There was a cut in the football squad that afternoon and more than a
dozen candidates were retired, leaving twenty-eight players for the
first and scrub teams. Ned survived, as, indeed, he expected to; for,
while he knew his limitations, neither the coach nor the captain
appeared to. Perhaps they were sometimes puzzled over flashes of
ineptitude, or perhaps they put them down to temporary reversals of
form; at least, Ned’s talent was never seriously questioned by them. He
had settled down as a regular half-back on the scrub eleven, although
twice he had been called on in practice scrimmages to take Mason’s place
at left half on the first squad. He was too light to make much headway
in bucking plays, and his inability to start quickly handicapped him
frequently in running; but as a kicker he was dependable and had
developed a quite remarkable accuracy at forward passing. Against a
light opponent or a slow one he could be counted on to play a fairly
good game, although so far he had not been allowed the opportunity. With
him on the scrub team was Hop Kendrick at quarter, and, for a time,
Kewpie at center. But Kewpie had trained down at last to a hundred and
sixty-five pounds and was handling his weight and bulk with a new
snappiness, and a few days after Ned became a part of the scrub outfit
Kewpie was elevated to the first team, and a much disgruntled Holmes
took his place on the second.
With the defeat of Wagner School, Hillman’s ended her preliminary
season. In that contest, played at home, the Blue showed a new
aggressiveness and much more speed; and, while she was able to score
only one touch-down, and Pope failed miserably at goal, every one was
well satisfied. Wagner had a strong team, and a victory over it was no
small triumph. Hillman’s line held splendidly under the battering-ram
tactics of the adversary, and her backs were fast and shifty. On attack,
the Blue failed to gain consistently; but in the third period, with a
captured fumble on Wagner’s thirty-three yards for encouragement, Pope
got free for half the distance, and Slavin and Mason, alternating,
worked the enemy’s left side until the ball lay on the five-yard line.
Then a fake attack on Wagner’s right, with Pope carrying the ball
through on the left of center, brought the only score of the day. Kewpie
proved himself that afternoon, for he was a veritable Rock of Gibraltar
on defense and a hundred and sixty-five pounds of steel springs on
attack. The Blue team was far from a perfect machine yet, but it seemed
that Mulford had found his parts and that only a generous oiling was
needed.
Laurie and George Watson escorted Polly and Mae Ferrand to the game,
and, although aware of the covert grins and whispered witticisms of
acquaintances, enjoyed themselves hugely. Mae proved to be a very jolly,
wholesome sort of girl, and her knowledge of what may be termed “inside
football” was stupendous and made both Laurie and George rather ashamed
of their ignorance. Between the halves, Ned, arrayed in a trailing gray
blanket, joined them and promptly became involved with Mae in a very
technical argument that no one else could follow. From the fact that Ned
retired with a rather dispirited expression when the teams came on
again, Laurie surmised that the honors had gone to Mae.
The following Monday evening, while the enthusiasm produced by the
victory over Wagner School was still undiminished, a second mass-meeting
was held in the auditorium to devise means of replenishing the football
treasury: Three of the remaining five games were to be played away from
Orstead, and in two cases the distance to be traveled was considerable
and the expenses consequently large. As Joe Stevenson said, introducing
the subject for discussion, if Hillman’s charged admission to her home
games, it would be possible to get through a season without asking for
assistance from the student body. “But you fellows know that that isn’t
the school policy. We are allowed to sell tickets for the Farview game
only, and, while we make about four hundred and fifty dollars as our
share, that doesn’t go very far against the season’s outlay. We have to
pay from seventy-five to a hundred and twenty-five dollars to every team
that comes here to play us. When we go away we seldom make enough to pay
our expenses. In the Highland game, because it cost us almost nothing
for fares, we did. At the present moment we have a cash balance on hand
of forty-three dollars, and our liabilities, including Mr. Mulford’s
salary for the remainder of the season, are about eight hundred dollars.
“The manager estimates that we’ll have to incur added expenses for about
a hundred and twenty dollars for Farview game tickets and new supplies.
In short, we shall have to pay out, before the season ends, about nine
hundred dollars. Against that we have on hand forty-three dollars, and
in prospect something like five hundred, leaving us about three hundred
and fifty in the hole.
“There has been talk of cutting out the Lansing and Whittier games, but
that wouldn’t make enough difference. Besides, it would give us a black
eye to cancel games as late as this. We might save perhaps seventy
dollars if we did, but it would cost us ten times that in public
estimation. As far as I can see, fellows, if we’re going to have a
football team, we’ve got to pay for it. We’ve asked permission to charge
admission, even a nominal one, to all games, but the faculty is against
it. And we have asked to have a regular assessment made against each
student. To many of us that would seem the fairer and most satisfactory
way of meeting the emergency. But the faculty doesn’t like that any
better than the other proposition. So I guess it’s up to us, each and
every one of us, to dig down and produce the coin.
“We need three hundred and fifty dollars at least. That means that every
fellow in school must pony up four dollars, or, rather, that the average
must be four dollars each. Some of you can’t give so much, probably, and
a few can give more. I’d like to hear from you, please. Don’t be afraid
to say what you think. We want to get together on this matter and thrash
it out, if it takes until ten o’clock. Any one who has any suggestion to
offer or anything to say will be heard. Come on, somebody!”
There were plenty of speakers: Dave Brewster, the baseball captain, Dan
Whipple, senior class president, Lew Cooper, upper middle class
president, Dave Murray, the manager of the team, Craig Jones, for the
lower middlers, and many others, Some subscribed to the donation scheme,
others opposed it. Cooper suggested an appeal to the school alumni.
Brewster pointed out that the effort would cost money and that the
result would be uncertain and, in any case, slow. An increase in the
price of tickets to the Farview game was discussed and the idea
abandoned. An hour passed and the meeting was getting nowhere. Some of
the younger boys had already withdrawn. A tall, lantern-jawed youth had
charged the football committee with extravagance, and Dave Murray had
bitterly resented the allegation. Ned, who, with Laurie and Lee Murdock,
was seated near the back of the hall, had shown signs of restiveness for
some time and had been muttering to himself. Now, to the surprise of his
companions, he jumped to his feet and demanded recognition:
“Mr. Chairman!”
“Mister—” Dan Whipple pointed a finger at Ned and nodded.
“Turner,” prompted Kewpie from a front seat.
“Mr. Turner,” encouraged the chairman.
“I’d like to say that I never heard so much talking and saw so little
action,” began Ned, impatiently. “What’s the matter with some one saying
something useful instead of just chewing the rag?”
“You tell ’em,” piped a small junior, above the applause and laughter.
“All right! I’ll tell you fellows that you’re a lot of pikers to
hesitate to pledge three or four hundred dollars to keep your team
going. Where I come from we had to have a new grand stand two years ago,
and we called a meeting like this and we raised seven hundred dollars in
thirty-five minutes in cash and pledges. There were a lot more of us,
but half of us would have felt like Rockefellers if we’d ever found a
whole half-dollar in our pockets! Some of us gave as high as five
dollars, but not many. Most of us pledged two dollars; and those who
didn’t have two dollars went out and worked until they’d made it, by
jingo! And we got our grand stand up inside of two weeks, in time for
the big baseball game.”
There was real applause this time, and those in the front of the hall
had swung around to have a look at the earnest youth who was calling
them names.
“That’s one way of getting the money,” continued Ned, warming up finely,
“but there’s another. Out my way—”
“Say, where do you come from?” called some one.
“I come from California,” answered Ned, proudly. “Maybe you’ve heard of
it!”
“Attaboy!” shouted Kewpie. “Swing your leg, Nid!”
“When we want to raise some money out there and folks are too stingy to
give it outright, we take it away from them another way. We get up a
fête. We give them a good time and they pay for it. Why not try it here?
I don’t know how many folks there are in this burg, but I reckon there
are enough to part with three or four hundred dollars. Give them an
excuse to spend their money and they’ll spend it!”
Ned sat down amid loud applause, and Dave Brewster was recognized,
although half a dozen others were clamoring for speech.
“Turner’s said something, fellows,” declared Brewster. “The idea’s worth
considering. We’ve never tackled the town folks for money, and there’s
no reason why they shouldn’t come across. They’ve come to our games for
years without paying a cent, except for the Farview game, and it
wouldn’t hurt them to give a little to a good cause. I don’t know what
sort of a fête Turner has in mind, but I should think we might get up
something that would do the business.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Kewpie, “I move that a committee of three be
appointed by the chair, to include Nid,—I mean Mr. Turner,—to consider
the—the matter of giving a fête to raise the money.”
“Seconded!”
“You have heard the motion,” droned Whipple. “All those in favor will so
signify by saying ‘Aye.’ Contrary, ‘No.’ Moved and carried. I will
appoint the presidents of the senior and upper middle classes and Mr.
Turner to the committee, three in all. Is it the sense of this meeting
that your committee is to report to it at a subsequent meeting, or is it
to have authority to proceed with the matter if it decides that the
scheme is a good one?”
“Full authority, Mr. Chairman!” “Let ’em go ahead with it!” “Sure!
That’s what we want. Let’s have action!”
“Is there any other business? Then I declare the meeting adjourned!”
Whipple captured Ned on the way out. “We’d better get together right
away on this, Turner,” he said. “Can you meet Cooper and me at my room
to-morrow at twelve?”
Ned agreed, and he and Laurie and Lee went on. “What I’d like to know,”
remarked Laurie, after a moment’s silence, “is how you’re going to have
a fête in a place like this. The weather’s too cold for it.”
“Maybe it will be warmer,” answered Ned, cheerfully. “Besides, we don’t
have to have it outdoors.”
“It wouldn’t be a fête if you didn’t,” sniffed the other.
“Well, what’s the difference? Call it anything you like. The big thing
is to get the money.”
“You had your cheek with you to talk the way you did,” chuckled Laurie.
“He talked sense, though,” asserted Lee, warmly.
“Of course. The Turners always do.” Laurie steered Ned toward the
entrance of East Hall. “Well, good night, Lee. See you at the fête!”
Upstairs, Ned tossed his cap to the bed, plumped himself into a chair at
the table, and drew paper and pencil to him. “Now,” he said, “let’s
figure this out. I’ve got to talk turkey to those fellows to-morrow.
What’s your idea, partner?”
“Hey, where do you get that stuff?” demanded Laurie. “Why drag me into
it? It’s not my fête. I don’t own it.”
“Shut up and sit down there before I punch your head. You’ve got to help
with this. The honor of the Turners is at stake!”
So Laurie subsided and for more than an hour he and Ned racked their
brains and gradually the plan took shape.