CHAPTER XI

_“Paw” Lattiser Has a Plan_

Students were trooping back to Cascade after the Christmas holidays. Larry Kirkland, disappointed at having failed to see Helen Baldwin on the train, found himself fretting with eagerness to reach the campus. He understood, now, the feelings of the upper classmen toward the newcomers. He was part of it all now and he found himself shouting greetings, slapping his friends on the back and thrilling with the renewal of a comradeship that is dearer, perhaps, than any other in a man’s life. He felt the reverent awe of the old, gray buildings. At last he understood what is meant by “college spirit,” the unselfish patriotism to Alma Mater that all good college men must feel. He was part of it and he began to understand part of the debt he owed the institution for what it was giving him.

The winter sun was shining warm, and the tang of the trades was in the air. It was mid-January, but already the boys were talking of the baseball team, and of the chances of a strong club to represent the college. The first two weeks of the term passed rapidly. Cold and fog had succeeded the sunshine, but early in February the deferred call for candidates for the track and baseball teams was posted on the big bulletin board, to set the aspirants off in fresh excitement.

The boys gathered around the bulletin board were discussing, with much earnestness, the chances of making the team, when Paw Lattiser, sauntered closer, stood peering over his glasses for a moment and read the announcement.

“Hello, Paw,” called one Junior, proud of his right to address the veteran familiarly. “You going to try for the team this year?”

“Well,” said the veteran, “I may try to help out a bit. Here, lend me a lead pencil.”

A dozen youngsters rushed to hand him a pencil, and, holding a sheet of paper against the wall, Lattiser boldly lettered a fresh bulletin, which he tacked upon the board.

The swarm of younger boys pressed close and read:

ATTENTION!

All those interested in having a winning baseball team at Cascade this year, attend meeting in Gym Hall, Friday evening, 7.30.

P. N. Lattiser.

The posting of Paw Lattiser’s bulletin created a furore in the ranks of the undergraduates. No one knew what the meaning of the bulletin was and in response to all questions Lattiser smiled his peculiar smile and sauntered along, pretending to be engrossed in his studies. The crowd still was grouped around the board, discussing Lattiser’s bulletin, when Coach Haxton, with Harry Baldwin, and several of the leaders of the “sporty” crowd came past and stopped to read the bulletin.

“What’s this?” asked Haxton angrily. “Who has been calling a baseball meeting?”

“Lattiser posted the notice,” chirped one Freshman. “He wouldn’t say what it was for.”

“That old fogy is always butting in,” remarked Harry Baldwin. “I suppose he thinks he knows how to run things better than Mr. Haxton does.”

“Hold on, Baldwin,” retorted Dalmores, the outfielder. “Lattiser is a pretty solid old square head. Whatever he is doing he has a reason for it—and don’t forget that he’s a pretty big man in this school—both with the students and the faculty.”

“He’s an old trouble-maker,” snapped Harry. “I think he’s a spy for the faculty”——

“You do?”

The question was asked quietly, and Harry Baldwin, confused and red, whirled to drop his eyes before the steady gaze bent upon him by Paw Lattiser, who stood, looking over the top of his spectacles. “Well, young man, if I were telling the faculty any tales I might relate interesting ones about you. However, about that bulletin: I have an idea that may help the team, and I want to put it to the students. I may be wrong, but Mr. Haxton can tell us. Hope all of you come.”

He turned away without another word, leaving Harry uncomfortable and fuming.

“I didn’t know the old fellow was interested in baseball,” said Haxton. “Anyhow, if he has any suggestions we ought to hear them. It is one certain thing that we need something.”

The meeting Friday evening was well attended. The news that Paw Lattiser had taken to baseball and was going to propose a remedy for the team attracted students from curiosity as well as from interest and many of the upper classmen who knew and respected the odd veteran came to listen to his proposed cure for the athletic ills of the college.

The small assembly hall used for athletic meetings was crowded when Lattiser appeared. He walked into the room, still reading, and continued engrossed in his subject until a laugh aroused him. He blinked as if striving to recall his whereabouts, then grinned and advanced to the small platform, where he stood, cracking his big knuckles, his book held tightly under one arm, while waiting for the laugh to subside.

“Boning on political science,” he said, smiling. “Sat down under the arc lamp outside to study and almost forgot the meeting. Very interesting subject—political science.”

He stood smiling while the students roared at his apologetic explanation.

“Fellows,” he said finally, “I don’t know much about baseball. Haxton attends to that part of it. But I hear a lot of criticism among the students. Maybe it’s only because we’ve been losing, but many of you seem to think we ought to get winning teams. I haven’t heard any of you say Haxton did not get the best work out of the men; you seem to think that the team doesn’t get the best men.”

He paused and there was a murmur of assent.

“I figure it this way,” he went on. “We haven’t any right to criticise unless we are willing to help. No use pointing out a flaw and not trying to discover the remedy. I believe every one here wants old Cascade to win”——

He paused until the applause subsided and then added:

“But someone is wrong. Half of us are criticising, and the other half resent the criticism. Most of us think we could do better than Haxton is doing”——

An outburst of laughter greeted the sally and showed that Lattiser had struck home with his whimsical thrust.

“The thing I propose is just this: You fellows who think you can play better, run a team better, and win more games than Haxton and the Varsity team can, are entitled to a chance, and you are complaining that you don’t get it”——

Lattiser was talking earnestly. He had dropped the half-humorous tone he had been using, and it was plain that he was flicking some of the students to the raw. Larry Kirkland, who was sitting with Katsura, had an uneasy sense of guilt, and wondered how much of the talk was meant for him.

“What I propose is just this,” continued Lattiser. “Let Haxton pick his regular team—fourteen men—the best he can select. Then let the others make up a team and play his choice. If Haxton, as some of you charge, is playing favorites, his team will get a beating. If he selects the best men no one has a kick coming.”

Haxton, angry and trembling, arose.

“Whoever says”——he commenced, then gained control of himself. “That’s a good plan, Lattiser. This school has been troubled by a lot of fellows who sit around and knock instead of coming out and helping build up the team. I accept the challenge on behalf of the Varsity team—and with the understanding that after we’ve beaten them they stop abusing the players and help the team.”

Three cheers for Lattiser, and three for Haxton were followed by three cheers for the Varsity team. It was Larry Kirkland who leaped upon his chair and proposed the cheers for the Varsity team—and suddenly little Billy Towne, the clown of the Junior class, restored good humor and ended the meeting with a laugh by proposing three cheers for the knockers.

An hour later, as Larry Kirkland and Winans were settling to their studies, Paw Lattiser entered their quarters.

“Hello, fellows,” he said cheerfully. “Hard at it?”

“Mr. Lattiser,” said Larry, “I thought you were hitting at me in your talk. Really, I’m not that way.”

“When you get older,” remarked Lattiser, “you’ll see that the best way to handle a crowd of hot heads is to jolly both sides. That meeting was a big bluff. You’re sitting here, planning to lead the Outcast team and beat the Varsity right now, I’ll wager a dollar.”

“I—I—well, I did think of it,” confessed Larry lamely.

“You won’t be on the second team, my boy,” said Lattiser calmly. “I know Haxton. He has realized all along he was wrong. He’ll choose you, and the little Jap and Winans for his team, and the second team will not have a chance. I purposely gave him the opportunity. Whether he wants you or not he’ll pick you now just to show he is fair—which he is not. The fact that he isn’t fair will make him do it.”

“He’s a wise old fowl,” remarked Winans. “He has Haxton figured out just as I have.”

“The trouble will not be with Haxton,” said Larry. “It will be with Baldwin. He’ll not let me on the team if he can keep me off it.”