“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:
“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——”
“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 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.
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 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 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 assistance and support, and Mr. Howard is a member of one of these clubs.
“Again when our ball nine is successful, the Crimson Banner, the trophy of victory, comes to the college, and every student feels a share of the glory. Victory in tennis is of individual interest, and appeals chiefly to individual vanity. It means a silver cup for a man, or perhaps two men. The college gains little glory by it except in the most individual way. Now, it is well known that the gentleman who made this speech, is a strong tennis player. If then he wishes the college at large to back him in competing for a prize in the coming tournament, instead of his own club, as has been the custom in the past, well and good. We can consider the matter, though it would not be in order at a baseball meeting. But if he proposes that we shall relinquish our ball nine in order to devote our money to the purpose of assisting him to secure a prize cup, then I feel compelled to say that I for one can find a better way of spending my cash.”
As Elton finished, Howard made several movements as if he would rise to speak, but several of his companions were urging him to keep still, and at length, influenced by their advice, he sank back and remained quiet.
Then rose on all sides the cry of “Question! Question!”
Edwards responded:
“Gentlemen, the question is called for, and will be put. All in favor of Mr. Pratt’s motion that will approve and ratify these elections say aye.”
There was a loud roar of assent.
“All opposed, by the contrary sign.”
There was no sound. Howard sat sullen and silent, gazing at the floor.
“The motion is carried, and Mr. Wendell is therefore elected president of the Association.”
Edwards laid down the ruler, and surrendering the chair, descended from the platform.