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.”