Kansas University Weekly.
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haps, our organization imperfectly answers its purpose; perhaps, it needs readjustment. We elect managers and captains for various athletic interests; but we make no provision for their co-operation. There certainly should be a general manager of athletics in whom should be vested the absolute power of veto. His principal duty should be the regulating of disbursement. Under the present constitution each manager can authorize expenditures for his own department and his bills are not audited until some time after they are contracted. The dangers of this system can be readily seen. No one has power to check expenditures; and, as the rights of one manager are not paramount to those of another, each is perfectly justified in insisting that the needs of his own part of
the work shall be met. Moreover, this powe of authorizing expenditure is likely to be greatly abused. On pressing occasions, managers may delegate their authority and therewith begins infinite trouble. In case of debt or litigation an association must have a responsible head. But, no sane man will assume the responsibility of probable indebtedness in the contracting of which he is to have no voice; and we as an association deal unfairly with the merchants when we authorize so promiscuously the distribution of our credit. It is to be hoped that the board of directors of the association will take the matter under advisement and create the much needed office of general manager of athletics.
Liturgy
Wool-Gathering.
Being an introduction to a series of disconnected narrative to be taken from the Log-book of an obscure band of unknown geniuses, which has existed for sometime in the shadow of the platonic walls of the Kansas State University.
It was rather a cozy place notwithstanding the many inconveniences in reaching it. Of course if we had been in the habit of going in day time it would have been not nearly so difficult, but we always went at night, and I doubt if there is one of us that ever saw the sunlight stream in through the windows. For my part, I enjoyed the charm of plunging from the street into the long hall as dark as a dungeon, and climbing through the opaqueness three flights of stairs toward the dim light of a lamp that stood at the summit of the ascent and answered as our guide to the "Roost" above. And then, all this was quite appropriate; for we were Bohemians, and Bohemians are poor, and have dingy surroundings, and genius, and a great many other things that other people have not.
There were five of us geniuses that made the difficult ascent every night and gossiped in
Buzzard's Roost, as we called it, and a congenial five we were. Among us were represented the most intellectual professions. There was Horatio Booth, the Actor; Maurice Daub, the Artist; Charley Grubb, the Author; and myself, an indifferent poor scribe with no earthly pretensions and small hopes for the future. Oh yes, there was one other—the Old Man.—but he never came in until late, and then always made straight for the corner near the stove which we learned to regard as his, and went to sleep at once, so that he never bothered us.
We had often heard of the Old Man before he came among us, but all our inquiries as to his name, parentage, or history were fruitless; and as none of us could summon up courage enough to quiz him on these matters, we were forced to remain in ignorance and call him "Old Man" as the rest of the world did.
It was rather strange the way he found his way into our midst. We were all huddled about the stove one bitter night in December about a year ago. A fierce storm was raging outside and the windows rattled dismally. The cold