[CHAPTER XXIV]
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——”