“Oh, the fellows will turn out when they know they’re really needed,” said Gene comfortably. “You always have to coax them a bit.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of getting material,” answered White gravely. “What’s bothering me—or would bother me if I let it—is the indifference. No one, except a dozen or two of us who play, cares much this year whether we have a team or don’t have one.”
“You’ll see them begin to sit up when you get started,” said Gene. “I’ll grant that football has rather soured at Parkinson, but any sort of a fairly decent team will find support.”
“We’ve got to find support,” said Captain Lyons grimly. “We haven’t enough money to print tickets for next week’s game. We need at least two hundred and fifty dollars to get to the Kenwood game. After that we’ll be able to clear up our debts.”
“Can’t you get tick for things until then?” asked Gene.
“Yes, but if we do we end the season the way we did last year. There were only twelve hundred and odd admissions to the game last year and our share was a bit over five hundred after expenses were paid. And when we had settled all our bills, most of which had run all season, we had ninety-something left. Spring expenses took about sixty and we began this Fall with about thirty dollars in the treasury. We’ve already spent it and a few dollars more. Lowell is advancing money from his own pocket for next week’s tickets. I’ve dug down once myself. The worst of it was that everything had given out together. Usually we start the season with half a dozen good balls and head harnesses and so on, but this year we were short on every blessed thing. The balls we’re using now aren’t fit to play with. I tried to get the Athletic Association to make us a donation, but Mr. Tasser said there was almost no money on hand, and what there was would be needed for other sports. I suppose he’s right, but when you consider that until last year football has always paid for itself and everything else, except baseball, it seems sort of tough.”
“Wouldn’t the students stand a small assessment?” asked Ira.
“They’d have to if they were assessed,” replied Lyons, “but faculty won’t allow it. The best we can do is ask for contributions, and that’s what we will have to do. Lowell wanted to do it last year, but Simpson—he was manager—was certain that the Kenwood game would go big and we’d have enough to settle everything up and leave a start for this year. You see, Rowland, the trouble is that we’ve had four perfectly punk football years running. It’s human nature, I suppose, to cheer for a winning team and turn your back on one that loses. Well, we’ve lost the Kenwood game three years out of four and tied it the other time, which was three seasons ago. Last year we started out nicely and won five or six games without a hitch. After that we had trouble. Our captain couldn’t get along with the coach and it came to a show-down and faculty supported the captain, which, to my thinking, it shouldn’t have, and Emerson left us about the first of November. Fortunately, we got Mr. Driscoll right away, but the fat was in the fire then, and ten coaches couldn’t have pulled things together in time for Kenwood. So we lost again. And now the school is soured on football. It’s tired of seeing the team beaten, naturally. I don’t blame it altogether.”
“I do,” said Gene warmly. “When a team’s in trouble is when the school ought to stand back of it.”
“Well, they stood back of us three years,” said Lyons pessimistically, “and it didn’t seem to do much good. There’s a fine, healthy ‘jinx’ doing business around here, I guess.”