Jack
slipped along into his place. Showell watched the proceedings with
surprise, and when he found Jack beside him turned his gaze uneasily
ahead and for the rest of the evening attempted to look unconscious of
the other’s presence. But, what with the grins and whispering of his
friends, it is doubtful if he enjoyed himself.
The senior president made his little speech and introduced the dean.
The latter, who never was much of an orator, said just what everybody
knew he would say, and was succeeded by Patterson, the manager.
Patterson explained the needs of the Baseball Association, and
Professor Nast, chairman of the Athletic Committee, followed and urged
the students to come to the support of the team. Neither his remarks
nor Patterson’s awakened any enthusiasm, and the cheers which followed
were plainly to order. Some one at the rear of the hall started a
football song and one by one the audience took up the refrain. Perkins,
who had stepped to the front of the platform, paused and glanced
inquiringly at the head coach. The latter shook his head and Joe turned
away again.
“Let them sing,” whispered Hanson. “It’ll warm them up.”
But as soon as it was discovered that there was no opposition the
singing died away. King was on his feet then, calling for cheers for
Captain Perkins. They were given loudly enough, but lacked spontaneity.
Joe’s speech was short, but had the right ring, and several allusions
to past successes of the nine and future victories awakened applause.
But when he had taken his seat again and the cheering, in spite of
the efforts of King and Bissell and others of the team, had ceased,
it was evident that the meeting was bound to be a flat failure unless
something was done to wake it up.
Hanson, who was down as the next speaker, called Joe to him, and for a
minute they whispered together. Then Joe crossed the stage and spoke to
Anthony. At the back of the room there was a perceptible impatience;
several fellows had already tiptoed out, and there was much scraping of
feet. Joe heard it and held up his hand. Then Anthony lifted himself
up out of the ridiculously small chair in which he had been seated and
moved awkwardly to the front of the platform. Instantly there was the
sound of clapping, succeeded by the cry of “A--a--ay, Tidball!” Anthony
settled his spectacles on his nose and thrust his big hands into his
trouser’s pockets.
“Good old Tidball!” cried some one; the remark summoned laughter and
clapping; men on their feet and edging toward the door paused and
turned back; those who had kept their seats settled themselves more
comfortably and looked expectant. The senior class president jumped to
his feet and called for a cheer, and the response was encouragingly
hearty. Joe threw a satisfied glance at Hanson and the latter nodded.
The tumult died down and Anthony, who had been facing the gathering
with calm and serious countenance, began to speak.