The Crimson Banner: A Story of College Baseball
9781465681706
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
One pleasant evening during the first week in April I left my room in Colver Hall, and started across the campus of Belmont College toward the main street of the town. As I approached the gateway at the entrance to the grounds, I noticed several of the boys sitting upon and around the two large cannons that stood on either side of the gateway, mounted upon their old fashioned iron carriages. These old cannons were landmarks of the college, and dear to the heart of every inmate. Many years before they had been discovered by a rambling party of students in a deserted part of the hilly country about ten miles west of Belmont. It was believed that they had been left there by a section of the army during the war of 1812. However that might be, they were appropriated and dragged home to the college, where they were enthusiastically adopted by the students, and soon became favorite lounging posts. Almost every warm afternoon or evening would find several fellows perched on the old artillery or seated near by, reading, chatting, or singing college songs. Through the deepening twilight I recognized two of my classmates leaning against one of the cannon. “Hello, Miller,” I called out, “where is Tony Larcom?” “Down by the lake, I think,” was the answer. “He was here about twenty minutes ago, and said he was going to the boat house to look after his canoe.” Retracing my steps, I hurried around old Burke Hall, the main building of the college, and crossed the back quadrangle. Then, leaving the circuitous path to the boat house, I struck out on a straight line down through the underbrush toward the shore of the lake. There I stood a moment, close to the dock, looking out over the water. The dusk prevented my seeing further than fifty yards ahead, and in that space no sign of Tony’s boat appeared, so, putting my hands to my mouth, I called out at the top of my voice, “Hello, Tony Larcom!” The cry rang out over the quiet sheet of water, and echoed back from the rugged sides of Mount Bell, which loomed up in the evening sky beyond the lake. Receiving no reply, I repeated my call several times with increasing force. Suddenly a queer chuckling noise sounded almost immediately beside me, and peering through the bushes, I saw the face of Tony Larcom not four feet in front of me. He was seated quietly in his canoe, and with difficulty repressing his laughter.
