CHAPTER XIVTHE MASS-MEETINGOn 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 backon the bed for a time and watched the dinner preparations in silence.“What’s thepièce de résistanceto-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.
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 backon the bed for a time and watched the dinner preparations in silence.
“What’s thepièce de résistanceto-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.