PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT

There was a buzz of excitement among the college students when the notice had been read, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee, to straighten out a financial tangle. There were various comments, and, though some remarked that it was "always that way," and that a "few fellows had to be depended on for the money," and like sentiments, the majority of opinion was that the sum needed would quickly be subscribed.

"Why don't they make the ball nine a stock concern?" asked Mort Eddington, whose father was an "operator" in Wall street. "If they sold stock, lots of fellows would be glad to buy."

"Yes, considering that the nine has made a barrel of money every year, it would be a paying proposition," added Holly Cross. "But we don't do business that way, Eddington, as you'll learn when you've been here more than one term. What money we have left over at the end of the season goes to help some college club, or a team that hasn't done so well.

We're not stock jobbers in Randall."

"That's all right. Maybe you'll be glad of some money you could have from selling stock, before you're through," sneered the "operator's"

son.

"Oh, I guess not," responded Dutch. "The fellows will toe the mark with the rocks all right."

"My uncle says it's all in how a team is managed," began a voice, and Ford Fenton strolled up. "My uncle says----"

"Get out of here, you shrimp!" cried Holly Cross, making a rush at Ford. "If your uncle heard you, he'd take you out of this college for disgracing him."

"That's right," agreed Dutch, making a playful attempt to trip up Ford, which the much-uncled youth skillfully avoided.

"You're right, just the same," declared Bert Bascome, who came up at that juncture. "The team hasn't been managed right, and I'm going to have something to say about it at the meeting."

The session called by Tom to consider financial matters was well attended. Tom, by general consent, was made chairman.

"You all know what we're here for," began the captain, who was not fond of long speeches. "The nine needs money to help it out of a hole."

"Who got it in the hole?" asked Bascome with a sneer.

"Bang!" went Tom's gavel.

"You'll have a chance to speak when the time comes," said the pitcher sharply. "I'll be through in a minute."

Bascome sat down, muttering something about "manager" and "money."

"We need cash," went on Tom, "to carry us over a certain period. After that we'll have plenty. We haven't made as much as we expected. Now we'd like subscriptions, and if any fellow feels that he can't afford to give the money outright, don't let that stand in his way. We'll only borrow it, and pay it back at the end of the season. Of course, if any one wants to give it without any strings on it, so much the better. I've got ten dollars that goes that way."

"So have I!"

"Here too!"

"Put me down for fifteen!"

"I've got five that isn't working!"

These were some of the cries that greeted Tom's closing words.

"I'll let the treasurer take it," announced the chairman. "Get busy, Snowden. We've got enough now to take the team out of town."

Phil, who was sitting near Sid, looked at his chum, and remarked:

"You're going to help us out, aren't you, Sid? Seems to me I saw you with a fair-sized roll yesterday."

"I--I'd like to help, first rate," answered Sid, in some confusion, "only I'm broke now."

Phil did not reply, but there was a queer look on his face. He was wondering what Sid had done with his money. This was the second time he had unexpectedly "gone broke."

Subscriptions were pouring in on Snowden, and it began to look as if Tom's prophecy would hold good, and that the boys only need be told of the needs of the nine to have them attended to. Bert Bascome, who had been whispering with Ford Fenton, and some of his cronies, suddenly arose.

"Mr. Chairman," began Bascome.

"Mr. Bascome," responded Tom.

"I rise to a question of personal privilege," he went on pompously.

"What is it?" asked Tom, trying not to smile.

"I would like to know why it is that the nine hasn't made money enough to carry itself so far this season, when it has played a number of games, and won several?" went on Bascome.

"One reason is that the attendance was not large enough to cover expenses, and leave a sufficiently large sum to be divided between our team and the ones we played," stated the captain, wondering what Bascome was driving at.

"I would like to inquire if it is not because the team was not properly managed?" shot out Bascome. "I believe that if Ford Fenton had been elected we----"

"Drop it!"

"Dry up!"

"Put him out!"

"Treason!"

"Fresh! Fresh!"

A score of lads were on their feet, shouting, yelling, demanding to be recognized, shaking their fists at Bascome and uttering dire threats.

"Mr. Chairman, may I spake wan wurd!" cried Bricktop Molloy, in his excitement lapsing into a rich brogue.

Tom was banging away with his gavel, but he managed to make his voice heard above the tumult.

"Mr. Bascome has the floor!" he cried.

"Put him out!"

"Who is he, anyhow?"

"Whoever heard of Bascome?"

Again the cries; again the banging of the gavel, and at last Tom succeeded in producing quiet.