At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus below, forthe enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the "Honk!Honk!" of a Claxon was heard, "Here he comes! All together, fellows—theBannister yell for the nine—then for good old Dan Flannagan!"
As Hicks and Butch watched from the window, old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus,to the discordant blaring of a horn, progressed up the driveway, even as ithad done on that night in September, when it transported to the campusT. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. Amid salvos ofapplause from the Bannister youths, and blasts of the Claxon, old Danbrought "The Dove" to a stop before the Senior Fence, and bowed to thenine, grinning genially the while.
"The car waits at the door, sir!" spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., touchinghis cap after the fashion of an English butler, before seizing a bat-bag,and his suit-case. "As team manager, I must attempt to force into SkeetWigglesworth's dome how he and the five subs, are to travel on the C. N. &Q., to Eastminster, from Baltimore. Come on, Butch, we're off—"
"You are always off!" commented Butch, good-humoredly, as he seized hisbaggage and followed the mosquito-like Hicks from the room, downstairs, andout on the campus. Here the assembled youths, with yells, cheers, and songssandwiched between humorous remarks to Dan Flannagan, watched the thrillingspectacle of the Gold and Green nine, with the Team Manager and fivesubstitutes, fifteen in all, squeeze into and atop of Dan Flannagan'sjitney-Ford.
"Let me check you fellows off," said Hicks, importantly, peering into thejitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling expenses."Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch Brewster, SkeetWigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane, DonCarterson; that is the regular nine, and are you five subs, present? O. K.Skeet, climb out here a second."
Little Skeet Wigglesworth, the brilliant short-stop, climbed out withexceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he saluted inmilitary fashion. The team manager, consulting a timetable of the C. N.&.Q. railroad, fixed him with a stern look.
"Skeet," he spoke distinctly, "now,get this—myself and eight regulars,ninein all, will take the 9 P. M. express for Philadelphia, and staythere all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street Station forEastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. Now I have a lot of unused mileage onthe C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement. So, heed: youwant to goviaBaltimore, to see your parents. You take the 9.20 P. M.express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the morning, toEastminster, on the C. N, & Q.—it's the only road. And take the five subswith you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy bomb-proofdome?"
"Sure; you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!" grinnedSkeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the A.M., forEastminster?"
"Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books to theshortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable. "Oh, yes—youleave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at Eastminster atnoon;it is the only train, you can get,to make it in time for the game,so remember the hour—7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable in your pocket."
In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed into old DanFlannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentratedtheir interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning à la Cheshire cat,climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much trouble tostart as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late LordNelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a LouisvilleSlugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at theirrepressible youth:
"Home-run Hicks—he made a home-run—on a strike-out!"—"Put Hicks inthe game, Captain Butch—he will win it."—"Watch Hicks—he'll pullsomeboneheadplay!"—"Bring home the Championship, but—lose Hickssomewhere!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit. yielded toold Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the yellingstudents, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously believedwas that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a lull in thetumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd:
"Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the Championship, for myAlma Mater, and—I'll do it by my headwork!"
CHAPTER XVIII
T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK
"Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are youafraidto play?"
"Call the game, Mr. Ump.—make 'em play ball!"
"Batter up! Forfeit the game to Ballard, Umpire!"
"Lend 'em Ballard's bat-boy-to make a full nine!"
Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance, as a moving-picturedirector would express it, "registering wrathful dismay," lumbered towardthe Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green playershad entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard cohortsvociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable delay.
"We havegotto play," he raged, striding up and down before the bench."The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And here wehave onlyeight'Varsity players, and no one to make the ninth—not evena sub.! Oh, I could—"
"That brainless Skeet Wigglesworth!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,who, arrayed like a lily of the field, reposed his splinter-structure onthe bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed tomissthat trainfrom Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. & Q. train, and thereisn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a Germanwar-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!"
Gloom, as thick and abysmal as a London fog, hovered over the Bannisterdug-out. On the concrete bench, the seven Gold and Green athletes, Beef,Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, with Team Manager T. HavilandHicks, Jr., stared silently at Captain Butch Brewster, who seemed inimminent peril of exploding. Something probably never before heard of inthe annals of athletic history had happened. Bannister College, about toplay Ballard the big game for the State Championship, had lost a short-stopand five substitutes, in some unfathomable manner, and it was impossibleto round up one other member of the Gold and Green baseball squad. True, ahundred loyal alumni were in the stands, but onlybona fidestudents, ofcourse, were eligible to play the game, and—the Faculty ruling had keptthem at old Bannister!
"Here comes Ballard's Manager," spoke Beef McNaughton, as a brisk,clean-cut youth advanced, a yellow envelope in hand. "Why, he has atelegram. Do you suppose Skeet actually hadbrainsenough to wire anexplanation?"
"Telegram for Captain Brewster!" announced the Ballard collegian, givingthe message to that surprised behemoth. "It was sent in my care—collect,and the sender, name of Wigglesworth, fired one to me personally, tellingme to deliver this one to Captain Butch Brewster, and collect from TeamManager Hicks—he surely didn't bother to save money! I've been out oftown, and just got back to the campus; of course, the telegrams could notbe delivered to anyone but me, hence the delay."
Big Butch, thanking the Ballard Team Manager, and assuring him that thecharges he had paid would be advanced to him after the game, ripped openthe yellow envelope, and drew out the message. Like a thunder-stormgathering on the horizon, a dark expression came to good Butch'scountenance, and when he had perused the lengthy telegram, he transfixedthe startled and bewildered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with an angry glare:
"Bonehead!" he raged, apparently controlling himself with a superhumaneffort. "Oh, you lunatic, you wretch, villain—you—you—"
To the supreme amazement and dismay of the puzzled Hicks, Beef, next inline, afterhehad scanned Skeet's telegram, followed Butch's example,forheglowered at the perturbed youth, and heaped condemnations on hisdevoted head. And so on down the line on the bench, until Monty, Roddy,Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, reading the message, joined in gazingindignantly at their gladsome Team Manager, who, as the eight aroseenmasseand advanced on him, sought to flee the wrath to come.
"Safety first!" quoth T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. "'Mine not to reason why, minebut to haste and fly,' or—be crushed! Ouch! Beef, Monty—have a heart!"
Captured by Beef and Monty Merriweather, as he frantically scrambled upthe steps of the concrete dug-out, the grinning Hicks was held in the firmgrasp of that behemoth, Butch Brewster, aided by the skyscraper Ichabod,while Cherub Challoner thrust the telegram before his eyes. In words offire that burned themselves into his brain—something his colleaguesdenied he possessed—T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the explanation of SkeetWigglesworth's missing the train from Baltimore that A. M. Dazed, the sunnyyouth read the message on which over-charges must be paid:
"Hicks—you bonehead! The time-table of the C.N. & Q. you gave me was anold one—schedule revised two weeks ago! Train now leaves Balto. at 6.55A.M.! When we got to station at 7.05 A.M. she had went! No train to Ballardtill night! I and subs, had to wire Bannister for money to get back on!You mis-manager—thehead-workyou boasted of is boneheadwork! Pay thecharges on this, you brainless insect! I'll send it to Butch, for you'dnever show it to him if I sent it to you! Indignantly—
"SKEET."
"Mis-manager isright!" seethed Captain Butch, for once in his campuscareer really wrathy at the lovable Hicks. "We are in a fix—eight players,and the crowd howling for the game to start. Oh, I could jump overboard,and drag you with me!"
"Bonehead! Bonehead!" chorused the Gold and Green players, indignantly."Gave Skeet an out-of-date time-table—never looked at the date! Let's draghim out before the crowd, and announce to them his brilliant headwork!"
Captain Butch, "up against it," to employ a slightly slang expression,gazed across Ballard Field. In the stands, the students respondingthunderously to their cheer-leaders' megaphoned requests, roared, "Playball! Play ball! Play ball!" Gay pennants and banners fluttered in theglorious sunshine of the June day. It was a bright scene, but its gloryawakened no happiness in the heart of the Bannister leader, as his gazewandered to the somewhat flabbergasted expression on the cheery Hicks'face. That inevitably sunny youth, however, managed to conjure up a faintresemblance of his Cheshire cat grin, and following his usual habit ofletting nothing daunt his gladsome spirit, he croaked feebly: "Oh, justleave it to Hicks! I will—"
"Play the game!" thundered Butch, inspired. "Beef, see the umpire and saywe'll be ready as soon as we get Hicks into togs-show him the telegram, andexplain our delay! I'll shift Monty from the outfield to Skeet's job atshort, and put this diluted imitation of something human in the field, todo his worst. Come to the field-house, you poor fish—"
"Oh, Butch, I can't—I justcan't!" protested the alarmed Hicks,helpless, as the big athlete towed him from the trench, "I—I can't playball, and I don't want to be shown up before all that mob! It's all rightat Bannister, in class-games, but—Oh, can't you play the game witheightfellows?"
"That is just what we intend to do!" said Butch, with grim humor."But—we'll have a dummy in the ninth position, to make the people believewe have a full nine! Cheer up, Hicks—'In the bright lexicon of youththere ain't no such word as fail,' you say! As for your making a fool ofyourself, you haven't brains enough to be classed as one! Now—you'll paydearly for your bonehead play."
Ten minutes later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as agitated as aprima donnamaking her début with the Metropolitan: Opera Company, decorated theBannister bench, arrayed in one of the substitutes' baseball suits. Itwas too large for his splinter-structure, so that it flapped grotesquely,giving him a startling resemblance to a scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.With the thermometer of his spirits registering zero, the dismayed youth,whose punishment was surely fitting the crime, heard the Umpire bellow:
"Play ball! Batter up! Bannister at bat—Ballard in the field!"
Hicks, that sunny-souled youth, had often daydreamed of himself in a biggame of baseball, for his college. He had vividly imagined a ninth inningcrisis, three of the enemy on base, two out, and a long fly, good for ahome-run, soaring over his head. How he had sprinted—back—back—and atthe last second, reached high in the air, grabbing the soaring spheroid,and saving the game for his Alma Mater! Often, too, he had stepped up tobat in the final frame, with two out, one on base, and Bannister a runbehind. With the vast crowd silent and breathless, he had walloped theball, over the left-field fence, and jogged around the bases, thrilling tothe thunderous cheers of his comrades. But now—
"Oooo!" shivered Hicks, as though he had just stepped beneath an icyshower-bath. "I wish I could run away. I justknowthey'll knock everyball to me, and I couldn't catch one with a sheriff and posse!"
However, since, despite the blithesome Hicks' lack of confidence, it wasthat sunny Senior, after all, whom fate—or fortune, accordingly aseach nine viewed it—destined to be the hero of the Bannister-BallardChampionship baseball contest, the game itself is shoved into suchinsignificance that it can be briefly chronicled by recording the eventsthat led up to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, self-prophesied "head-work."
Without Skeet Wigglesworth at shortstop, with the futile Hicks inright-field, and the confidence of the nine shaken, Captain Butch Brewsterand the Gold and Green players went into the big game, unable to shake offthe feeling that they would be defeated. And when Pitcher Don Carterson,in his half of the frame, passed the first two Ballard batters, the beliefdeepened to conviction. However, a fast double play and a long fly endedthe inning without damage, and Bannister, likewise, had failed to make animpression on the score-board. In the second, Don promptly showed that hewas striving to rival the late Cy Morgan, of the Athletics, for he promptlyhit two batters and passed the third, whereupon, as sporting-writersexpress it, he was "derricked" by Captain Butch.
Placing the deposed twirler in left field, Captain Brewster, as a lastresort, believing the game hopelessly lost, with his star pitcher havingfailed, and his relief slabmen, thanks to Hicks, mislaiden route, sentout to the box one Ichabod Crane, brought in from the position given toDon Carterson. This cadaverous, skyscraper Senior, who always announced,himself as originating, "Back at Bedwell Center, Pa., where I come from—"was well known to fame as the "Champion Horse-Shoe Pitcher of BucksCounty," but his baseball pitching was rather uncertain; like the girl inthe nursery jingle, Ichabod, as a twirler, "When he was good, he was very,very good, and when he was wild, he washorrid!" Like Christy Mathewson,after he had pitched a few balls, he knew whether or not he was inshape for the game, and so did the spectators. With terrific speed andbewildering curves, Ichabod would have made a star, but his wildnessprevented, and only on very rare days could he control the ball.
Luckily for old Bannister's chances of victory and the Championship, thiswas one of the elongated Ichabod's rare days. He ambled into the box, withthe bases full, and promptly struck out a batter. The next rolled to first,forcing out the runner at home, while the third hitter under Ichabod'srégime drove out a long fly to center-field. Thus the game settled to oneof the most memorable contests that Ballard Field had ever witnessed, apitchers' battle between the awkward, bean-pole youth from "Bedwell Center,Pa.," and Bob Forsythe, the crack Ballard twirler. It was a fight longto be remembered, with hits as scarce as auks' eggs, and runs out of thereckoning, for six innings.
At the start of the seventh, with the Ballard rooters standing andthundering, "The lucky seventh! Ballard—win the game in the luckyseventh!" the score was 0-0. Only two hits had been made off Forsythe, ofBallard, whose change of pace had the Bannister nine at his mercy, andbut three off Ichabod, who had superb control of his dazzling speed. T.Haviland Hicks, Jr., cavorting in right field, had made the only error ofthe contest, dropping an easy fly that fell into his hands after he had runbewilderedly in circles, when any good fielder could have stood still andcaptured it; however, since he got the ball to second in time to hold therunner at third, no harm resulted.
"Hold 'em, Bannister,hold'em!" entreated Butch Brewster, as they wentto the field at their end of the lucky seventh, not having scored. "Do yourbest, Hicks, old man—never mind their Jokes. If you can'tcatchthe ball, just get it to second, or first, without delay! Pitch ball,Ichabod—three innings to hold 'em!"
But it was destined to be the lucky seventh for Ballard. An error on a hardchance, for Roddy Perkins, at third, placed a runner on first. Ichabodstruck out a hitter, and the runner stole second, aided somewhat by theumpire. The next player flew out, sacrificing the runner to third; then—aneasy fly traveled toward the paralyzed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one thatanybody with the most infinitesimal baseball ability could have corralled,as Butch said, "with his eyes blindfolded, and his hands tied behind him!"But Hicks, who possessed absolutelynobaseball talent, though he madea desperate try, succeeded in doing an European juggling act for fiveheartbreaking seconds, after which he let the law of gravity act on thesphere, so that it descended to terra firma. Hence, the "Lucky Seventh"ended with the score: Ballard, 1; Bannister, 0; and the Ballard cohorts ina state bordering on lunacy!
"Oh, I've done it now—I've lost the game and the Championship!" groanedthe crushed Hicks, as he stumbled toward the Bannister bench. "First I madethat bonehead play, giving Skeet an old time-table I had on hand, and nottelling him to get one at the station. How was I to know the old railroadwould change the schedule, within two weeks of this game? And now—I'vemade the error that gives Ballard the Championship. If I hadn't pulled thatboner, Skeet would be here, and the regular right-fielder would have hadthat fly. What a glorious climax to my athletic career at old Bannister!"
Hicks' comrades were too generous, or heartbroken, to condemn the sorrowfulyouth, as he trailed to the dug-out, but the Ballard rooters had absolutelyno mercy, and they panned him in regulation style. In fact, all throughthe game, Hicks expressed himself as being butchered by the fans to make aBallard holiday, for he struck out with unfailing regularity at bat, anddropped everything in the field, so that the rooters jeered him, wheneverhe stepped to the plate, and—it was quite different from the good-naturedridicule of his comrades, back at old Bannister.
"Never mind, Hicks," said good Butch Brewster, brokenly, seeing howsorrow-stricken his sunny classmate was, "We'll beat 'em—yet! We bat thisinning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for us, andtie the score."
The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green. MontyMerriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and advanced tothird on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to knock ahome-run, struck out-à la "Cactus" Cravath in the World's Series; but thelanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over second,and the score was tied, though the sky-scraper twirler was caught off basea moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of the eighth,Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by thestrike-out route, while the third popped out to first.
"TheninthInning!" breathed Beef McNaughton, picking up his LouisvilleSlugger, as he strode to the plate. "Come on, boys—we will win theChampionshipright now. Get one run, and Ichabod will hold Ballard onemore time!"
Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim attitude unnerved the wonderful BobForsythe, for he passed that elephantine youth. However, he regained hissplendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three pitched balls.After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman drop theball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been thrownout with ease—with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins made a sharpsingle, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the sacksfilled, and with only one out—
"It's all over!" mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back and forth onthe bench. "Hicks—is—at—bat!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting in a similarfashion, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered toward theplate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up from thestands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet.
"Three pitched balls, Bob!" was the cry. "Strike him out! It's all over butthe shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe—he can't hit a barn-doorwith a scatter-gun! One—two—three—out! Here's where Ballard wins theChampionship."
Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding speed—twice theextremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble Chautauqua saluteat the ball he never even saw! Then—trying to "cut the inside corner" witha fast inshoot, Forsythe's control wavered a trifle, and T. Haviland Hicks,Jr., saw the ball streaking toward him! The paralyzed youth felt like a manabout to be shot by a burglar. He could feel the bail thud against him,feel the terrific shock; and yet—a thought instinctively flashed on him,he remembered, in a flash, what a tortured Monty Merriweather had shouted,as he wobbled to bat:
"Get a base on balls, or—if you can'tmakea hit—get hit!"
If he got hit—it meant a run forced in, as the bases were full! That, inall probability, would give old Bannister the Championship, for Ichabod wasinvincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all this out, andweighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed. The truthis, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and that beforehe could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his noble browwith a sickening impact.
All went black before him, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., pale and limp, crumpled,and slid to the ground, senseless; therefore, he failed to hear the roarfrom the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters in thestands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved later to bethe winning run. He did not hear the Umpire shout: "Take your base!"
"What's the matter with our Hicks—he's all right!What's the matter with our Hicks—he's all right!He was never a star in the baseball game,But he won the Championship just the same—What's the matter with our Hicks-he's all right!"
"Honk! Honk!" Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, rattling up the driveway,bearing back to the Bannister campus the victorious Gold and Green nine,and the State Intercollegiate Baseball Championship, though the hour wasmidnight, found every student on the grass before the Senior Fence! Overthree hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band, and everyknown noise-making device, hailed "The Dove," as that unseaworthy crafthalted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top. However, theterrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the refrainfrom the exuberant players:
"He was never a star in the baseball game—But he won the Championship just the same—What's the matter with our Hicks—he's all right!"
"Hicks did what?" shrieked Skeezicks McCracken, voicing through a megaphonethe sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed the finalscore, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T. HavilandHicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his classicforehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of "The Dove," leaningagainst Butch Brewster.
"Fellows," shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to his feet on theroof of the "jit."—"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the game and theChampionship! Listen—"
The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound, as CaptainButch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the game—Don Carterson'sfailure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors, and—the wonderfulmanner in which the futile youth had won the Championship! As little SkeetWigglesworth and the five substitutes, who had returned that afternoon, hadspread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had turned out toridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they learned thatHicks had been forced by his own mistake into the Big Game, and had won it!Of course, his comrades knew it had been through no ability of his, but theknowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great speed, andhad suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them.
"What's the matter with Hicks?" thundered Thor, he who at one time wouldhave called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine had justchanted the response to this query.
"He's all right!" chorused the collegians, in ecstasy.
"Who's all right?" demanded John Thorwald, his blond head towering overthose of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about thisperformance!
"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" came the shout, and the band fanfared, while theexultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an indescribabletumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the ear-splittingdin continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth, and thenit stilled so suddenly that the result was startling, for—T. HavilandHicks, Jr., swaying on his feet arose, and stood on the roof of the "jit."
With that heart-warming Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance, theirrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, assumed a Home-Run Bakerbatting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting comrades:
"Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the Championship formy Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score a tie, theBallard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the run thatwon for old Ballard—now, if that wasn'theadwork—"
CHAPTER XIX
BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY
"We have come to the close of our college days.Golden campus years soon must end;From Bannister we shall go our ways—And friend shall part from friend!On our Alma Mater now we gaze,And our eyes are filled with tears;For we've come to the close of our college days,And the end of our campus years!"
Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., Bannister, '92; Yale, '96, and Pittsburghmillionaire "Steel King," stood at the window of Thomas Haviland Hicks,Jr.'s, room, his arm across the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, hisonly son and heir. Father and son stood, gazing down at the campus. On theGym steps was a group of Seniors, singing songs of old Bannister, songstinged with sadness. Up to Hicks' windows, on the warm June: night, driftedthe 1916 Class Ode, to the beautiful tune, "A Perfect Day." Over before theScience Hall, a crowd of joyous alumni laughed over narratives of theircampus escapades. Happy undergraduates, skylarking on the campus,celebrated the end of study, and gazed with some awe at the Seniors, in capand gown, suddenly transformed into strange beings, instead of old comradesand college-mates.
"'The close of our college days, and the end of our campus years—!'"quoted Mr. Hicks, a mist before his eyes as he gazed at the scene. "In afew days, Thomas, comes the final parting from old Bannister—I know itwill be hard, for I had to leave the dear old college, and also Yale. Butyou have made a splendid record in your studies, you have been one ofthe most popular fellows here, and—you have vastly pleased your Dad, bywinning your B in the high-jump."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, last study-sprint was at an end, the final Exams.of his Senior year had been passed with what is usually termed flyingcolors; and to the whole-souled delight of the lovable youth, he and littleTheophilus Opperdyke, the Human Encyclopedia, had, as Hicks chastelyphrased it, "run a dead heat for the Valedictory!" So close had theirfinal averages been that the Faculty, after much consideration, decided toannounce at the Commencement exercises that the two Seniors had tied forthe highest collegiate honors, and everyone was satisfied with the verdict.So, now it was all ended; the four years of study, athletics, campusescapades, dormitory skylarking—the golden years of college life, wereabout to end for 1919. Commencement would officially start on the morrow,but tonight, in the Auditorium, would be held the annual AthleticAssociation meeting, when those happy athletes who had won their B duringthe year would have it presented, before the assembled collegians, byone-time gridiron, track, and diamond heroes of old Bannister.
And—the ecstatic Hicks would have his track B, his white letter, won inthe high-jump, thanks to Caesar Napoleon's assistance, awarded him by hisbeloved Dad, the greatest all-round athlete that ever wore the Gold andGreen! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.,en routeto New Haven and Yale inhis private car, "Vulcan," had reached town that day, together with othermembers of Bannister College, Class of '92. They, as did all the oldgrads., promptly renewed past memories and associations by riding up toCollege Hill in Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus—a youthful, hilarious crowd ofalumni. Former students, alumni, parents of graduating Seniors, friends,sweethearts—every train would bring its quota. The campus would againthrob and pulsate with that perennial quickening—Commencement. Three daysof reunions, Class Day exercises, banquets, and other events, then thefinal exercises, and—T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., would be an alumnus!
"It's like Theophilus told Thor, last fall, Dad," said the serious Hicks."You know what Shakespeare said: 'This thou perceivest, which makes thylove more strong; To love that well which thou must leave ere long.' Nowthat I soon shall leave old Bannister, I—I wish I had studied more, haddone bigger things for my Alma Mater! And for you, Dad, too; I've won a B,but perhaps, had I trained and exercised more, I might have annexed anotherletter—still; hello, what's Butch hollering—?"
Big Butch Brewster, his pachydermic frame draped in his gown, and hismortar-board cap on his head, for the Seniors were required to wear theirregalia during Commencement week, was bellowing through a megaphone, as hestood on the steps of Bannister Hall, and Mr. Hicks, with his cheerful son,listened:
"Everybody—Seniors, Undergrads., Alumni—in the Auditorium at eight sharp!We are going to give Mr. Hicks and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a surpriseparty—don't miss the fun!"
"Now, just what does Butch mean, Dad?" queried the bewildered Senior."Something is in the wind. For two days, the fellows have had a secretfrom me—they whisper and plot, and when I approach, loudly talk ofathletics, or Commencement! Say, Butch—Butch—I ain't a-comin' tonight,unless you explain the mystery."
"Oh, yes, you be, old sport!" roared Butch, from the campus, employing themegaphone, "or you don't get your letter! Say, Hicks, one sweetly solemnthought attacks me—old Bannister is puzzlingyouwith a mystery, insteadof vice versa, as is usually the case."
"Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a humorous, kindlysmile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr., thatgreeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if any ofmy old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the AthleticAssociation meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I can't imaginewhat this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm us. It willsurely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the athletic letteryou worked so hard to win."
When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm strideechoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible collegian, whomold Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth, stoodagain by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first time, hefully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really is—tothose who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With almost theforce of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt to leavethe well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from those comradesof his golden years. In a day or so, he must part from good Butch, Pudge,Beef, Ichabod, Monty, Roddy, Cherub, loyal little Theophilus and all hisclassmates of '19, as well as from his firm friends of the undergraduates.It would be the parting from the youths of his class that would cost himthe greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the care-freecampus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and developedtogether, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a love fortheir Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now soon theymust sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and corridors, asJack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done beforethem.
Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be alumnibanquets at mid-year and Commencement, with glad class reunions each year.They would come back for the big games of the football or baseball season.But it would never be the same. The glad, care-free, golden years ofcollege life come but once, and they could never live them, as of old.
"Caesar's Ghost!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., making a dive for hisbeloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some time hehad been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must maintain myblithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with my musicalability. Here goes."
Assuming a striking pose, à la troubadour, at the open window, T.Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his splinter-structureenshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia symbolicof dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a ragtimeaccompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the campus, aswell as the wrath of 1919, he roared in his fog-horn voice:
"Oh, I love for to live in the country!And I love for to live on the farm!I love for to wander in the grass-green fields—Oh, a country life has the charm!I love for to wander in the garden—Down by the old haystack;Where the pretty little chickens go 'Kick-Kack-Kackle!'And the little docks go 'Quack! Quack!'"
From the Seniors on the Gym steps, their dignified song rudely shattered bythis rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the unboundeddelight of the alumni, watching the scene with interest, shouts, jeers,whistles, and cat-calls greeted Hicks' minstrelsy:
"Tear off his cap and gown—he's a disgrace to '19!"
"Shades of Schumann-Heink—give that calf more rope!"
"Ye gods—how long must we endure—that?"
"Hicks, a Senior—nobody home—can that noise!"
"Shoot him at sunrise! Where's his Senior dignity?"
Big Butch Brewster, referring to his watch, bellowed through the megaphonethat it was nearly eight o'clock, and loudly suggested that they forciblyterminate Hicks' saengerfest, and spare the town police force a riot callto the campus, by transporting the pestiferous youth to the Auditorium,for his "surprise party." His idea finding favor, he, with Beef and Pudge,somewhat hampered by their gowns, lumbered up the stairway of Bannister,and down the third-floor corridor to the offending Hicks' boudoir, followedby a yelling, surging crowd of Seniors and underclassmen. They invaded thegraceless youth's room, much to the pretended alarm of that torturesomecollegian, who believed that the entire student-body of old Bannister hadforegathered to wreak vengeance on his devoted head.
"Mercy! Have a heart, fellows!" plead T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., helpless inthe clutches of Butch, Beef, and Pudge, "I won't never do it no more, notime! Say, this is too much—much too much—too much much too much—I,Oh—help—aid—succor—relief—assistance—"
"To the Auditorium with the wretch!" boomed Butch; and the splinter-youthwas borne aloft, on his broad shoulders, assisted by Beef McNaughton. Theytransported the grinning Hicks down the corridor, while fifty noisy youths,howling, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" tramped after them. Downstairsand across the campus the hilarious procession marched, and into theAuditorium, where the students and alumni were gathering for the awardingof the athletic B. A thunderous shout went up, as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,was carried to the stage and deposited in a chair.
"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks! We've got a surprise for—Hicks!"
"Now, just what have I did to deserve all these?" grinned thathappy-go-lucky youth, puzzled, nevertheless. "Well, time will tell, so allI can do is to possess my soul with impatience; old Bannister has a mysteryfor me, this trip!"
In fifteen minutes, the Athletic Association meeting opened. On the stage,beside its officers, were those athletes, including T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,who were to receive that coveted reward—their B, together with a number ofone-time famous Bannister gridiron, track, basketball, and diamond stars.Each youth was to receive his monogram from some ex-athlete who once worethe Gold and Green, and Hicks' beloved Dad—Bannister's greatest hero—wasto present his son with the letter.
There were speeches; the Athletic Association's President explained theannual meeting, former Bannister students and athletic idols told of pasttriumphs on Bannister Field; the football Championship banner, and thebaseball pennant were flaunted proudly, and each team-captain of the yearwas called upon to talk. Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., a great favoriteon the campus, delivered a ringing speech, an appeal to the undergraduatesfor clean living, and honorable sportsmanship, and then:
"We now come to the awarding of the athletic B," stated the President. "TheSecretary will call first the name of the athlete, and then the alumnus whowill present him with the letter. In the name of the Athletic Associationof old Bannister, I congratulate those fellows who are now to be rewardedfor their loyalty to their Alma Mater!"
Thrilled, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., watched his comrades, as they respondedto their names, and had the greatest glory, the B, placed in their hands bypast Bannister athletic heroes. Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Ichabod, Biff,Hefty, Tug, Buster, Deacon Radford, Cherub, Don, Skeet, Thor, who hadwon the hammer-throw. These, and many others, having earned the award byplaying in three-fourths of a season's games on the eleven or the nine, orby winning a first place in some track event, stepped forward, and wererewarded. Some, as good Butch, had gained their B many times, but the factthat this was their last letter, made the occasion a sad one. Every namewas called but that of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and that perturbed youthwondered at the omission, when the President spoke:
"The last name," he said, smiling, "is that of Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr.,and we are glad to have his father present the letter to his son, as Mr.Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., is with us. However, we Bannister fellows haveprepared a surprise party for our lovable comrade, and I beg your patienceawhile, as I explain."
Graphically, Dad Pendleton described the wonderful all-round athleticrecord made by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., while at old Bannister, andsketched briefly but vividly his phenomenal record at Yale; he told ofMr. Hicks' great ambition, for his only son, Thomas, to follow in hisfootsteps—to be a star athlete, and shatter the marks made by his Dad.Then he reminded the Bannister students of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s,athletic fiascos, hilarious and otherwise, of three years. He explained howthat cheery youth, grinning good-humoredly at his comrades' jeers, had beenin earnest, striving to realize his father's ambition. As the spellboundcollegians and grads. listened, Dad chronicled Hicks' dogged persistence,and how he finally, in his Senior year, won his track B in the high-jump.Then he described the biggest game of the past football season, the contestthat brought the Championship to old Bannister. The youths and alumni heardhow T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., made a great sacrifice, for the greater goal;how, after training faithfully in secret for a year, hoping sometime to wina game for his Alma Mater, he cheerfully sacrificed his chance to tie thescore by a drop-kick, and became the pivotal part of a fake-kick play thatwon for the Gold and Green.
"I have left Hicks' name until last," said Dad, with a smile, "becausetonight we have a surprise party for our sunny comrade, and for his Dad. Inthe past, the eligibility rule, as regards the football and baseball B, hasbeen—an athlete must play on the 'Varsity in three-fourths of the season'sgames. But, just before the Hamilton game, last fall, the Advisory Board ofthe Athletic Association amended this rule.
"We decided to submit to the required two-thirds majority vote of thestudents this plan, inasmuch as many athletes, toiling and sacrificing allseason for their college, never get to win their letter, yet deservethat reward for their loyalty, we suggested that Bannister imitate theuniversities. Anyone sent into the Yale-Harvard game, you know, wins hisH or Y. If one team is safely ahead, a lot of scrubs are run into thescrimmage, to give them their letter. Therefore, we—the AdvisoryBoard—made this rule: 'Any athlete taking part, for any period of timewhatsoever, in the Ballard football or baseball game as a regular member ofthe first team shall be eligible for his Gold or Green B. This rule, uponapproval of the students, to be effective from September 25!'
"Now," continued the Athletic Association President, "we decided to keepthis new ruling a secret until the present, for this reason: Many goodfootball and baseball players, not making the first teams, lack the loyaltyto stick on the scrubs, and others, not as brilliant, but with morecollege spirit, give their best until the season's end. We knew that if weannounced this rule last fall, several slackers, who had quit the squad,would come out again, just on the hope of getting sent into the Ballardgame, for their B. This would not be fair to those who loyally stuck to thescrubs. So we did not announce the rule until the year closed, and then apractically unanimous vote of the students made the rule effective fromSeptember 25. So—all athletes who took part in the Ballard football game,last fall, for any period of time whatsoever, are eligible for the gold B,and the same, as regards the green letter, applies to the Ballard baseballgame this spring."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., gasped. Slowly, the glorious truth dawned on thehappy-go-lucky Senior—he had been sent into the Bannister-Ballard footballgame; the crucial and deciding play had turned on him, hence he had won hisgold letter! And thanks to his brilliant "mismanaging" of the nine, losingshortstop Skeet Wigglesworth and the substitutes, he had played the entirenine innings of the Ballard-Bannister baseball contest, and, therefore,was eligible for his green B. In a dazed condition, he heard Dad Pendletonsaying:
"You remember how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was sent into the Ballardgame, and how the fake-play fooled Ballard, who believed he would trya drop-kick? Well, knowing Hicks to be eligible for his football B, weplanned a surprise party. The Advisory Board kept the new rule a secret,and not until this week was it voted on. Then, the required two-thirdsmajority made it effective from last September—we managed to have Hicksabsent from the voting, and the fellows helped us with our surprise! Soinstead of Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., presenting his son with oneB, that for track work, we are glad to hand himthreeletters, one forfootball, one for baseball, and one for track, to give our own T. HavilandHicks, Jr. And, let me add, he can accept them with a clear conscience, forwhen the rule was made by the Advisory Board, we had no idea that Hickswould ever be eligible in football or baseball."
A moment of silence, and then undergraduates and alumni, thrilled at DadPendleton's announcement, arose in a body, and howled for T. HavilandHicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad. Mr. Hicks, unable to speak, silentlyplaced the three monograms, gold, green, and white, in his son's hands, andplaced his own on the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, who for oncein his heedless career could not say a word!
"What's the matter with Hicks?" Big Butch Brewster roared, and a terrificresponse sounded:
"He's all right! Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!"
For ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Then, regardless of the fact that, inorder to surprise Mr. Hicks and his son, other athletes, eligible under thenew rule, had yet to be presented with their B, the howling youths swarmedon the stage, hoisted the grinning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his happyDad to their shoulders, and started a wild parade around the campus and theQuadrangle, singing:
"Here's to our own Hicks—drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our ownHicks—drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own Hicks—When hestarts a thing, he sticks—Drink it down—drink it down—down! Down!Down!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., aloft on the shoulders of his behemoth class-mate,Butch Brewster, was deliriously happy. The surprise party of his campuscomrades was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize that he hadactually, by the Athletic Association ruling, won his three B's! How gladhis beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this bewildering happiness.He had been so joyous, when his sort earned the track letter, but tohave him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports—it was almostunbelievable! And, as Dad had said—there had been no thought of Hicks whenthe Advisory Board made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to suppose it wasdone just to award him his letter.
Then, Hicks remembered that rash vow, made at the end of his Freshman year,a vow uttered with absolutely no other thought than a desire to tormentButch Brewster, "Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have wonmy B in three branches of sport!" Never, not even for a moment, had thehappy-go-lucky youth believed that his wild prophecy would be fulfilled,though he had pretended to be confident to tease his loyal comrades; butnow, at the very end of his campus days, just before he graduated, hisprediction had come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years before hadmade his rash vow, saw its realization, and suddenly thrilled with theknowledge that he had a golden opportunity to make Butch indignant.
"Oh, I say, Butch," he drawled, nonchalantly, leaning down to talk inButch's ear, "do you recall that day, at the close of our Freshman year,when I vowed to win my B in three branches of sport, ere I bade farewell toold Bannister?"
"No, you don't get away with that!" exploded Butch Brewster, indignantly,lowering his tantalizing classmate to terra firma. "Here, Beef, Pudge,catch this wretch; he intends to swagger and say—"
But he was too late, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., dodging from his grasp,imitated the celebrated Charley Chaplin strut, and satiated his fun-lovingsoul. After waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth realized anambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled.
"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth he, gladsomely. "I told you I'd winmy three B's, Butch, old top, and—ow!—unhand me, you villain, youhurt!"
CHAPTER XX
"VALE, ALMA MATER!"
"Oh, it was 'Ave, Alma Mater—'We sang as Freshmen gay;But it's 'Vale, Alma Mater' nowAs our last farewells we say!"
"Honk-Honk! Br-r-rr-r-Bang! Honk-Monk! Br-rr-rr-r—"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., big Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Pudge Langdon,Scoop Sawyer, and little Theophilus Opperdyke—late Seniors of oldBannister—roosted atop of good old Dan Flannagan's famous jitney-busbefore Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for the 9.30 A. M. express, butthe "peace-ship" had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking, wheezing,and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked, together withthe Claxon, operated by Skeet Wigglesworth, rudely interrupted the Seniors'chant. A vociferous protest arose above the tumult:
"Oh, the little old Ford—rambled right along—like heck!"
"Can that noise-we want to sing a last song, boys!"
"Chuck that engine, Dan, and put in an alarm clock spring!"
"Christmas is coming, Dan-u-el—we've graduated you know!"
"'The Dove' doesn't want us to leave old Bannister, fellows!"
Commencement was ended. The night before, on the stage of Alumni Hall,before a vast audience of old Bannister grads, undergraduates, friends, andrelatives of the Seniors, the Class of 1919 had received its sheepskins,and the "Go forth, my children, and live!" of its Alma Mater. T, HavilandHicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered theValedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the lengthyIchabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his voicetremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time. The ClassOde had been sung, the Class Shield unveiled, and then—Hicks and hiscomrades of '19 were alumni!
It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There had beenscarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to come; afterthe memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party" by thecollegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had "sprinted withspiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed event inbewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had been fêtedand banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were filled withvisitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad reunionsof former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual baseballgame between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond stars, ClassNight exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and the lastClass Supper; and, Commencement had come.
It was all ended now—the four happy, golden years of campus life, of gladfellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T. HavilandHicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final parting. Thesunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's Commencement.Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed farewellswith Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that awakenedColossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the fewSeniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final BeefsteakBust downtown at Jerry's.
The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices echoed in thedormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths who wereleaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and littleTheophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with tears. Threetimes, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was forever, ascollegians!
"I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop Sawyer, as thejitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of Dan'scranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now—'We have come to the endof our college days-golden campus years are at an end—!' Say, Hicks, oldman, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?"
"Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a fountain penbehind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City Editor, "In meyou behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty—no, I mean Irvin Cobb.I shall first serve my apprenticeship as a 'cub,' but ere many years, Ishall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to get off."
"That is—If Dad says so!" chuckled Butch Brewster. "You know, Hicks, it'sthe same old story—your father wants you to learn how to own steel andiron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince Mr. ThomasHaviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than Steel King!"
"Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of oldBannister, as the perspiring Dan Flannagan cranked away futilely. "My Dadhas a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it over lastnight, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a work thatappeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to follow in hisfootsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is trying toget me started—read this:"
The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the heading: "THEBALTIMORE CHRONICLE;" Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it, read aloud:
"Baltimore, Maryland,
"June 12, 1919.
"DEAR OLD CLASSMATE:
"I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week, but I can'tleave the wheel of this ship, the Chronicle, for even a day. Give myregards to all of old Eli, '96, old man.
"As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The Chronicle usually takeson a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off onvacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or threesummers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old time'ssake, I'll be glad to give your son a chance, and if he means business,let him report for duty next Friday, at 1 P.M., to my office.Understand, Hicks, he must come here and fight his own way, without anyfavor or special help from me. Were he the son of our nation'sPresident, I'd not treat him a whit better than the rest of the Staff,so let him know that in advance. On the other hand, I'll develop him allI can, and if he has the ability, the Chronicle long-room is the placefor him.
"Yours for old Yale,
"'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96,
"City Editor—THE CHRONICLE."
"Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch finished theletter. "I am to take a summer as a cub on the Baltimore Chronicle,making my own way, and living on my weekly salary, without financial aidfrom anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen reports thatI've made good enough to be retained as a regular, then—Yours truly forthe Fourth Estate. If I fail, then I follow a course charted out by Mr.Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.! So, it is up to me to make good—"
"You—you will make good, Hicks," quavered Theophilus, whose faith in theshadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for I amgoing to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want to becomean expert stenographer, and we'll be together."
"It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his huge bulkatop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the world, tomake good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet. We mayaccept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for Presidentof the U.S.A., provided John McGraw or Connie Mack do not sign us up.However—"
At that moment, the engine of old Dan Flannagan's battered "Dove" consentedto hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to transportHicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled, "Allaboard!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene.
"We're off!" shrieked Skeet Wigglesworth, stowed away below, as thejitney-bus moved down the driveway. "Farewell, dear old Bannister! Runslow, Dan, we want to gaze on the campus as long as we can."
The youths were silent, as the 'bus rolled slowly down the driveway andunder the Memorial Arch, old Dan, sympathizing with them, and finding hecould make the express by a safe margin, allowing the jitney to flutteralong at reduced speed. From its top, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his visionblurred with tears, gazed back with his class-mates. He saw the campus, itsgrass green, with stately old elms bordering the walks, and the goldenJune sunshine bathing everything in a soft radiance. He beheld the collegebuildings—the Gym., the Science Hall, the Administration Building,Recitation Hall, the ivy-covered Library; the white Chapel, and the fourdorms., Creighton, Smithson, Nordyke, Bannister. One year he had spent ineach, and every year had been one of happiness, of glad comradeship.He could see Bannister Field, the scene of his many hilarious athleticfiascos.
And now he was leaving it all—had come to the end of his college course,and before him lay Life, with its stern realities, its grim obstacles, andhard struggles; ended were the golden campus days, the gay skylarkingin the dorms. Gone forever were the joyous nights of entertaining hiscomrades, of Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's. Silenced was his belovedbanjo, and no more would his saengerfests bother old Bannister.
A turn in the street, and the campus could not be seen. As the last visionof their Alma Mater vanished, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., smiling sunnilythrough his tear-blurred eyes, gazed at his comrades of old '19—
"Say, fellows—" he grinned, though his voice was shaky, "let's—let'sstart in next September, and—do it all over again!"