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"Good!" ejaculated Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks' shoulders, as theywalked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you in to tryfor a goal tomorrow, if Bannister gets blocked inside the thirty-yard line!Just keep your nerve, boy, and boot it over! Now—I'll post a notice fora brief mass-meeting at the end of the last class period, and Butch and Iwill tell the fellows about you, and how you may serve Bannister."
"That's the idea!" exulted Butch, joyous at his comrade's chance to get inthe biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man, and theywon't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for you! Oh, justwait until you hear them cheer you, andmeanit—you'll astonish thenatives, Hicks!"
Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that same day, T.Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart in hisshoes, sat on the side-line. In the stands, the entire student-body,informed in the mass-meeting of his ability, shrieked for "Hicks! Hicks!Hicks!" Near the end of the practice game, the hard-fighting scrubs foughttheir way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush took it fiveyards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the right-half-backto the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. hurried outon the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians yellingfrenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took hisposition in the kick formation. Then a silence, a few seconds of suspense,as the pigskin whirled back to him, and then—a quick stepping forward,a rip of toe against the leather, and—above the heads of the 'Varsityplayers smashing through, the football shot over the cross-bar!
"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" was the shout, "Hicks will beat Ballard!"
That night, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., having crossed the Rubicon, andcommitted himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had dispatched atelegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his distinguishedparent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old Bannister, andthat the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try for afield-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr. ThomasHaviland Hicks, Sr., in a night-letter, had wired back:
Son Thomas:
Am on my way to New Haven for Yale-Harvard game. Will stop off at oldBannister—bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our Class Kid willget his chance against Ballard.
Dad.
On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks' private car theVulcan, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other members ofYale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College Hill ingood old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., proudlyintroduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All morning, Mr.Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who listened to histales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale breathlessly. Theex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending them out onBannister Field resolved to do or die!
"My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the side line; ashe gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his athleticfigure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or wonderfullytender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his wealth,was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians were hiscomrades.
"Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee raised hiswhistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal may winfor us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a touchdownis gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try DekeRadford, but inside it, you are far more sure."
The vast crowd, a moment before creating an almost inconceivable din,stilled with startling suddenness; a shrill blast from the referee'swhistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of substitutes, coaches,trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of Bannister andBallard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to receivethe kick-off. The Gold and Green players, Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Biff,Pudge, Bunch, Tug, Hefty, Buster, and Ichabod, spread out, fan-like,while across the center of the field the Ballard eleven, a straight line,prepared to advance as the full-back kicked off. There was a breathlessstillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end, thenstrode back to his position.
"All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an affirmative from theOrange and Black leader.
"Ready, Bannister?"
"Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of encouragement tohis players.
The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly excited andpartisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black wouldbattle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle, Ballard,three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought thestrongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of victory.Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had snatchedthe greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Sophomore year, when JackMerritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when Butchhimself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into theupright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five years, andnow—when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the ProdigiousProdigy—smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt the annual blowin advance, by crippling him.
"Oh, we'vegotto win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Oh, I hope Idon't get sent in—I mean—I hope Bannister wins without me! But if Idohave to kick—Oh, I hope I send it over that cross-bar—"
A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe ripped intothe pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into Bannister'sterritory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of CaptainButch Brewster, on the Gold and Green's five-yard line, and—"We're off!"shrieked Hicks, excitedly. "Come on, Butch—run it back! Oh, we're off."
The biggest game had started!
CHAPTER XIV
THE GREATER GOAL
"Time out!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green blanket, andstanding on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out onBannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of scrimmagehad crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into Ballard'sstonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a five-yardloss. The mass of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad players rosefrom the turf, all but one. He, wearing the gold and green, lay still,white-faced, and silent.
"It's Biff Pemberton!" chattered Hicks, shivering as with a chill. "Oh, thegame is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last quarteris nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick. It's ourvery last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from defeat!"
The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time out, stoppedthe game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and severalplayers worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the exultant Ballardcohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their banners, aroseen masse,and their thunderous chorus drifted across Bannister Field:
"There's a hole in the bottom of the sea,And we'll put Bannister in that hole!In that hole—in—that—hole—Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!"
From the Bannister section, the Gold and Green undergraduates, alumni, andsupporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their hearts, yetdetermined to the last, came the famous old slogan of encouragement toelevens battling on the gridiron:
"Smash 'em, boys, run the ends—hold, boys,hold—Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!Touchdown! Touchdown! Hold, boys,hold,Don'tlet 'em win from the Green and the Gold!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on the desertedsubs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like Seniorgazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters andfigures:
4TH QUARTER; TIME TO PLAY—2 MIN.;BANNISTER'S BALL ON BALLARD'S 22-YD. LINE;4TH DOWN—8 YDS. TO GAIN;SCORE: BALLARD—6; BANNISTER—3.
It had been a terrific contest, a biggest game never to be forgotten bythe ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been trained to thesecond for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted gonfalonof glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately, whileBallard's fighters struggled as grimly for their Alma Mater. For six years,the Gold and Green had failed to annex the Championship, and for the pastthree, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of Juggernautover all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest thebanner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to retainpossession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the alumnicould find none in past history to compare, was the result.
Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and Gargantuan strengthwould have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically the sameeleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been defeated by ascant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a furiousrush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first down.Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its ownthirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon Radford, whobooted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score 3-0 inBannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker, apparentlyin fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild.
In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as sportingwriters term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with a seriesof body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the Bannister lineslike the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way, trench bytrench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the loss of asingle yard, the terrific, catapulting charges forced back old Bannister,until the enemy's fullback, who ran like the famous Johnny Maulbetsch,of Michigan, shot headlong over the goal line! The attempt for goal fromtouchdown failed, leaving the score, at the end of the third quarter,Ballard—6; Bannister—3.
And Deacon Radford, whose first effort at drop-kicking had been sobrilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate chance, theBannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of the goalposts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to bedepended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by Ballard'sbattering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the Bannistercohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter, theirlast hope. The forward pass had been futile, for the visitors were trainedespecially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up everyattempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on Bannister'stwenty-yard line, came a fumble—like a leaping tiger, Monty Merriweatherhad flung himself on the elusively bounding ball, rolled over to his feet,and was off down the field.
"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" shrieked old Bannister's madly excitedstudents, as Monty sprinted. "Go it, Monty—touchdown! Sprint, old man,sprint!"
But Cupid Colfax, Ballard's famous sprinter, playing quarterback, was offon Monty's trail almost instantly, and his phenomenal speed cut down theBallard end's advantage; still, by dint of exerting every ounce of energy,it was on Ballard's forty-yard line that Monty Merriweather, hugging thepigskin grimly, finally crashed to earth.
"Come on, Bannister!" shouted Captain Butch Brewster, as the two teamslined down. "Right across the goal-line, then kick the goal, and we win!Play the game—fight—Oh, we can win the Championship right now."
Then ensued a session of football spectacular in the extreme, replete withthrilling plays, with sensational tackles, and blood-stirring scrimmage.The Bannister players, nerved by Captain Brewster's exhortation, by sheerwill-power drove their battered bodies into the scrimmage. End runs,line-smashing tandem plays, forward passes, followed in bewilderingsuccession, until the ball rested on Ballard's twenty-yard line, and atouchdown meant victory and the Championship for old Bannister, Anotherrush, and five yards gained, then, Ballard, fighting at the last ditch,made a stand every bit as heroic and thrilling as that sensational marchin the first half. The Gold and Green's tigerish rushes were hurledback—three times Captain Butch threw his backfield against the line, andthree times not an inch was gained. On the third down, Monty Merriweatherwas forced back for a loss, so now, with two minutes to play and the ballin Bannister's possession, with eight yards to gain, the play was onBallard's twenty-two-yard line!
And the biggest game had produced a new hero of the gridiron. BiffPemberton, left half-back, imbued with savage energy, had borne the bruntof that spectacular advance; and now, he stretched on the turf, white andstill.
"Hicks, old man," T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. turned as a hand rested grippinglyon his shoulder. Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, his face grim, had cometo him, and in quick, terse sentences, he outlined his plan.
"It's Bannister's last chance—" he said, tensely. "Wecan'tmake thefirst down, the way Ballard is fighting, unless we take desperate odds.Now, Hicks, it'sup to you. Onyoudepend old Bannister's hopes."
A great, chilling fear swept over T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., leaving him weakand shaken. It had come at last-the moment for which he had trained andpracticed drop-kicking, for a year, in secret, that moment he had hopedwould come, sometime, and yet had dreaded, as in a nightmare. Before thatvast, howling crowd of ten thousand madly partisan spectators,hemustgo out on Bannister Field, to try and boot a drop-kick from thetwenty-eight-yard-line, to save the Gold and Green from defeat. And hethought of the great glory that would be his, if he succeeded-he would be acampus hero, the idol of old Bannister, the youth who saved his Alma Materfrom defeat, in the biggest game! Then he remembered his Dad, inspiringthe eleven, between the halves, by a ringing speech; he heard again hissentences:
"—And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear AlmaMater, is our greater goal! Go back into the game, throw yourselves intothe scrimmage, with no thought of personal glory, of the plaudits of thecrowd—it is a fine thing, a splendid goal, to play the game and be a hero;it is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal, one's AlmaMater!"
"Now listen carefully," Coach Corridan rushed on, "Biff is knocked out.They'll start again soon, we are going to take a desperate chance; your Dadadvises it! A tie score means the Championship stays with Ballard. To winit, we mustwinthis game—and onyoueverything depends."
"But—how—" stammered Hicks, dazed—the only way totiethe score was bya drop-kick; the only way to win, by a touchdown—did the Coach mean he wasnotto realize his great ambition to save old Bannister by a goal, thereward of his long training?
"You jog out," whispered Coach Corridan, hurriedly, for a stretcher wasbeing rushed to Biff Pemberton, "report to the Referee, and whisper toButch to try Formation Z; 23-45-6-A! Now, here is the dope: our only chanceis to fool Ballard completely. When you go out, the Bannister rooters, andyour Yale friends, will believe it is to try a drop-kick and tie the score.I am sure that the Ballard team will think this, too, because of yourslender build. You act as though you intend to try for a goal, and haveCaptain Butch make our fellows act that way. Then—it is a fake-kick; thebackfield lines up in the kick formation, but the ball is passed to Butch,at your right. He either tries for a forward pass to the right end, orif the end Is blocked, rushes it himself! Hurry-the referee's whistle isblowing; remember, Hicks, my boy, it's the greater goal, it's for your AlmaMater."
In a trance, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., flung off the gold and green blanket,and dashed out on Bannister Field. How often, in the past year, had hevisioned this scene, only—he pictured himself saving the game by adrop-kick, and now Coach Corridan ordered him to sacrifice this glory! Fromthe stands came the thunderous cheer of the excited Bannister cohorts,firmly believing that the slender youth, so ludicrously fragile, amongthose young Colossi, was to try for a goal.
"Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Hicks! Kick the goal—Hicks!"
And from the Yale grads., among them his Dad, came a shout, as he joggedacross the turf:
"Breka-kek-kek—co-ax—Yale! Hicks-Hicks-Hicks!"
But the Bannister Senior did not thrill. Now, instead, a feeling of growingresentment filled his soul; even this intensely loyal youth, with all hislove for old Bannister, was vastly human, and he felt cheated of his justrights. How the students were cheering him, how those Yale men called hisname, and he was not to have his big chance! That for which he had trainedand practiced; the opportunity to serve his Alma Mater, by kicking a goalat the crucial moment, and saving Bannister from defeat, was never to behis. Now, in his last game at college, he was to act as a decoy, as a foil.Like a dummy he must stand, while the other Gold and Green athletes ran offthe play! Instead of everything, a tie game, or a defeat, depending on hiskicking, defeat or victory hung on that fake play, on Butch Brewsterand Monty Merriweather! So—the ear-splitting plaudits of the crowd for"Hicks!" meant nothing to him; they were dead sea fruit, tasteless asashes—as the ashes of ambition. And then—
"—And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear AlmaMater, is our greater goal—no thought of personal glory—a splendid goal,to play the game and be a hero; It is a far more noble act to strive forthe greater goal—one's Alma Mater—"
"I was nearly atraitor" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his Dad's wordsechoing In his memory, and a vision of that staunch, manly Bannisterex-athlete before him. "Oh, I was betraying my Alma Mater. Instead ofrejoicing to makeanysacrifice, however big, for Bannister, I thoughtonly of myself, of my glory! I'll do it, Dad, I'll strive for the greatergoal, and—we just can't fail."
Reaching the scrimmage, Hicks, whose nervous dread had left him, whenhe fought down selfish ambition, and thirst for glory, reported to theReferee, and hurriedly transferred Coach Corridan's orders to CaptainButch Brewster; half a minute of precious time was spent in outlining thedesperate play to the eleven, for "time!" had been called, and then—
"Z-23-45-6-A!" shouted Quarterback Deacon Radford. "Come on, line—hold!Right over the cross-bar with it, Hicks—tie the score, and save Bannisterfrom defeat—"
The Gold and Green backfield shifted to the kick formation. Ten yards backof the center, on the thirty-two-yard line of Ballard, stood T. HavilandHicks, Jr.; the vast crowd was hushed, all eyes stared at that slenderfigure, standing there, with Captain Butch Brewster at his right, and BeefMcNaughton on his left hand-the spectators believed the frail-lookingyouth had been sent in to try a drop-kick. The Ballard rooters thoughtit, and—the Ballard eleven weresureof their enemy's plan—Hicks'mosquito-like build, his nervous swinging of that right leg, deluded them,and helped Coach Corridan's plot.
It was the only play, if Bannister wanted the Championship enough to try adesperate chance; better a fighting hope for that glory, with a try fora touchdown, than a field-goal, and a tie-score! The lines of scrimmagetensed. The linesmen dug their cleats in the sod, those of Ballard tigerishto break through and block; old Bannister's determined tohold. Back ofBallard's line, the backfield swayed on tip-toe, every muscle nerved, readyto crash through; the ends prepared to knock Roddy and Monty aside, thebacks would charge madly ahead, in a berserk rush, to crash into that slimfigure.
"Boot it, Hicks!" shrieked Deke Radford, and as he shouted, the pigskinshot from the Bannister center's hands; the Gold and Green line held nobly,but not so the ends. Monty Merriweather, making a bluff at blocking theleft end, let him crash past, while he sprinted ahead—Captain ButchBrewster, to whom the pass had been made, ran forward, until he saw he wasblocked, and then, seeing Monty dear, he hurled a beautiful forward pass.
Into the arms of the waiting Monty it fell, and that Gold and Green star,absolutely free of tacklers, sprinted twelve yards to the goal-line,falling on the pigskin behind it! Coach Corridan's "100 to 1" chance,suggested by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., had succeeded, and—theBiggest Game and the Championship had come to old Bannister at last!
Followed a scene pauperizing description! For many long years old Bannisterhad waited for this glory; years of bitter disappointment, seasons when theChampionship had been missed by a scant margin, a drop-kick striking thecross-bar, Butch Brewster blindly crashing into an upright. But now, alltheir pent-up joy flowed forth in a mighty torrent! Singing, yelling,dancing, howling, the Bannister Band leading them, the Gold and Greenstudents, alumni, Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around BannisterField. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound around the gridiron,everyone who possessed a hat flinging it over the cross-bars. Thevictorious eleven, were borne by the maddened youths—Captain Butch, Pudge,Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty, Buster, Bunch, and—T. HavilandHicks, Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try a field-goal, hadbeen taken completely off guard. Surprised by the daring attempt, it hadsucceeded with ease, and the final score was Bannister—10; Ballard—6!
"At last! At last!" boomed Butch Brewster, to whom this was the happiestday of his life. "The Championship at last. My great ambition is realized.Old Bannister has won the Championship, and I was the Team Captain!"
After a time, when "the shouting and the tumult died," or at least quietedsomewhat, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and looking downfrom the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his Dad. Mr. Hicks' strongface was aglow with pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son's hand againand again.
"I understand, Thomas!" he said, and his words were reward enough for theyouth. "It was abigsacrifice, but you made it gladly—I know! Yougave up personal glory for the greater goal, and—old Bannister won theChampionship! You helped win, for the winning play turned onyou. It wassplendid, my son, and I am proud of you! No matter if your sacrifice isnever known to the fellows, I understand."
A moment of silence on Hicks' part; then the sunny youth grinned at hisbeloved Dad, as he responded blithesomely: "I'm Pollyanna, that oldBannister and I won out, Dad!"
CHAPTER XV
HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"
"Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, human beings,and—Freshmen! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic High-JumpChampion, holder of the World's record, and winner at the Panama-PacificInternational Exposition National Championships, in his event, is about tohigh jump! The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks is the Herculeanathlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded in thatflamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and insane colors, that inevitablyattended his athletic efforts, shaming Joseph's coat-of-many-colors, gazeddespairingly at his good friend, Butch Brewster, and Track-Coach Brannigan,with a Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance.
"It's no use, Butch, it's no use!" quoth he, with ludicrous indignation,as big Tug Cardiff, the behemoth shot-putter, through a huge megaphoneimitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement to thehilarious crowd of collegians in the stand. "Old Bannister willnevertake my athletic endeavors seriously. Here I have won two second places,and a third, in the high-jump this season, and have a splendid show toannexfirstplace and my track B in the Intercollegiates, but—hearthem!"
It was a balmy, sunshiny afternoon in late May. The sunny-souled,happy-go-lucky T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had trained indefatigably forthe high jump, with the result that he had won several points for histeam—however, he had not realized his great ambition of first place, andhis track letter.
As Hicks now exclaimed to his team-mate and Coach Brannigan, no matter,to the howling Bannister youths, if hehadwon three places in the highjump, in regularly scheduled meets; his comrades had been jeering athis athletic fiascos for nearly four years, and even had Hicks suddenlyblossomed out as a star athlete, they would not have abandoned their joyoushabit. Still, those football 'Varsity players to whom good Butch had readHicks, Sr.'s, letters, and explained the sunny youth's persistence, despitehis ridiculous failures, though they kept on hailing his appearance onBannister Field with exaggerated joy, understood the care-free collegian,and loved him for his ambition to please his Dad. Since Hicks hadabsolutely refused to accept his B, for any sport, unless he won itaccording to Athletic Association eligibility rules, the eleven had keptsecret the contents of the letters Butch Brewster had read to them, forHicks requested it.
The Bannister College track squad, under Track Coach Brannigan and CaptainSpike Robertson, had been training most strenuously for that annualcinder-path classic, the State Intercollegiate Track and FieldChampionships. The sprinters had been tearing down the two-twentystraightaway like suburban commuters catching the 7.20 A.M. for the city.Hammer-throwers and shot-putters—the weight men—heaved the sixteen-poundshot, or hurled the hammer, with reckless abandon, like the Strong Man ofthe circus. Pole-vaulters seemed ambitious to break the altitude records,and In so doing, threatened to break their necks; hurdlers skimmed overthe standard as lightly as swallows, though no one ever beheld swallowshurdling. The distance runners plodded determinedly around the quarter-miletrack, broad-jumpers tried to jump the length of the landing-pit. And T.Haviland Hicks, Jr., vainly essayed to clear five-ten In the high-jump!
It was the last-named event that "broke up the show," as the Phillyloo Birdquaintly stated, somewhat wrongly, since the appearance of that blithesomeyouth in the offing, his flamboyant bathrobe concealing his shadow-likeframe, hadstartedthe show, causing the track squad, as well as ahundred spectator-students, to rush for seats in the stand. The arrivalof T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to train for form and height in the high-jump,though a daily occurrence, was always the signal for a Saturnalia of sportat his expense, because—
"You can't live down your athletic past, Hicks!" smiled good-hearted ButchBrewster. "Your making a touchdown for the other eleven, by running thewrong way with the pigskin, your hilarious fiascos in every sport, yourhome-run with the bases full, on a strike-out-are specters to haunt you.Even now that you have a chance to win your B, just listen to the fellows."
The track squad's "heavy weight—white hope" section, composed ofhammer-heavers and shot-putters—Tug Cardiff, Beef McNaughton, PudgeLangdon, Buster Brown, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and BunchBingham, equipped with megaphones, and with thebasso profundovoicesnature gave them, lined up on both sides of the jumping-standards, andchanted loudly:
"All hail to T. Haviland Hicks!He runs like a carload of bricks;When to high jump he triesFrom the ground he can't rise—For he's built on a pair of toothpicks!"
This saengerfest was greeted with vociferous cheers from the vastly amusedyouths in the stands, who hailed the grinning Hicks with jeers, cat-calls,whistles, and humorous (so they believed) remarks:
"Say, Hicks, you won'tneverbe able to jump anything but yourboard-bill!"
"You're built like a grass-hopper, Hicks, but you've done lost the hop!"
"If you keep on improving as you've done lately, you'll make a high-jumperin a hundred more years, old top!"
"You may rise in the world, Hicks, but never in the high jump!"
"Don't mind them, Hicks!" spoke Coach Brannigan, his hands on thehappy-go-lucky youth's shoulders. "Listen to me; the Intercollegiates willbe the last track meet of your college years, and unless you take firstplace in your event, you won't win your track B. Second, McQuade, ofHamilton, will do five-eight, and likely an inch higher, so to take firstplace, you, must do five-ten. You have trained and practiced faithfullythis season, but no matter what I do, Ican'tgive you that needed twoinches, and—"
"I know it, Coach!" responded the chastened Hicks, throwing aside hislurid bathrobe determinedly, and exposing to the jeering students hissplinter-frame. "Leave it to Hicks, I'll clear it this time, or—"
"Not!" fleered Butch, whom Hicks' easy self-confidence never failed toarouse. "Hicks, listen to me, I can tell you why you can't get two incheshigher. The whole trouble with you is this; for almost four years you haveled an indolent, butterfly, care-free existence, and now, when you mustcall on yourself for a special effort, you are too lazy! You can dearfive-ten; you ought to do it, but you can't summon up the energy. I'velectured you all this time, for your heedless, easy-going ways, andnow—you pay for your idle years!"
"You said an encyclopedia, Butch!" agreed the Coach, with vigor. "If onlysomething would justmakeHicks jump that high, if only he could do itonce, and know it is in his power, he could do it in the Intercollegiates,aided by excitement and competition! Let somethingscarehim so that hewill sail over five-ten, and—he will win his B. He has the energy, thebuild, the spring, and the form, but as you say, he is so easy-going andlazy, that his natural grass-hopper frame avails him naught."
"Here I go!" announced Hicks, who, to an accompaniment of loud cheers fromthe stand, had been jogging up and down in that warming-up process known toathletes as the in place run, consisting of trying to dislocate one'sjaw by bringing the knees, alternately, up against the chin. "Up andover—that's my slogan. Just watch Hicks."
Starting at a distance of twenty yards from the high-jump standards, onwhich the cross-bar rested at five feet, ten inches, T. Haviland Hicks,Jr., who vastly resembled a grass-hopper, crept toward the jumping-pit,on his toe-spikes, as though hoping to catch the cross-bar off its guard.Advancing ten yards, he learned apparently that his design was discovered,so he started a loping gallop, turning to a quick, mad sprint, as though heattempted to jump over the bar before it had time to rise higher. With abeautiful take-off, a splendid spring—a quick, writhing twist in air, andtwo spasmodic kicks, the whole being known as the scissors form of highjump, the mosquito-like youth made a strenuous effort to clear the neededheight, but—one foot kicked the cross-bar, and as Hicks fell flat on hisback, in the soft landing-pit, the wooden rod, In derision, clattered downupon his anatomy.
"Foiled again!" hissed Hicks, after the fashion of a "Ten-Twent'-Thirt'"melodrama-villain, while from the exuberant youths in the grandstand,who really wanted Hicks to clear the bar, but who jeered at his failure,nevertheless, sounded:
"Hire a derrick, Hicks, and hoist yourself over the bar!"
"Yourheadis light enough—your feet weigh you down!"
"'Crossing the Bar'—rendered by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!"
"Going up! Go play checkers, Hicks, you ain't no athlete!"
While the grinning, albeit chagrined T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., reposedgracefully on his back, staring up at the cross-bar, which someone kindlyreplaced on the pegs, big Butch Brewster, who seemed suddenly to havegone crazy, tried to attract Coach Brannigan's attention. Succeeding,Butch—usually a grave, serious Senior, winked, contorted his visagehideously, pointed at Hicks, and sibilated, "Now, Coach—now is yourchance! Tell Hicks—"
Tug Cardiff, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, Bunch Bingham, BusterBrown, Beef McNaughton, and Pudge Langdon, who had been attacked in afashion similar to Butch's spasm, concealed grins of delight, and madestrenuous efforts to appear guileless, as Track-Coach Brannigan approachedT. Haviland Hicks, Jr. To that cheery youth, who was brushing the dirt fromhis immaculate track togs, and bowing to the cheering youths in the stand,the Coach spoke:
"Hicks," he said sternly, "you need a cross-country jog, to getmore strength and power in your limbs! Now, I am going to send theHeavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade for a four-mile run, and you go with them.Oh, don't protest; they are all shot-putters and hammer-throwers, butButch, and they can't run fast enough to give a tortoise a fast heat. Take'em out two miles and back, Butch, and jog all the way; don't let 'em loaf!Off with you."
The unsuspecting Hicks might have detected the nigger in the woodpile, hadhe not been so anxious to make five-ten in the high-jump. However, willingto jog with these behemoths, with whom even he could keep pace, so as todevelop more jumping power, the blithesome youth cast aside his garishbathrobe, pranced about in what he fatuously believed was Ted Meredith'sstyle, and howled:
"Follow Hicks! All out for the Marathon—we're off! One—two—three—go!"
With the excited, track squad, non-athletes, and the baseball crowd, whichhad ceased the game to watch the start, yelling, cheering, howling, andwhistling, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drawing his knees up in exaggeratedstyle at every stride, started to lead the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigadeon its cross-country run. Without wondering why Coach Brannigan hadsuddenly elected to sendhimalong with the hammer-throwers andshot-putters, on the jog, and not having seen the insane facial contortionsof the Brigade, before the Coach gave orders, the gladsome Seniorstarted forth in good spirits, resembling a tugboat convoying a fleet ofbattleships.
"'Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! And over the country we go!'" warbled Hicks, as the squadleft Bannister Field, and jogged across a green meadow. "'—O'er hill anddale, through valley and vale, Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho!'"
"Save your wind, you insect!" growled Butch Brewster, with sinistersignificance that escaped the heedless Hicks, as the behemoth Butch, atwo-miler, swung into the lead. "You'llneedit, you fish, before we getback to the campus! Nottoofast, you flock of human tortoises. You'll becrawling on hands and knees, if you keep that pace up long!"
A mile and a half passed. Butch, at an easy jog, had led his squad overgreen pastures, up gentle slopes, and across a plowed field, by way ofvariety. At length, he left the road on which the pachydermic aggregationhad lumbered for some distance, and turned up a long lane, leading to afarm-house. Back of it they periscoped an orchard, with cherry-trees,laden with red and white fruit, predominating. Also, floating toward thecollegians on the balmy May air came an ominous sound:
"Woof! Woof! Woof! Bow-wow-wow! Woof!"
"Come on, fellows!" urged Butch Brewster. "We'll jog across old Bildad'sorchard and seize some cherries—the old pirate can't catch us, for we areattired for sprinting. Don't they look good?"
"Nothing stirring!" declared Hicks, slangily, but vehemently, as he stoppedshort in his stride. "Old Bildad has got a bulldog what am as big as theNew York City Hall. He had it on the campus last month, you know! Not formine! I don't go near that house, or swipe no cherries from his trees. Ifyou wish to shuffle off this mortal coil, drive right ahead, but I willawait your return here."
T, Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, dread of dogs, of all sizes, shapes, pedigrees,and breeds, was well known to old Bannister; hence, the Heavy-weights nowjeered him unmercifully. Old "Bildad," as the taciturn recluse was called,who lived like a hermit and owned a rich farm, did own a massive bulldog,and a sight of his cruel jaws was a "No Trespass" sign. With greatforethought, when cherries began to ripen, the farmer had brought CaesarNapoleon to the campus, exhibited him to the awed youths, and said, "Mycherries be forsale, not to bestole!" which object lesson, brief asit was, to date, had seemed to have the desired effect. Yet—here was Butchproposing that they literally thrust their heads, or other portions oftheir anatomies, into the jaws of death!
"Well," said Bunch Bingham at last, "I tell you what; we'll jog up to thehouse and ask old Bildad tosellus some cherries; we can pay him when hecomes to the campus with eggs to sell, Come along. Hicks, I'll beard thebulldog in his kennel."
So, dragged along by the bulky hammer-throwers and shot-putters, theprotesting T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in mortal terror of Caesar Napoleon, andthe other canine guardians of old Bildad's property, progressed up the lanetoward the house.
"I got a hunch," said the reluctant Hicks, sadly, "that things ain'ta-comin' out right! In the words of the immortal Somebody-Or-Other, 'This'ere ain't none o'mydoin'; it's a-bein' thrust on me!' All right, mycomrades, I'll be the innocent bystander, but heed me—look out for thebulldog!"
CHAPTER XVI
THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON
The Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, towing the mosquito-like T. HavilandHicks, Jr., advanced on the stronghold of old Bildad, so named because hewas a pessimistic Job's comforter, like Bildad, the Shuhite, of old—likea flock of German spies reconnoitering Allied trenches. Hearing the house,with Butch and Beef holding the helpless, but loudly protesting Hicks, whowould fain have executed what may mildly be termed a strategic retreat, bigTug Cardiff boldly marched, in close formation, toward the door, when theportal suddenly flew open.
"Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Let go, Butch—there's the dog!"
Amid ferocious howls from Caesar Napoleon, and alarmed protests from theparalyzed Hicks, who could not have run, with his wobbly knees, had hebeen set free by his captors, old Bildad, towed from the house by CaesarNapoleon, who strained savagely at the leash until his face bulged, burstupon the scene with impressive dramatic effect! It was difficult to decide,without due consideration, which was the more interesting. Bildad, a huge,gnarled old Viking, with matted gray hair, bushy eyebrows, a flowing beard,and leathery face, a fierce-looking giant, was appalling to behold, but sowas Caesar Napoleon, an immense bulldog, cruel, bloodthirsty, his massivejaws working convulsively, his ugly fangs gleaming, as he set his greatbody against the leash, and gave evidence of a sincere desire to make freelunch of the Bannister youths. As Buster Brown afterward stated, "Neitherone would take the booby prize at a beauty show, but at that, the bulldoghad a better chance than Bildad!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., let it berecorded, could not have qualified as a judge, since his undividedattention was awarded to Caesar Napoleon!
"What d'ye want round here, ye rapscallions?" demanded Bildad, courteously,holding the savage bulldog with one hand, and constructing a ponderousfist with the other, "Hike—git off'n my land, y'hear? Git, er CaesarNapoleon'll git holt o' them scanty duds ye got on!"
"We want to—to buy some cherries, Mr.—Mr. Bildad!" explained BunchBingham, edging away nervously. "We won't steal any, honest, sir. Well payyou for them the very next time you come to the campus with milk and eggs."
"Ho! Ho!" roared old Bildad, piratically, his colossal body shaking, "Alikely tale, lads—an' when I come for my money, ye'll jeer me off thecampus, an' tell me to whistle for it! Off my land—git,an' don't let mecotch ye on it inside o' two minutes, or I'll let Caesar Napoleon make ameal off'n yer bones—git!"
To express it briefly, they got. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., not standing onthe order of his going, set off at a sprint that, while it might havecaused Ted Meredith to lose sleep, also aroused in Caesar Napoleon anoverwhelming desire to take out after the fugitive youth, so that Mr.Bildad was forced to exert his vast strength to hold the massive bulldog.Butch, Beef, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Bunch, Pudge, and Biff, a pachydermiccrew, awed by Caesar Napoleon's bloodthirsty actions, jogged off in thewake of Hicks, who confidently expected to hear the bulldog giving tongue,on his trail, at every second.
Another lane, making in from a road making a cross-roads with the onefrom which they came to Bildad's house, ran alongside the orchard for twohundred yards, inside the fence; at its end was a high roadgate. Atwhat they decided was a safe distance from the "war zone," theHeavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the latterforcibly restrained from widening the margin between him and peril, held acouncil on preparedness.
"The old pirate!" stormed Butch Brewster, gazing back to where the vastfigure of old Bildad, striding toward the house, towered. "We can't let himget away with that, fellows. I'll have some of his cherries now, or—"
"No, no—don't, Butch!" chattered Hicks, whose dread of dogs amounted toan obsession. "He can still see us, and if you leave the lane, he will sendCaesar Napoleon after us! Oh,don't—"
But Butch Brewster, evidently wrathful at being balked, strode from thepath, or lane, of virtue, toward a cherry-tree, whose red fruit hungtemptingly low, and his example was followed by every one of the Brigade,leaving the terrified Hicks to wait in the lane, where, because of hisalarm, he had no time to wonder at the bravado of his behemoth comrades.However, finding that Bildad had disappeared, and believing he had takenCaesar Napoleon into the house, the sunny Hicks, who was far from a cowardotherwise, but who had an unreasonable dread of dogs, little or big, wasabout to wax courageous, and join his team-mates, when a wild shout burstfrom Pudge Langdon:
"Run, fellows—run! Bildad's put the bulldog on us! Here comes—CaesarNapoleon—!"
With a blood-chilling "Woof! Woof!" steadily sounding louder, nearer,a streak of color shot across the orchard, from the house, toward theaffrighted Brigade, while old Bildad's hoarse growl shattered the echoeswith "Take 'em out o' here, Nap—chaw 'em up, boy!" For a startled second,the youths stared at the on-rushing body, shooting toward them through theorchard-grass at terrific speed, and then:
"Run!" howled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., terror providing him with wings, asper proverb. Down the lane, at a pace that would have done credit to BarneyOldfield in his Blitzen Benz, the mosquito-like youth sprinted madly, andever, closer, closer on his trail, sounded that awful "Woof! Woof!" fromCaesar Napoleon, who, as Hicks well knew, was acting with full authorityfrom Bildad! He heard, as he fled frantically, the excited shouts of hiscomrades.
"Beat it, Hicks—he's right after you—run! Run!"
"Jump the fence—he can't get you then—jump!"
"He's right on your trail, Hicks—sprint, old man!"
"Make the fence, old man—jumpit—and you'resafe!"
The terrible truth dawned on the frightened youth, as he desperatelysprinted: the innocent bystander always gets hurt. He had protested againstthe theft of Bildad's cherries, and naturally, the bulldog had kept afterhim! But it was too late to stop, for the old adage was extremelyappropriate, "He who hesitates is lost." He mustmakethat road-gate, andtumble over it, in some fashion, or be torn to shreds by Caesar Napoleon,the savage dog that the cruel Bildad had sent after the youths.
Nearer loomed the road-gate, appallingly high. Closer sounded the pantingbreath of the ferocious Caesar Napoleon, and his incessant "Woof-woof!"became louder. It seemed to the desperate Hicks that the bulldog was at hisheels, and every instant he expected to feel those sharp teeth take hold ofhis anatomy! Once, the despairing youth imitated Lot's wife and turned hishead. He saw a body streaking after him, gaining at every jump, also helost speed; so thereafter, he conscientiously devoted his every energy tothe task in hand, that of making the gate, and getting over it, beforeCaesar Napoleon caught his quarry!
At last, the road-gate, at least ten feet high, to Hicks' feveredimagination, came so close that a quick decision was necessary, for CaesarNapoleon, also, was in the same zone, and in a few seconds he wouldoverhaul the fugitive. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., realizing that a secondlost, perhaps, might prove fatal to his peace of mind, desperately resolvedto dash at the gate, and jump; if he succeeded even in striking somewherenear the top, and falling over, he would not care, for the bulldog wouldnot follow him off Bildad's land. From his comrades, far in the rear, camethe chorus:
"Jump, Hicks! He's right on your heels!"
Like the immortal Light Brigade, Hicks had no time to reason aboutanything. His but to jump or be bitten summed up the situation. So, witha last desperate sprint, a quick dash, he left the ground—luckily, theearth was hard, giving him a solid take-off, and he got a splendid spring.As he arose In air, al! the training and practicing for form stayed withhim, and instinctively he turned, writhed, and kicked—
For a fleeting second, he saw the top of the gate beneath his body, andhe felt a thrill as he beheld twisted strands of barbed wire, cruel andjagged, across it; then, with a great sensation of joy, he knew that hehad cleared the top, and a second later, he landed on the ground, in thecountry road, in a heap.
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky, indolent youth,for once in his care-free campus career aroused to strenuous action,scrambled wildly to his feet, and forcibly realized the truth ofLongfellow's, "And things are not-what they seem!" Instead of theferocious, bloodthirsty bulldog, Caesar Napoleon, a huge, half-grownSt. Bernard pup gamboled inside the gate, frisking about gleefully, andexhibiting, even so that Hicks, with all his innate dread of dogs, couldunderstand it, a vast friendliness. In fact, he seemed trying to say,"That's fun. Come on and play with me some more!"
"Hey, fellows," shrieked the relieved Hicks, "that ain't Caesar Napoleon!Why, he just wanted to play."
Bewildered, the members of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of theBannister College track squad rushed on the scene. To their surprise, theyfound not a savage bulldog, but a clumsy, good-natured St. Bernard puppy,who frisked wildly about them, groveled at their feet, and put his hugepaws on them, with the playfulness of a juvenile elephant.
"Why, itisn'tNappie, for a fact!" gasped Butch. "Oh, I am so gladthat old Bildad wasn't mean enough to put the bulldog after us, for he isdangerous. He scared us, though, and put this pup on our trail. He wantedto play, and he thought it all a game, when Hicks fled. Oho! What a joke onHicks."
"I don't care!" grinned Hicks, thus siding with the famous Eva Tanguay."You fellows were fooled, too! You were tooscaredto run, and if it hadbeen Caesar Napoleon, I'd have saved your worthless lives by getting himafter me! I'll bet Bildad is snickering now, the old reprobate! Why, Tug,are youcrazy?"
Tug Cardiff, indeed, gave indications of lunacy. He marched up to theroad-gate, and stood close to it, so that the barbed wire top was even withhis hair; then he backed off, and gazed first at the gate, then at thebewildered Hicks, while he grinned at the dazed squad in a Cheshire catstyle.
"Measure it, someone!" he shouted. "I am nearly six feet tall, and it comeseven with the top of my dome! Can't you see, you brainless imbeciles, Hickscleared it."
"Wait for me here!" howled big Butch Brewster, climbing the fence andstarting down the road at a pace that did credit even to that fasttwo-miler. The Brigade, In the absence of their leader, tried to estimatethe height of the gate, and Hicks, gazing at its barbed-wire top,shuddered. The St. Bernard pup, having caused T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., foronce in his indolent life to exert every possible ounce of energy in hissplinter-frame, groveled at his feet, and strove to express his boundlessjoy at their presence.
Butch Brewster, in fifteen minutes, returned, panting and perspiring,bearing a tape-measure, borrowed at the next farm-house. With all thesolemnity of a sacred rite being performed, the youths waited, as Butch andTug, holding the tape taut, carefully measured from the ground to the topof the barbed wire on the gate. Three times they did this, and then, withan expression of gladness on his honest countenance, Butch hugged thedazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while Tug Cardiff howled, "Now for theIntercollegiates and your track B, Hicks! Youcando five-ten in themeet, for Coach Brannigan said you could dear it, if only you did itonce."
"Why—what do you mean, Tug?" quavered Hicks, not daring to allow himselfto believe the truth. "You—you surely don't mean—"
"I mean, that now youknowyou can jump that high," boomed Tug, executinga weird dance of exultation, In which, the Brigade joined, until itresembled a herd of elephants gone insane, "for you have done it—allowingfor the sag, and everything, that gate is just five feet, ten inches high,and—you cleared it!"
"Ladies and gentlemen—Hicks, of Bannister, is about to high jump! Hicksand McQuade, of Hamilton, are tied for first place at five feet eightinches! McQuade has failed three times at five-ten! Hicks' third and lasttrial! Height of bar—five feet ten inches!"
This time, however, it was not big Tug Cardiff, imitating a BallyhooBill, and inciting the Bannister youths to hilarity at the expense of thesunny-souled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; it was the Official Announcer at theAnnual State Intercollegiate Field and Track Championships, on BannisterField, and his announcement aroused a tumult of excitement in the Bannistersection of the stands, as well as among the Gold and Green cinder-pathstars.
"Come on, Hicks, old man!" urged Butch Brewster, who, with a dozen fullyas excited comrades of the cheery Hicks, surrounded that splinter-athlete."It's positively your last chance to win your track B, or your letter inany sport, and please your Dad! If they lower the bar, and you two jump offthe tie, McQuade's endurance will bring him out the winner."
"Youcanclear five-ten!" encouraged Bunch Bingham. "You did it once,when you believed Caesar Napoleon was after you. Just summon up that muchenergy now, and clear that bar! Once over, the event and your letter arewon! Oh, if we only had that bulldog here, to sick on you."
Sad to chronicle, the score-board of the Intercollegiates recorded theresults of the events, so far, thus:
HAMILTON ............35 BALLARD .............20 BANNISTER ...........28
It was the last event, and even did Hicks win the high-jump, McQuade'ssecond place would easily give old Ham. the Championship. Hence, knowingthat victory was not booked for an appearance on the Gold and Greenbanners, the Bannister youths, wild for the lovable, popular Hicks to winhis Bs vociferously pulled for him:
"Come on, Hicks—up and over, old man—it'seasy!"
"Jump, you Human Grass-Hopper—you can do it!"
"Now or never, Hicks! One big jump does the work!"
"Sick Caesar Napoleon on him, Coach; he'll clear it then!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., casting aside that flamboyant bathrobe, for what hebelieved was the last athletic event of his campus career, stood gazing atthe cross-bar. One superhuman effort, a great explosion of all his energy,such as he had executed when he cleared the gate, thinking Caesar Napoleonwas after him, and the event was won! Hehadcleared that height, it waswithin his power. If he failed, as Butch said, the bar would be lowered,and then raised until one or the other missed once. McQuade, with hissuperior strength and endurance, must inevitably win, but as he had justmissed on his third trial at five-ten, if Hicks cleared that height onhisfinal chance, the first place was his.
"And my B!" murmured Hicks, tensing his muscles. "Oh, won't my Dad behappy? It will help him to realize some of his ambition, when I show him mytrack letter! It is positively my last chance, and Imustclear it."
With a vast wave of determined confidence inundating his very being, Hicksstarted for the bar; after those first, peculiar, creeping steps, he hadjust started his gallop, when he heard Tug Cardiff'sbasso, magnified bya megaphone, roared:
"All together, fellows—let 'er go—"
Then, just as Hicks dug his spikes into the earth, in that short, madsprint that gives the jumper his spring, just as he reached the take-off,a perfect explosion of noise startled him, and he caught a sound thatfrightened him, tensed as he was:
"Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Woof! Woof! Look out, Hicks, Caesar Napoleonis after you!"
Psychology Is inexplicable. Ever afterward, Hicks' comrades of thatcross-country run averred strenuously that their roaring throughmegaphones, in concert, imitating Caesar Napoleon's savage bark at thepsychological moment, flung the mosquito-like youth clear of the cross-barand won him the event and his B. Hicks, however, as fervidly denied thisstatement, declaring that he would have won, anyhow, because he hadsummoned up the determination to do it! So it can not be stated just whatbearing on his jump the plot of Butch Brewster really had. In truth, thatbehemoth had entertained a wild idea of actually hiring old Bildad andCaesar Napoleon to appear at the moment Hicks started for his last trial,but this weird scheme was abandoned!
Fifteen minutes later, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had escaped from theriotous Bannister students, delirious with joy at the victory of thebeloved youth, the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade, capturing thegrass-hopper Senior, gave him a shock second only to that which he hadexperienced when first he believed Caesar Napoleon was on his trail.
"Perhaps our barking didn't make you jump it!" said Beef McNaughton, whenHicks indignantly denied that he had been scared over the cross-bar, "butindirectly, old man, we helped you to win! If we had not put up a hoax onyou—"
"Ahoax?" queried the surprised Hicks. "What do you mean—hoax?"
"It was all a frame-up!" grinned Butch Brewster, triumphantly. "We paid oldBildad five dollars to play his part, and as an actor, he has Booth andBarrymore backed off the stage! We got Coach Brannigan to send you alongwith us on the cross-country jog, and your absurd dread of dogs, Hicks,made it easy! Bildad, per instructions, produced Caesar Napoleon, andscared you. Then, with a telescope, he watched us, and when I gave thesignal, he let loose Bob, the harmless St. Bernard pup, on our trail.
"The pup, as he always does, chased after strangers, ready to play. Weyelled for you to run, and you were soscared, you insect, you didn'twait to see the dog. Even when you looked back, in your alarm, you didn'tknow it was not Caesar Napoleon, for his grim visage was seared on yourbrain—I mean, where your brain ought to be! And even had you seen itwasn't the bulldog, you would have been frightened, all the same. But Iconfess, Hicks, when you sailed over that high gate, it was one onus."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drew a deep breath, and then a Cheshire cat grincame to his cherubic countenance. So, after all, it had been a hoax; therehad not been any peril. No wonder these behemoths had so courageously takenthe cherries! But, beyond a doubt, the jokehadhelped him to win hisB. It had shown him he could clear five feet, ten inches, for he had doneit—and, in the meet, when the crucial moment came, the knowledge that hehadjumped that high, and, therefore, could do it, helped—where thethought that he never had cleared it would have dragged him down. He had atlast won his B, a part of his beloved Dad's great ambition was realized,and—
"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth that sunny-souled, irrepressibleyouth, swaggering a trifle, "It was my mighty will-power, my terrificdetermination, that took me over the cross-bar, and not—notyourimitation of—"
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the "Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade" inthunderous chorus. "Sick him—Caesar Napoleon—!"
CHAPTER XVII
HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY
"Come on, Butch! Atta boy—some fin, old top! Say, you Beef—you're asleepat the switch. What time do you want to be called? More pep there,Monty—bust that little old bulb, Roddy! Aw, rotten! Say, Ballard, yourplaying will bring the Board of Health down on you—why don't you bringyour first team out? Umpire? What—do you call that an umpire? Why, he'sa highway robber, a bandit. Put a 'Please Help the Blind' sign on thathold-up artist!"
Big Butch Brewster, captain of the Bannister College baseball squad,navigating down the third-floor corridor of Bannister Hall, the Seniordormitory, laden with suitcases, bat-bags, and other impedimenta, as Mr.Julius Caesar says, and vastly resembling a bell-hop in action, paused insheer bewilderment on the threshold of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cozy room.
"Hicks!" stormed the bewildered Butch, wrathfully, "what in the name of SamHillareyou doing? Are you crazy, you absolutely insane lunatic? Thisis a study-hour, and even ifyoudon't possess an intellect, some of thefellows want to exercise their brains an hour or so! Stop that ridiculousaction."
The spectacle Butch Brewster beheld was indeed one to paralyze thatpachydermic collegian, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the sunny-souled,irrepressible Senior, danced madly about on the tiger-skin rug in midfloor,evidently laboring under the delusion that he was a lunatical Hottentot ata tribal dance; he waved his arms wildly, like a signaling brakeman, orhowled through a big megaphone, and about his toothpick structure wasstrung his beloved banjo, on which the blithesome youth twanged at times anaccompaniment to his jargon:
"Come on, Skeet, take a lead (plunkety-plunk!) Say, d'ye wanta marryfirst base—divorce yourself from that sack! (plunk-plunk!) Oh, youbonehead—steal—you won't get arrested for it! Hi! Yi! Ouch, Butch! Oh,I'll be good—"
At this moment, the indignant Butch abruptly terminated T. Haviland Hicks,Jr.'s, noisy monologue by seizing that splinter-youth firmly by the scruffof the neck and forcibly hurling him on the davenport. Seeing his loyalclass-mate's resemblance to a Grand Central Station baggage-smasher, theirrepressible Senior forthwith imitated a hotel-clerk:
"Front!" howled the grinning Hicks, to an imaginary bellboy, "Show thisgentleman to Number 2323! Are you alone, sir, or just by yourself? I thinkyou will like the room-it faces on the coal-chute, and has hot and coldfolding-doors, and running water when the roof leaks! The bed is made oncea week, regularly, and—"
"Hicks, you Infinitesimal Atom of Nothing!" growled big Butch, ominously."What were you doing, creating all that riot, as I came down the corridor?What's the main idea, anyway, of—"
"Heed, friend of my campus days," chortled the graceless Hicks, keepinga safe distance from his behemoth comrade, "tomorrow-your baseballaggregation plays Ballard College, at that knowledge-factory, for theChampionship of the State. Because nature hath endowed me with theHerculean structure of a Jersey mosquito, I am developing a 56-lung-powervoice, and I need practice, as I am to be the only student-rooter at thegame tomorrow! Q.E.D.! And as for any Bannister student, except perhapsTheophilus Opperdyke and Thor, desiring to investigate the interiors oftheir lexicons tonight, I prithee, just periscope the campus."
"I guess you are right, Hicks!" grinned Butch Brewster, as he looked fromthe window, down on an indescribably noisy scene. "For once, your riotoustumult went unheard. Say, get your traveling-bag ready, and leave thatpestersome banjo behind, if you want to go with the nine!"
Several members of the Gold and Green nine, embryo American and NationalLeague stars, roosted on the Senior Fence between the Gymnasium and theAdministration Building, with, suitcases and bat-bags on the grass. In afew minutes old Dan Flannagan's celebrated jitney-bus would appear in theoffing, coming to transport the Bannister athletes downtown to the station,for the 9 P.M. express to Philadelphia. Incited by Cheer-Leaders SkeezicksMcCracken and Snake Fisher, several hundred youths encouraged the nine,since, because of approaching final exams., they were barred by Facultyorder from accompanying the team to Ballard. In thunderous chorus theychanted:
"One more Job for the undertaker!More work for the tombstone maker!In the local cemetery, they are very—very—veryBusy on a brand-new grave for—Ballard!"
As the lovable Hicks expressed it, "'Coming events cast their shadowsbefore.' Commencement overshadows our joyous campus existence!" However, noBannister acquaintance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., could detect wherein theswiftly approaching final separation from his Alma Mater had affected inthe least that happy-go-lucky, care-free, irrepressible youth. If anything,it seemed that Hicks strove to fight off thoughts of the end of his goldencampus years, using as weapons his torturesome saengerfests, his BeefsteakBusts down at Jerry's, and various other pastimes, to the vast indignationof his good friend and class-mate, Butch Brewster, who tried futilely tolecture him into the proper serious mood with which Seniors must sailthrough Commencement!
"You are a Senior, Hicks, a Senior!" Butch would explain wrathfully. "Youare popularly supposed to be dignified, and here you persist in acting likea comedian in a vaudeville show! I suppose you intend to appear on thestage, and, when handed your sheepskin, respond by twanging your banjo androaring a silly ballad."
Yet, the cheery Hicks had been very busy, since that memorable day when,thanks to Caesar Napoleon and the hoax of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of the track squad, he had cleared the cross-bar at five-ten,and won the event and his white B! Mr. T. Haviland Hicks, Sr., overjoyedat his son's achievement, had sent him a generous check, which the youthmuch needed, and had promised to be present at the annual AthleticAssociation Meeting, at Commencement, when the B's were awardeddeserving athletes, which caused Hicks as much joy as the pink slip.With his final study sprint for the Senior Finals, his duties as team-manager of the baseball nine, his preparations for Commencement, hissocial duties at the Junior Prom., and multifarious other detailscoincident to graduation, the heedless Hicks had not found time to besorrowful at the knowledge that it soon would end, forever, that he mustsay "Farewell, Alma Mater," and leave the campus and corridors of oldBannister; yet soon even Hicks' ebullient spirits must fail, forCommencement was a trifle over a week off.
"Hicks, you lovable, heedless, irrepressible wretch," said Big Butch,affectionately, as the two class-mates thrilled at the scene. "Does itpenetrate that shrapnel-proof concrete dome of yours that the Ballard gametomorrow is the final athletic contest of my, and likewise your, campuscareer at old Bannister?"
"Similar thoughts has smote my colossal intellect, Butch!" responded thebean-pole Hicks, gladsomely. "But—why seek to overshadow this joyous scenewith somber reflections? You-should-worry. You have annexed sufficient B's,were they different, to make up an alphabet. You've won your letter ongridiron, track, and baseball field, and you've been team-captain ofeverything twice! Why, therefore, sheddest thou them crocodile tears?"
"Not for myself, thou sunny-souled idler!" announced Butch, generously,"But forthee! I prithee, since you pritheed me a few moments hence, letthat so-called colossal intellect of yours stride back along the corridorsof Time, until it reaches a certain day toward the close of our Freshmanyear. Remember, you had made a hilarious failure of every athletic eventyou tried-football, basketball, track, and baseball; you had just made atremendous farce of the Freshman-Sophomore track meet, and to me, yourloyal comrade, you uttered these rash words, 'Before I graduate from oldBannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!'
"I reiterate and repeat, tomorrow's game with Ballard is the last chanceyou will have. There is no possibility that you, with your well-known lackof baseball ability, will get in the game, and—your track B, won in thehigh-jump, is the only B you have won! Now, do you still maintain that youwill make good that rash vow?"
"'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.' 'While there'slife, there's hope.' 'Don't give up the ship.' 'Fight to the last ditch.''In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word asfail,'"quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. "As long as there is aninfinitesimal fraction of a chance left, I repeat, just leave it to Hicks!"
"You haven't got a chance in the world!" Butch assured him, consolingly."You did manage to get into one football game, for a minute, and you were a'Varsity player that long. By sticking to it, you have won your track B inthe high-jump, thanks to your grass-hopper build, and we rejoice at yourreward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be sensible, andcease this ridiculous talk of winning your B inthreesports, when youcan see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely impossible—"
It was not that Butch. Brewster did notwanthis sunny classmate to winhis B in three sports, or that he would have failed to rejoice at Hicks'winning the triple honor. Had such a thing seemed within the bounds ofpossibility, Butch, big-hearted and loyal, would have been as happy asHicks, or his Dad. But what the behemoth athlete became wrathful at was theobviously lunatical way in which the cheery Hicks, now that his collegeyears were almost ended, parrot-like repeated, "Oh, just leave it toHicks!" when he must know all hope was dead. In truth, T, Haviland Hicks,Jr., in pretending to maintain still that he would make good the rashvow of his Freshman year, had no purpose but to arouse his comrade'sindignation; but Butch, serious of nature, believed there really lurked inHicks' system some germs of hope.
"We never know, old top!" chuckled Hicks, though he wassurehe couldnever fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of a seasonon both the football and the baseball teams, "Something may show up at thelast minute, and—"