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.