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

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[10] 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[11] 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.

[12]

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[13] 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[14] 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[15] 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[16] 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.

[17]

CHAPTER II SHALL WE JOIN THE LEAGUE?

“Gentlemen,” began Clinton Edwards, “as you are all aware, this meeting has been called for the purpose of considering baseball matters. At the close of last year’s season the nine held its customary annual meeting, and the usual elections of secretary and captain were made for the ensuing year. It now remains with you to approve and ratify these elections, and, in that event, the captain, as has been our custom heretofore, becomes also president of the association. The names of these officers were announced in the Chronicle at the time of their election, as you doubtless remember, but I will repeat them. Mr. Larcom was elected secretary——”

The speaker paused a moment, when some one in the back of the room called out, “I forbid the banns!”

The meeting was in an uproar at this. Laughter, stamping of feet, and shouts of “Bully boy!” “Hi, hi for Tony!” threatened to destroy the secretary’s gravity. Rising, note book in hand, he said,

“Mr. Chairman, I rise to a point of information. Do I enter these remarks in the minutes?”

Edwards, ignoring the point, continued:

[18]

“The captaincy, which was made vacant by the graduation of Mr. Terry, was filled by the election of Mr. Wendell.”

There was now a long and uproarious burst of applause. Cheer followed cheer as the name was announced.

A more popular man than Ray Wendell rarely passed through Belmont College. Bright and industrious in his studies, active and strong in athletics, generous, good humored, and with agreeable and fascinating manners Ray had been my ideal of a college man since Freshman year.

As he rose modestly from his seat in answer to the repeated cheers, I thought I had never seen him look handsomer. His tall, graceful figure and fine face never appeared to better advantage than at that moment as he blushingly acknowledged the applause that greeted his name.

Several times he attempted to speak, but the continued cheering discouraged his effort. At length silence was obtained, when Ray said smilingly, and quickly turning attention from himself:

“Gentlemen, you forget that you have not yet decided to be represented in the Berkshire League. You have first to vote on the question: do we send out a nine?”

“We scarcely need put that question,” said a student, as Ray sat down. “It has been only a form in past years, and I move, therefore, Mr. Chairman, that we approve these elections——”

[19]

“One moment, Mr. Chairman,” broke in a voice from the back of the room.

“Mr. Pratt has the floor,” said Edwards.

“I have finished,” said Pratt. “My motion is before the meeting.”

It was seconded at once by a dozen voices. Then the speaker at the back of the room rose slowly. It was Len Howard, a Senior, and a prominent lawn tennis player. He looked and acted as if he had a hard and ugly task before him.

“Have I the floor now?” he asked.

“You have,” answered Edwards.

“Then before putting this question I beg to say a few words,” and Howard settled himself more firmly on his feet, while most of us looked at him in surprise.

“I am a warm admirer of baseball, as warm an admirer as there is in college. But I am also a warm admirer of tennis, and it is in behalf of this latter game that I want to speak. I beg to call attention to the respective records of Belmont College in these two sports. Year before last our baseball team amounted to little—stood third in the League, last year we were again third, and this year we have but three players of the old nine left us, and prospects of a still poorer record. Lawn tennis, on the other hand, without any encouragement from the college, has grown steadily in popularity and success, and today it can send crack players to the intercollegiate tournaments which take place in May. Its prospects are[20] bright, and it deserves the college support. Now, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, should we not cultivate the sport in which we stand the best show of success? Last year the assistance of the college was promised to tennis, but the funds were appropriated by the ball team, or at least the ball team used up all the money

the college could contribute, and with the poor results just mentioned. As the college apparently will not extend its support to both, and it comes to a choice between tennis and baseball, I think we ought to give tennis the show it deserves for one year at least. I think we ought to support tennis with our funds, and not join the Berkshire Baseball League this year.”

Ray Wendell sprang up, his face flushed and his eyes flashing.

“Mr. Chairman, if this represents the sentiments of the college toward baseball—if this echoes the feelings of even one tenth of the students, I resign from the nine immediately.”

There was a hush of several seconds’ duration, during which the rest of us sat confounded with amazement at the audacity of Howard. Suddenly the silence was broken.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom, and his chair toppled over backward, precipitating him with a crash upon the floor.

Then arose an uproar on all sides. Fully three dozen fellows were shouting and gesticulating wildly to attract the attention and recognition of the chairman.

[21]

Tony, unmindful of his ridiculous position, and intent upon being heard, scrambled to his knees, and, waving his arms beseechingly at the chairman, roared out at the top of his voice:

“Mr. Chairman, have I the floor? Let me have the floor—Mr. Chairman, please let me have the floor for just five minutes.”

Dick Palmer reached forward as well as he could for laughter, and touching Tony said,

“I should think you had got enough of the floor, Tony. You’ve just had a whole back full of it.”

Tony, however, did not hear him, but continued his appeals to the chairman. At length Edwards, who had been standing puzzled in the midst of the confusion, caught Tony’s eye, and brought down his ruler with a bang.

“Mr. Larcom has the floor,” he called out. The rest subsided with some difficulty, and Tony was left master of the field for a time.

He rose hastily and brushed off his clothes. Then, buttoning up his coat, he planted himself in front of his desk and launched out.

“Mr. Chairman and gentlemen: the words we have just heard are a disgrace to any son of Belmont College. What does Mr. Howard mean by calling baseball to account? Have we a record to be ashamed of? True, we have been unfortunate in the last two years—every college has its bad spells—but why doesn’t Mr. Howard go back further? Doesn’t the gentleman remember that Belmont was the first college[22] to win the Crimson Banner when it was made the trophy of the Berkshire League twelve years ago? Doesn’t he remember that Belmont held that banner for five consecutive years, lost it for three years, and then won it for two years more—that the name of the Belmont team has, therefore, seven times out of twelve been inscribed upon that banner in letters of gold? (Cheers.) And why did we lose last year? Not because we had a poor nine, but because it was not well handled. Every honest minded man in this room knows that we would have won the banner had we been headed by the efficient captain who leads us now. (Cheers.) And yet this gentleman wishes us to relinquish

the game for a year. Does he realize that we thereby lay ourselves open to being refused admission to the League when we want to get back, and that Park College for one would be only too glad to get a chance to shut us out? Relinquish our nine? Never! I would rather lose my right hand than our nine. The speech we have just listened to is an insult to every patriotic man in college, and a double insult to the members of our old nine, and the able captain whose election we are here to ratify.”

Immediately at the close of Tony’s speech, and while the applause was still sounding, Dick Palmer rose and tried to gain a hearing, but I caught him by the coat.

“Sit down,” I whispered. “Don’t you see Elton is on the floor? He will use Howard up in two minutes.”

My hint was quickly taken by Dick, for Elton was[23] one of the clearest thinkers in college, and had an established reputation as a speaker. He commanded universal respect in mass meetings, and consequently there was an expectant hush as he began to speak.

“Mr. Chairman, under some circumstances such a speech as Mr. Howard’s might pass unnoticed. It certainly can have no weight with us now, nor in any way affect the motion. But it affords an opportunity of saying a few words concerning the relative positions of baseball and lawn tennis in the college.

“There is no college tennis association like our baseball association. The baseball grounds and appurtenances belong to us, have been purchased by money contributed by us, and are conducted by officers elected by us. It is a child of the college—the pet child—and its record in the past shows how well it has repaid our interest in it. Tennis, on the other hand, is of individual interest in the college, and the tennis courts here are the private property of the clubs that play upon them. Some of these clubs exclude all from playing on their courts except their own members. I don’t criticise this. The courts are private property, but for this very reason the college cannot be expected to support tennis. What Mr. Howard says about the funds last year is not true. The truth is that the question was raised about a college appropriation of money to tennis, and most of the tennis clubs rejected the idea, preferring to pay their own expenses and run their own courts. Only one or two clubs wanted college[24] assistance and support, and Mr. Howard is a member of one of these clubs.