Project Gutenberg's T. Haviland Hicks Senior, by J. Raymond Elderdice This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: T. Haviland Hicks Senior Author: J. Raymond Elderdice Posting Date: August 22, 2014 [EBook #8550] Release Date: July, 2005 First Posted: July 22, 2003 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR *** Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
I. HICKS—WILD WEST BAD MAN
II. "LEAVE IT TO HICKS"
III. HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY
IV. QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER
V. HICKS MAKES A DECISION
VI. HICKS MAKES A SPEECH
VII. HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY
VIII. COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN
IX. THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK
X. THOR'S AWAKENING
XI. "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"
XII. THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS
XIII. HICKS—CLASS KID—YALE '96
XIV. THE GREATER GOAL
XV. HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"
XVI. THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON
XVII. HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY
XVIII. T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.'S HEADWORK
XIX. BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY
XX. "VALE, ALMA MATER!"
CHAPTER I
HICKS—WILD WEST BAD MAN
"Oh, a bold, bad man was Chuckwalla Bill—
An' he lived in a shanty on Tom-cat Hill;
Ten notches on the six-gun he toted on his hip—
For he'd sent ten buckos on the One-way Trip!"
Big Butch Brewster, captain and full-back of the Bannister
College football
squad, his behemoth bulk swathed in heavy blankets and crowded
into a
narrow bunk, shifted his vast tonnage restlessly. He was dreaming
of the
wild and woolly West, and like a six-reel Western drama thrown on
the
screen in a moving-picture show, he visioned in his slumbers a
vivid and
spectacular panorama.
The first lurid scene was the Deserted Limited held up at a
tank station in
the great Mojave Desert by a lone, masked bandit who winged the
dreaming
Butch in the shoulder, the latter being an express guard who
resisted.
After the desperado, Two-Gun Steve, had forced the engineer to
run the
train back to a siding, he had ordered Butch to vamoose. Quite
naturally,
then, the collegian next found himself staggering across the arid
expanse,
until at last, half dead from a burning thirst, seeking vainly
for a
water-hole, the vast stretch of sandy, sagebrush-studded wastes
shimmered
into a gorgeous ocean of sparkling blue waters. Then, as he
collapsed on
the scorching-hot sand, helpless, the cool water so near,
suddenly the
scene shifted.
In quick and vivid succession, Butch Brewster beheld a burning
stockade
besieged by howling Indians, and a frontier town shot up by
recklessly
riding cowboys on a jamboree. Then he became a tenderfoot,
badgered by
yelling, shooting roisterers, and later a sheriff, bravely
leading his
posse to a sensational battle with that same Two-Gun Steve and
his gang,
entrenched in a rock-bound mountain defile.
Finally, he stood with hands above his head in company with
other
passengers of the Sagebrush Stagecoach, while a huge, red-shirted
Westerner
with a fierce black mustache and a six-shooter in each hand
belching
bullets at Butch's dancing feet, roared out huskily:
"Oh—I'm a ring-tailed
roarer (bang-bang)! I'm a rip-snortin', high-falutin',
loop-the-loopin'
bad man (bang-bang)! I'm wild an' woolly, an' full
o' fleas, an' hard
to curry below the knees—I'm a roarin' wild-cat, an' it's
my night to howl
(bang-bang)! Yip-yip-yip-yeee!"
Big Butch, opening his eyes and starting up, gazed about him
in sheer
surprise; for an instant, in that state of bewilderment that
comes with
sudden awakening, he almost believed himself in a Western ranch
bunkhouse,
and that some happy cowboy outside roared a grotesque ballad. He
gazed at
the interior of a rough shack built of pine boards, with bunks
constructed
in tiers on both sides. There were figures in them—Western
cowboys,
perhaps. Then it seemed, somehow, that the voice drifting from
the outside
was strangely familiar. Back at Bannister College, where he
remembered he
had gone in the dim and dusty past, he had often heard that same
fog-horn
voice, roaring songs of a less blood-curdling character, and
accompanied by
that same banjo twanging, which tortured the campus, and bothered
would-be
studious youths!
"I'm not in a moving-picture show," Butch informed himself, as
he donned
khaki trousers, football sweater, and heavy shoes. "I'm not on a
Western
ranch, either. I'm in the sleep-shack of Camp Bannister, the
football
training-camp of the Bannister College squad! Those fellows in
the bunks
are not cowboys, Indians, and bandits—they are my
teammates! I did dream
stuff that would shame a Wild West scenario, but I understand it
all
now—my dreams were influenced by T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.!"
At that dramatic moment, to substantiate his statement, the
raucous voice,
accompanied by resounding chords strummed on a banjo, sounded
again. The
vocal and instrumental chaos was frequently punctured by revolver
reports,
as the torturesome Caruso outside roared:
"Oh, Chuckwalla Bill thought life was sweet—
Till he met up with Sure-shot Pete;
A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw—
But Sure-shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!"
The pachydermic Butch, fully dressed—and awake, raging
in his wrath like
an active volcano, glanced at his watch, and discovered that it
was exactly
five A.M.! Intensely pacified by this knowledge, he lumbered
toward the
bunkhouse door and flung it open, determined to crush the
pestersome youth
who thus unfeelingly disturbed the quietude of Camp Bannister at
such an
unearthly hour! However, his grim purpose was temporarily
thwarted—before
him spread a beautiful panorama, a vast canvas painted in rich
hues and
colors, that indescribably charming masterpiece of nature,
entitled dawn.
Butch, gazing from the bunkhouse doorway toward the pebbly
shore of the
placid lake stretching out for two miles before him, beheld Old
Sol,
blood-red, peeping above the wooded hills on the far-off,
opposite strand
of Lake Conowingo; the luminous orb laid a flaming pathway across
the
shimmering waters, and golden bars of light, like gleaming
fingers
outstretched, fell athwart the tall pines that towered on the
high bluff
back of the camp. The glorious sunshine, succeeding a flood of
rosy color,
inundated the scene; it bathed in a gorgeous radiance the early
autumn
woods, it illumined the bunkhouse, and another rude shanty known
to the
squad as the grub-shack, it poured down on old Hinky-Dink, the
ancient
negro cookee, setting the breakfast tables just outside the
canvas
cook-tent.
"Deed, cross mah heart, Mistah Butch," grinned old Hinky-Dink,
seeing, as
a motion picture director would express it, "Wrath registered on
the
countenance" of Butch Brewster, "Ah done tole dat young Hicks dat
a bird
what cain't sing an' will sing mus' be made not to sing!
Ah done info'med
him dat yo'-all was layin' fo' him, cause he done bus' up yo'
sleep!"
A jay bird, a flashing bit of vivid blue, shot from a tall
pine, jeering
shrilly at Butch; out on the lake, a trout leaped above the water
for an
infinitesimal second, its shining scales gleaming in the
sunshine. From the
cook-tent, where old Hinky-Dink grumbled at the frying pan, the
appetizing
odor of frying fish assailed the football captain, softening his
wrath.
High above the shanties, on a tall flagpole made from a
straight young
pine, floated a big gold and green banner, its bright colors
gleaming in
the sunshine; it bore the words:
CAMP BANNISTER
TRAINING CAMP
THE FOOTBALL SQUAD
BANNISTER COLLEGE
Head Coach Corridan, smashing the precedent that had made
former Gold and
Green squads have their training camp at Bannister College, had
brought
the Varsity and second-string stars to this camp on the shore of
Lake
Conowingo, in the Pennsylvania mountains. For two weeks, one of
which had
passed, they were to train at Camp Bannister, until college
officially
opened; swimming, hunting, cross-country runs, and a healthful
outdoor
existence would give the athletes superb condition, and daily
scrimmages on
the level field back of the bluff rounded out an eleven that
promised to be
the strongest in Bannister history.
As big, good-natured Butch Brewster stood in the bunkhouse
doorway, his
wrath at the pestiferous Hicks forgotten, in his rapture at the
glorious
dawn, he saw something that showed why his dreams had been of the
wild
West! The expression of indignation, however, yielded to one of
humorous
affection, as he gazed toward the shore.
"I can't be angry with Hicks!" breathed Butch, beholding a
spectacle more
impressive than dawn. "So, the irrepressible wretch has Coach
Corridan's
revolvers, used in starting our training sprints, and a lot of
blank
cartridges! He is giving an imitation of a Western bad man. No
wonder
I dreamed of Indians, cowboys, and hold-ups; I'll have revenge on
the
heartless villain, routing me out at five!"
He saw a massive rock, rising thirty feet in air, its sheer
walls scaled
only by a rope-ladder the collegians had rigged up on one side.
Atop of
"Lookout There!" as the campers humorously designated the rock,
roosted
a youth who possessed the colossal structure of a splinter, and
whose
cherubic countenance was decorated with a Cheshire cat grin.
Quite unaware
that his riotous efforts had brought out the wrathful Butch
Brewster,
the youthful narrator of Chuckwalla Bill's stormy career
continued his
excessively noisy séance.
His costume was strictly in character with his song. He wore a
sombrero,
picked up on his Exposition trip the past vacation, a lurid
red
outing-shirt, and he had wrapped a blanket around each locomotive
limb to
imitate a cowboy's chaps. Two revolvers suspended from a loosened
belt, à
la wild West, and as Butch stared, the embryo Western bad man
twanged a
banjo noisily, and roared the concluding stanza of his desperado
hero's
history:
"Said Chuckwalla Bill, 'Oh, boys, plant me
With my boots on—on the wide prair-eee'—
Where the coyotes howl, they planted Bill—
An' so far as I know, he's sleepin' there still!"
"Here they come," grinned Butch, hearing a tumult in the
bunkhouse, and
a confused Babel of voices. "Hicks has awakened the camp. Now
watch the
fellows wreak summary vengeance on his toothpick frame!"
From the sleep-shack, aroused at that weird hour by the clamor
of the
irrepressible youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., tumbled others of
the squad,
in varying stages of déshabille; big Beef
McNaughton, right half-back,
Roddy Perkins, the Titian-haired right-end, Pudge Langdon, a
ponderous
tackle, and Monty Merriweather, a clean-cut, aggressive candidate
for left
end. From within, other wrathy youths howled vociferous protests
at their
tormentor:
"Stop that noise; put your muzzle on again,
Hicks!"—"Where's the fire?
Say, Hicks, muffle your exhaust!"—"Say, Coach, must we
endure this day and
night?"
The bunkhouse fairly erupted angry collegians, boiling out
like bees
swarming from a disturbed hive; Hefty Hollingsworth, the
Herculean
center-rush. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, Bunch Bingham, Tug
Cardiff,
and Buster Brown, three huge last-year substitutes; second-string
players,
Don Carterson, Cherub Challoner, Skeet Wigglesworth, and Scoop
Sawyer. A
dozen others, from sheer laziness, hugged their bunks devotedly,
despite
the terrific turmoil outside.
"It's a disgrace, a howling shame!" exploded Beef, his
elephantine frame
swathed in blankets to conceal a lack of vestiture, "Last night,
until
midnight, that graceless wretch roosted on 'Lookout There' and
because the
glorious moonlight made him sentimental and slushy, he twanged
his banjo
and warbled such mushy stuff as 'My Love is young and fair. My
Love has
golden hair!' When does he expect us to sleep?"
"He doesn't!" explained Monty Merriweather, with succinct
lucidity,
grinning at his comrades. "Say, fellows, you know how Hicks
dreads a cold
shower-bath; well, some of you rage at him from the other side of
the rock,
while I climb up the rope-ladder and close with him! Then some of
you
prehistoric pachyderms ascend, and we'll chuck that pestersome
insect into
the cold, cold lake—"
"Done!" chuckled Butch Brewster, delightedly. So, while he,
Beef
McNaughton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and others beguiled the jeering
Hicks,
expressing in dynamic, red-hot sentences their exact opinions of
his
perfidy, the athletic Monty imitated a mountain-scaling Italian
soldier.
He climbed stealthily up the swaying rope-ladder; nearer and
nearer to the
unsuspecting youth he crept, while the cherubic Hicks, to
tantalize the
group below, again burst forth:
"Whoop-eee! I'm a bold, bad man (bang-bang)! I
got ten notches on my
ole six-gun—I'm a killer. I wings a man before
breakfast every day! I
got a private burying-ground, where I plants my victims
(bang-bang)!
Yip-yip-yip-yee! Oh, I'm a—Ouch, Monty—leggo
me—Oh, I'll be
good—why didn't I pull that rope-ladder up here? Don't bust
my banjo
—don't let Butch get me—"
Monty Merriweather, reaching the flat top of the rock, had
courageously
flung himself, without regard for the Bad Man's desperate record,
on the
startled Hicks, whose first thought was for his beloved banjo.
While he
held the blithesome tormentor helpless, Butch, Beef, and Roddy
Perkins
climbed the rope-ladder, and the grinning youth was soon in their
clutches,
while the collegians below, like a Roman, mob aroused by the
oratory of Mr.
Mark Antony, howled for revenge:
"Bust the old banjo over his head, Butch!"—"Sing to him,
Beef—that's
an awful revenge on Hicks!"—"Tie him to the
rock—make him miss his
breakfast!"
"Hicks," growled Butch, eyeing his sunny comrade ominously,
"you ought to
be tarred and feathered, and shot at sunrise! When Bannister
opens, you
will be a Senior, and you'll disgrace '19's dignity! This is a
sample of
what we have endured at college for three years, and the worst is
yet to
come! You have committed the awful atrocity of awakening Camp
Bannister
at five A. M. with your ridiculous imitation, of a Western
desperado. To
dampen your ardor, we will chuck you into the cold
lake—just as you are!"
"Help! Assistance! Aid! Succor!" shouted the happy-go-lucky
Hicks, as the
behemoth Butch and Beef seized him, swinging him aloft with
ludicrous ease,
"Police! Fire! Murder! Take care of my banjo, Monty. Tell all the
fellows
at old Bannister I died game, and plant Hair-Trigger Bill with
his boots
on! Oooo, Beef, Butch, have a heart, that water is
cold!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., relieved of banjo and revolvers, but
his
shadow-like structure still clad in shoes, trousers, with
imitation "chaps"
and flamboyant red shirt, with his classic head still adorned
by
the sombrero, was swung back and forth by the two bulky
football
stars—once—twice—
"Three—Let him go!" shouted Butch Brewster, and like a
falling meteor,
the splinter-like youth, who had already fallen from grace, shot
from the
rock, head-first, disappearing with a spectacular splash in the
icy waters
of Lake Conowingo. Knowing Hicks to be as much at home in the
water as a
fish in an aquarium, the hilarious squad on shore prepared to
jeer his
reappearance above the water; however, their program was
interrupted by
old Hinky-Dink, who stood in the cook-tent doorway, belaboring a
dishpan
lustily with a soup-ladle, and shouting:
"Breakfus' am served; fus' an' las' call fo' breakfus; all dem
what am late
don't git no breakfus!"
"Breakfast!" exclaimed Monty Merriweather, who, with Roddy,
Butch, and
Beef, remained on the rock, despite the summons of the Cookee.
"Hurry up,
Hicks, I'm ravenous. Say, Butch, suppose all that Western regalia
makes him
water-logged; he's a terribly long while down there! Didn't he
look like
the hero in a moving-picture feature? We've given him the
water-cure, but
he will do that same stunt over again. That sunny-souled Hicks is
simply
Incorrigible!"
A second later, the grinning, cheery countenance of T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., shot above the water, and simultaneously with his
appearance, just as
though he had been chanting below the surface, for the
entertainment of the
finny denizens of Lake Conowingo, the irrepressible youth
roared:
"A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw—
But Sure-Shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!"
"LEAVE IT TO HICKS"
Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, known to toil-tortured Gold
and Green
football squads from time immemorial as "the Slave-Driver,"
Captain Butch
Brewster, and serious Deacon Radford, the star Bannister
quarter-back,
foregathered around a table in the Camp Bannister grub-shack.
It was ten-thirty of the morning whose dawn T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., had
blithesomely hailed with an impromptu musicale and saengerfest on
"Lookout
There!" rock, and the football triumvirate were in togs. The
squad, over in
the bunkhouse, noisily donned gridiron armor for the morning
practice, and
the pestiferous Hicks was maintaining a mysterious silence,
somewhere.
This football trio, on whom rested the responsibility of
rounding out a
winning Bannister eleven, vastly resembled a coterie of German
generals,
back of the trenches, studying a war-map. Before them was spread
what
seemed to be a large checker-board. It was a miniature gridiron,
with the
chalk-marks painted in white; there were thumb-tacks stuck here
and there,
some with flat tops painted green and gold, others, representing
the enemy,
were solid red. The former had names printed on them, Butch,
Roddy,
Beef, and so on. By sticking these on the board, the three
directors of
Bannister's football destiny could work out new plays, and
originate
possible winning lineups.
"We've just got to win the State Championship this season,
Coach!" declared
Butch, banging the table emphatically, as he stated a
self-evident fact.
"It's my last year for Old Bannister, and so with Beef and Pudge.
I'll give
every ounce of strength I possess In every game, to make that
pennant float
over Bannister Field!"
"Bannister will win it!" vowed the behemoth Beef, his
good-natured
countenance grim, and his jaw set. "Not for five years has a Gold
and Green
team won the Championship—not since the year before Butch
and I were
Freshmen! We've got a splendid bunch of material to build a team
with,
and—"
"Our biggest problem is this," spoke Coach Corridan, as with a
phenomenal
display of strength he took Beef McNaughton between thumb and
forefinger
and placed him on the field. "We must strengthen both line and
backfield,
for we lost by graduation Babe McCabe, Heavy Hughes, and Jack
Merritt. Now,
to replace that lost power—"
Just then, from directly beneath the open window by which they
had
gathered, like the midnight serenade of a romantic lover,
sounded
the well-known foghorn voice of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as to
the
plunkety-plunk of a banjo accompaniment, he warbled
melodiously:
"Gone are the days—I used to spend with
Car-o-li-nah!
She had the sunshine in her laughter
(plunkety-plunk)
Just like that state they named her after—"
"Hicks!" announced Butch, stealthily approaching the window,
and
beckoning his companions. "Easy—look at him, Deke, there he
is, Hicks,
the irrepressible! We might as well attempt to stab a rhinocerous
to death
with a humming-bird's feather, as to try and reform
him!"
Arrayed like a lily of the field, a model of sartorial
splendor, Hicks
occupied a chair beneath the window, tilted back gracefully
against the
side of the grub-shack. He had decked his splinter-structure with
a
dazzling Palm Beach suit, and a glorious pink silk shirt, off-set
by a
lurid scarf. A Panama hat decorated his head, white Oxfords and
flamboyant
hosiery adorned his feet, while the inevitable Cheshire cat grin
beautified
his cherubic countenance. A latest "best seller" was propped on
his knees,
and as he perused its thrilling pages, he carelessly strummed his
beloved
banjo, and in stentorian tones chanted a sentimental ballad:
"Gone are the days—the golden days I'm dreaming
of,
I think I hear her softly calling (plunkety-plunk)
'Will you be back? Will you be back? (plunk-plunk)
Back to the Car-o-li-nah you love?'"(plunkety-plunk),
For three golden campus years T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had
gayly pursued the
even tenor (or basso, since he possessed a foghorn,
subterranean voice)
of his Bannister career. He absolutely refused to take life
seriously, and
he was forever arousing the wrath—mostly pretended, for no
one could be
really angry with the genial youth—of his comrades, by
twanging his banjo
and roaring out rollicking ballads at all hours. He was never so
happy
as when entertaining a crowd of happy students in his cozy
quarters,
or escorting a Hicks' Personally Conducted expedition downtown
for a
Beef-Steak Bust, at his expense, at Jerry's, the rendezvous of
hungry
collegians.
However, despite his butterfly existence, Hicks, possessed of
a
scintillating mind, always set the scholastic pace for 1919, by
means of
occasional study-sprints, as he characteristically called them.
But when it
came to helping his beloved Dad realize a long-cherished ambition
to behold
his only son and heir shatter Hicks, Sr.'s, celebrated athletic
records, it
was a different story. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ever since he
committed
the farcical faux pas of running the wrong way with the
pigskin in
the Freshman-Sophomore football contest of his first year, had
been a
super-colossal athletic joke at old Bannister.
His record to date, beside that reverse touchdown that won for
the
Sophomores, consisted of scoring a home-run with the bases
congested, on a
strike-out; of smashing hurdles and cross-bars on the track;
endangering
his heedless career with the shot and hammer; and making a
ridiculous farce
of every event he entered, to the vast hilarity of the students,
who, with
the exception of Butch Brewster, had no idea his ridiculous
efforts were in
earnest. In the high-jump, however, Hicks had given considerable
promise,
which to date the grasshopper collegian had failed to keep.
Hicks, the lovable, impulsive, and irrepressible, with his
invariable sunny
disposition, his generous nature, and his democratic, loyal
comradeship
for everybody, was loved by old Bannister. The students forgave
him his
pestersome ways, his frequent torturing of them with
banjo-twanging and
rollicking ballads. His classmates idolized him, Juniors and
Sophomores
were his true friends, and entering Freshmen always regarded
this
happy-go-lucky youth as a demigod of the campus.
Big Butch Brewster, who was forever futilely lecturing the
heedless Hicks,
thrust his head from the grub-shack window, fought down a grin,
and sternly
arraigned his graceless comrade:
"Hicks, you frivolous, campus-cluttering, infinitesimal atom
of nothing,
you labor under the insane delusion that college life is a
continuous
vaudeville show. You absolutely refuse to take your Bannister
years
seriously, you banjo-thumping, pillow-punishing,
campus-torturing
nonentity. You will never grasp the splendid opportunities within
your
reach! You have no ambition but to strum that banjo, roar
ridiculous songs,
fuss up like a tailor's dummy, and pester your comrades, or drag
them down
to Jerry's for the eats! You won't be earnest, you Human Cipher,
Before you
entered Bannister, you formed your ideas and ideals of campus
life from
colored posters, moving-pictures, magazine stories, and stage
dramas like
'Brown of Harvard'; you have surely lived up, or down, to those
ideals,
you—"
"Them's harsh words, Butch!" joyously responded the grinning
Hicks,
unchastened, for he knew good Butch Brewster would not, for a
fortune, have
him forsake his care-free nature. "Thou loyal comrade of my happy
campus
years, what wouldst thou of me?—have me don sack-cloth and
ashes, strike
'The Funeral March' on my golden lyre, and cry out in anguish,
'ai! ai!
'Nay, nay, a couple of nays; college years are all too brief;
hence I
shall, by my own original process, extract from them all the
sunshine and
happiness possible, and by my wonderful musical and vocal powers,
bring joy
to my colleagues, who—Ouch, Butch—look out for that
nail, you inhuman
elephant—"
Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had
effectively terminated
it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting comrade
by the
scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the window-ledge, into
the
grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan and Deacon
Radford.
Strenuous objection was registered, both by the futilely
struggling Hicks,
and a nail projecting from the sill, which caught in the Palm
Beach
trousers and ripped a long rent in them; fortunately, Hicks'
anatomy
escaped a similar fate.
"A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like
a
contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello,
what have we
here?—the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the
Prophet! I
bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No,
that's a
mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up
yon hill to
thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock of
aeroplanes and
Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is shooting Russian
caviare
at—"
"Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's
indignation,
"you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by your
marvelous
'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating searchlight of
your
colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister must solve,
to produce
a championship eleven!"
It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a
baffling
situation, or what the French call an "impasse" presented
itself, to
state with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!"
On
most occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a
swaggering
braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster
wrathful, the
happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the
problem
was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then
trusted to his
needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the Bannister
campus
well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing question by
an
inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of a
satisfactory
solution seemed dead.
For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader,
James
Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a
bulwark at
right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and
organized a
Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister football by
refusing
to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless their demands
were
granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote him, smashed
the
Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy, Futilely racking
his brain
for a counter-attack, having blithely told the troubled campus,
"Just leave
it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and then the inspiration
had come, By
The Big Brotherhood of Bannister giving the upper-classmen full
government
over Freshmen, a scheme successfully carried through, the peril
had been
thwarted.
"I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat
irrelevantly,
considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said—"
"'—Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon
Radford,
humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my
steel
mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.'
Say, Hicks,
seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan
should
do."
While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the
paralyzed
oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny youth
knew
football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team
worked out
with success, and his suggestions were always weighed carefully
by the
football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid scarf at
the
correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the
sunshiny
Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and
gave heed to
the Coach.
"Here's the problem, Hicks," said the Slave-Driver, indicating
the
Bannister eleven, represented by the gold and green topped
thumb-tacks.
"From the line we lost Babe, a tackle, Heavy, a guard, and Jack
Merritt, a
star end. Now, Monty Merriweather will hold down Jack's place O.
K.—I can
shift Beef from right half to guard, and put Butch at right-half,
while
Bunch Bingham can take care of Babe's old berth at tackle. But I
have no
one to shoot in at full-back, when I shift Butch; you see, Hicks,
my plan
is to build an eleven that can execute old-time, line-smashing
football,
and up-to-date open play as well; I want fast ends and halves,
with a
snappy quarter, and I have them; also, the backfield is heavy
enough for
line-bucking, if I get my beefy full-back. I must have a big,
heavy, fast
player, a giant who simply can't be stopped when he hits the
line. With
Butch and Biff at halves, Deke at quarter. Roddy and Monty ends,
and my
heavy line—why, a ponderous, irresistible Hercules at
full-back will—"
"Say!" grinned the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan
warmed up to
his vision, "you don't want much, Coach! Why don't you ask
Ted Coy, the
famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the
position for
you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a fair sort
of dropkicker,
to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old Bannister!
I get
you, Coach—you want a fellow about the size of the
Lusitania, made of
structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who will guarantee to
advance
the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money refunded!
"Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a
chap who will
play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field,
while the
rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while
imbibing pink
tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals
that
instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange
with other
teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the
scores
shall be."
"I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular
youth. "We
should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not
one within
his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of
talking
seriously about it Now—"
"Now—" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach,
you just hand me
the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules,
and I'll
try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never
hesitate to
consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to cast
aside my
own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my mental
assistance,
or—"
"Hicks, are you crazy?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved
to excitement,
despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like
that do
not grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was Ole Skjarsen,
in
George Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely
fictitious. We
know you have accomplished some great things by your
'inspirations,' but as
for this—"
"Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth,
swaggering toward
the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that aroused
Butch to
wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit a human
juggernaut
like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to round up, but, I'll
have an
inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old eleven, your problem
will be
solved, and you will have a team that can play fifty-seven
varieties of
football. Raw revolver, my comrades."
When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered
gracefully out of
the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with
suppressed wrath,
stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon Radford a full
minute;
then he grinned,
"That—Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire
to laugh. "What a
ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means
the problem
goes unsolved, for though I confess he is brilliant, and
his so-called
'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to
rushing out and
lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back—bah!"
Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green
squad climbed
the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning signal
drill,
their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in
radiant
vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse—the
chords of the banjo,
and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm September
air:
"Oh, father and mother pay all the bills
(plunk-plunk)
And we have all the fun (plunkety-plunk)
With the money that we spend in college life!"
Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled
down the bluff,
and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious
silence,
like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp Bannister
seemed
deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as cheerily
as ever,
but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable
loneliness, a sense
of tremendous loss.
"Hicks!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering
the
stillness. "Hicks—ahoy! I say, Hicks—"
Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the
cook-tent toward
them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning
deprecatingly
at the squad:
"Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib
me fo' bits
to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo'
Philadelphy!
Heah am a letter what he lef'—"
Big Butch Brewster, to whom the billet-doux was
addressed in T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and while
the squad
listened, he read aloud the message left by that sunny-souled
youth;
"DEAR BUTCH:
"Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on!
I'm called
away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow
it in the
room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next
century.
Give my adieux to Coach Corridan and the squad.
"Yours truthfully,
"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.
"P.S.: Tell Coach Corridan he should worry—not!
I'm hot on the trail of
a fullback that will make Ted Coy at his coyest look like the
paralyzed
inmate of an old man's home. Just leave it to Hicks!"
HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY
"Has anybody here seen our Hicks?
H-i-c-k-s!
Has anybody here seen our Hicks?
If you've seen him, answer, 'Yes!'
He's tall and slim, and he wears a grin,
And his banjo-thumping is a sin.
Has anybody here seen our Hicks—
Hicks—and his old banjo?"
Captain Butch Brewster, big Beef McNaughton, the Phillyloo
Bird—that
flamingo-like Senior—and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the
timorous boner
whom Bannister College called the "Human Encyclopedia," roosted
on the
sacred Senior Fence, between the Gymnasium and the Administration
Building.
A gloomy silence, like a somber mantle, enshrouded the four
members of '19,
as they listened to a rollicking parody on, "Has Anybody Here
Seen Kelly?"
chanted by some Juniors in Nordyke, with T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
as the
object of solicitude. Nor did the melancholy youths respond to
the queries
hurled down at them from the dormitories' windows:
"Say, Butch Brewster, where is that crazy Hicks?"
"Beef, ain't our Hicks a-comin' back here no more?"
"Hello, Phillyloo, any word from our Hicks yet?"
"Ahoy there, Theophilus, where is Hicks, the Missing?"
The seven-thirty study-hour bell was ringing, its mellow
chimes sounding
from the Administration Building tower. From the windows of the
dormitories
gleams of light shot athwart the darkness. Over in Creighton
Hall, the
abode of Freshmen, a silence reigned, but in Smithson, where the
Sophomores
roomed, Nordyke, home of the Juniors, and Bannister, haunt of the
solemn
Seniors, pandemonium obtained. In these dorm. rooms and corridors
that
night, just as in the class-rooms, or on the campus, and
Bannister Field
that day, there was but one topic. Whenever two students met,
came the
query inevitable:
"Where is Hicks? Isn't Hicks coming back this year?"
The Freshmen, bewildered, quite naturally, at the furore made
over
one missing student, asked, "Who is Hicks?" Seeking information
from
upper-classmen they received innumerable tales, in the nature of
Iliad
and Odyssey, concerning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; they heard of his
campus
exploits, such as his originating The Big Brotherhood of
Bannister, and
they laughed, at recitals of his athletic fiascos. They were told
of his
inevitably sunny nature, his loyal comradeship, his generous
disposition,
and as a result, the Freshmen, too, became intensely interested
in the
all-important campus problem: "Where is T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.?"
Little Theophilus Opperdyke, whose big-rimmed spectacles, high
forehead,
and bushy hair gave him an intensely owlish appearance,
sighed
tremendously, stared solemnly at his class-mates, and became the
author of
a most astounding statement: "I—I can't study," quavered
the "boner,"
he whose tender devotion to his books was a campus tradition, and
whose
loyalty to his firm friend, the blithesome Hicks, was as that of
Damon
to Pythias, "I just can't care about my studies, without
Hicks here!
Somehow, it—it doesn't seem like old times, on the
campus."
"I should say not!" ejaculated the Phillyloo Bird,
sepulchrally, his
string-bean length draped with extreme decorative effect on the
Senior
Fence, "Life at old Bannister without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is
about as
interesting as 'The Annual Report of the Department of
Agriculture!'
Prexy thought he started the college on its Marathon three days
ago, but
Bannister will not be officially opened until Hicks stands by his
window
some study-hour, twangs that old banjo, and shatters the campus
quietude
with a ballad roared in his fog-horn voice!"
Big Butch Brewster, enshrouded in melancholy, instinctively
gazed up at the
windows of the room T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had reserved on the
third floor
of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., as if he fully expected to
behold
the missing youth materialize. There, in lonely grandeur, waited
the
sunny-souled Senior's vast aggregation of trunks, crates, and
packing
boxes, together with Hicks' baggage brought down from Camp
Bannister. The
bothersome banjo had disappeared at the same time the youthful
Caruso
imitated the Arabs, folding his figurative tent, and stealing
away.
"It's a strange paradox," boomed Butch Brewster, finding that
no Hicks
appeared at the window, "but for three years Bannister has
stormed at Hicks
for bothering us during study-hour, or at midnight, with his
saengerfest,
and now I'd give anything to see him up there, and to hear that
banjo, and
his songs! It is just as if the sun doesn't shine on the campus,
when T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., is away!"
Bannister College had been running for three days "on one
cylinder," as
the Phillyloo Bird quaintly phrased it, on account of the
gladsome Hicks'
mysterious absence. Not a word had the Head Coach, Captain
Brewster, the
football squad, or any of the collegians received from the
blithesome
youth, since the billet-doux he left with old Hinky-Dink
at Camp
Bannister. Old students, returning to the campus for another
golden year,
invaded Hicks' room in Bannister, ready to enjoy the cozy den of
that
jolly Senior, but they encountered silence and desolation. No one
had the
slightest knowledge of where the cheery Hicks could be; they
missed his
singing and banjo strumming, his pestersome ways, his cheerful
good nature,
his cozy quarters always open house to all, and his Hicks'
Personally
Conducted tours downtown to Jerry's for those celebrated
Beefsteak Busts.
A telegram to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in Pittsburgh,
sent by the
worried Butch Brewster, had brought this concise response:
No knowledge of Thomas' whereabouts. He should be at Bannister.
"Queer," reflected Beef McNaughton, shifting his bulk on the
protesting
fence. "We know Hicks will be back, for all his luggage is stowed
away
in his room, and we are sure he is giving us all this mystery
just for a
joke—he dearly loves to arrange a sensational and dramatic
climax—but
we just can't get used to his not being on the campus. When
Theophilus
Opperdyke can't study, it's high time the S.O.S. signal was sent
to T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr."
"That is not the worst of it," growled Captain Butch Brewster,
his arm
across little Theophilus' shoulders. "The football squad misses
Hicks,
Beef. For the past two seasons he has sat at the training-table,
his
invariable good-humor, his Cheshire cat grin, and his sunny ways
have kept
the fellows in fine mental trim so they haven't worried over the
game. But
now, just as soon as he left Camp Bannister, the barometer of
their spirits
went down to zero and every meal at training-table is a funeral.
Coach
Corridan can't inject any pep into the scrimmages, and he says if
Hicks
doesn't return soon, Bannister's chances of the Championship are
gone."
"As Theophilus says," responded the gloomy Beef, "we just
can't get used
to his not being here. We miss his good-nature, his sunny smile,
the jolly
crowds in his cozy quarters—why, the campus is talking of
nothing but
Hicks—and I don't know what Bannister will do after Hicks
graduates—shut
down, I suppose!"
"Well, you know," grinned the Phillyloo Bird, his cadaverous
structure
humped over like a turkey on the roost, "our Hicks hath sallied
forth on
the trail of a full-back, a Hercules who will smash the other
elevens to
infinitesimal smithereens! He told the squad to just leave it to
Hicks,
so don't be surprised if he is making flying trips to Yale,
Harvard, and
Princeton, striving to corral some embryo Ted Coy. Remember how
Hicks often
fulfills his rash prophecies!"
"A Herculean full-back—Bah!" fleered Butch, for all the
campus knew of
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, extremely rash vow to unearth a
"phenom." "The
truth of it is, fellows. Hicks has failed to locate such a wonder
as Coach
Corridac outlined, for there ain't no such animal! He doesn't
like to
come back to Bannister without having made good his promise,
without that
Gargantuan giant he vowed to round up for the Gold and
Green."
Just then, as if to substantiate Butch's jeering statement, a
youth wearing
the uniform and cap of The Western Union Telegraph Company
and
advancing across the campus at that terrific speed always
exhibited by
messenger-boys, appeared in the offing. Periscoping the four
Seniors on the
fence, he navigated his course accordingly and pulling a yellow
envelope
from his cap, he queried, in charmingly chaste English:
"Say, kin youse tell me where to find a feller name o'
Brewster, wot's
cap'n o' de football bunch?"
"Right here, Little Nemo," advised the Phillyloo Bird,
solemnly. "Hast thou
any messages from New York for me? John D. Rockefeller promised
to wire me
whether or not to purchase war-stocks."
The Phillyloo Bird, at this stage of his monologue, was
interrupted by a
yell that would have caused a full-blooded Choctaw Indian to turn
pale.
This came from good Butch Brewster, who, having signed for the
message,
and imagined all manner of catastrophes, from world-wars,
earthquakes,
pestilence and loss of wealth, down to bad news from Hicks, after
the
fashion of those receiving telegrams but seldom, had scanned the
yellow
slip. Never before, or afterward, not even when the luckless
Butch fell in
love, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., assisted Cupid, did the
pachydermic Butch
act so insanely as on this occasion.
"Whoop-eee! Yee-ow! Wow-wow-wow!" howled the supposedly
solemn Senior,
tumbling from the Senior fence and rolling on the campus like a
decapitated
rooster. "Hip-hip-hooray! Ring the bell, Beef, get the
fellows out, have
the Band ready, Oh, where is Coach Corridan? Read it, Beef,
Theophilus,
Phillyloo. Oh, Hicks is coming and he's got—"
It is possible that little Theophilus, who firmly believed
that big Butch
Brewster had gone emotionally insane, would have fled for help,
but at that
juncture members of the Gold and Green football squad, with Head
Coach
Patrick Henry Corridan, appeared, marching funereally toward the
Gym.,
where a signal quiz was booked for seven forty-five. Beholding
the
paralyzing spectacle of their captain apparently in paroxysms on
the grass,
Hefty Hollingsworth, Biff Pemberton, Monty Merriweather and Pudge
Langdon
hurled themselves on his tonnage, while Roddy Perkins sat on his
head, and
wrested the telegram from his grasp,
"Call up Matteawan," shouted Roddy, unfolding the slip, "Butch
is getting
barmy in the dome, he—Oh, Coach, fellows—great
joy! Just heed."
James Roderick Perkins, as excited as a Senator about to make
his first
speech, read aloud the telegram, on which the heedless Hicks had
triple
rates:
"BUTCH:
"Coming 8.30 P. M. express today. Discharge entire
eleven—got whole team
in one. Knock out partitions between five rooms. Make space for
Thor, the
Prodigious Prodigy! Leave it to Hicks!
"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR."
"Hicks is coming!" shrieked the Phillyloo Bird, soaring down
from the
Senior Fence like a condor. "He will be here in less than an
hour; he sent
this wire just before his train left Philadelphia. Money is no
object, when
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wants to mystify old Bannister."
"'Discharge entire eleven,'" quoth Butch Brewster, having
somewhat subdued
his frenzy. "'Got whole team in one—knock out partitions
between five
rooms—make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy!' Now,
what in the world
has that lunatical Hicks done? Who can Thor be?"
Tug Cardiff, Buster Brown, Bunch Bingham, Scoop Sawyer, little
Skeet
Wigglesworth, Don Carterson, and Cherub Challoner, not having
given their
brawn to the subduing of Butch, now kindly donated their brain,
in all
manner of weird suggestions. According to their various surmises,
T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., had lured the Strong Man away from Barnum
and Bailey's
Circus, had in some way reincarnated the mythical Norse god,
Thor, had
hired some Greco-Roman wrestler, or by other devices too numerous
and
ridiculous to mention, had produced a full-back according to
Coach
Corridan's blue-prints and specifications.
Big Beef McNaughton, seized with an inspiration that
supplied
locomotive-power to his huge frame, lumbered into the Gym., and
soon
appeared with monster megaphones, used in "rooting" for Gold and
Green
teams, which he handed out to his comrades. Then the riotous
squad, at his
suggestion, sprinted for the Quad., that inner quadrangle or
court around
which the four class dormitories, forming the sides of a square,
were
built; anyone desiring an audience could be sure of it here,
since the
collegians in all four dorms. could rush to the Quadrangle side
and look
down from the windows. In the Quadrangle, under the brilliant
arc-lights,
the exuberant youths paused,
"One—two—three—let 'er go!" boomed Beef, and
the football squad, in
basso profundo, aided by the Phillyloo Bird's uncertain
tenor, and
Theophilus' quavery treble, roared in a tremendous vocal
explosion that
shook the dormitories:
"Hicks is coming! Hicks is coming! Everybody out on the
campus! Get ready
to welcome our T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! Hicks is bringing
Bannister's
full-back—a Prodigious Prodigy!"
Windows rattled up, heads were thrust out, a fusillade of
questions
bombarded the squad in the Quadrangle below; from the three
upper-class
dormitories erupted hordes of howling, shouting youths, and soon
the Quad.
was filled with a singing, yelling, madly happy crowd. The
Bannister Band,
that famous campus musical organization, following a time-honored
habit of
playing on every possible occasion, gladsomely tuned up and soon
the
noise was deafening, while study-hour, as prescribed by the
Faculty, was
forgotten.
"Everybody on the campus, at once!" Butch Brewster,
Master-of-Ceremonies,
boomed through his megaphone, having aroused excitement to the
highest
pitch by reading Hicks' telegram. "Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus
will soon
heave into sight. Let the Band blare, make a big noise.
Let's show Hicks
how glad we are to have him back to old Bannister."
It is historically certain that Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte
returning from Jena
and Austerlitz, Mr. Julius Caesar, home at Rome from his
Conquests, or Mr.
Alexander the Great (Conqueror, not National League pitcher)
never received
such a welcome as did T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., from his Bannister
comrades
that night. To the excited students, massed on the campus before
the Gym.
awaiting his arrival, every second seemed a century; everybody
talked at
once until the hubbub rivaled that of a Woman's Suffrage
Convention. Thomas
Haviland Hicks, Jr., was actually returning to old Bannister; and
he was
bringing "The Prodigious Prodigy," whatever that was, with him.
Knowing the
cheery Senior's intense love of doing the dramatic and his great
ambition
to startle his Alma Mater with some sensational stunt, they could
hardly
wait for old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus to roll up the
driveway,
"Here he comes!" shrieked, little Skeet Wigglesworth, an
excitable Senior,
who had climbed a tree to keep watch. "Here comes our Hicks!"
"Honk—Honk!" To the incessant blaring of a raucous horn,
old Dan
Flannagan's jitney-bus moved up the driveway. The genial Irish
Jehu, who
for over twenty years had transported Bannister collegians and
alumni
to and from College Hill in a ramshackle hack drawn by Lord
Nelson, an
antiquated, somnambulistic horse, had yielded to modern invention
at
last. Lord Nelson having become defunct during vacation, Old Dan,
with
a collection taken up by several alumni at Commencement, had
bought a
battered Ford, and constructed therewith a jitney-bus. This
conveyance was
fully as rattle-trap in appearance as the traditional hack had
been, but
the returning collegians hailed it with glee.
"All hail Hicks!" howled Butch Brewster, beside himself with
joy,
"Altogether—the Bannister yell for—Hicks!"
With half the collegians giving the yell, a number
shouting
indiscriminately, the Bannister Band blaring furiously, "Behold,
The
Conquering Hero Comes," with the youths a yelling, howling,
shrieking,
dancing mass, old Dan Flannagan, adding his quota of noises with
the
Claxon, brought his bus to a stop. This was a hilarious spectacle
in
itself, for on its sides the Bannister students had painted:
HENRY FORD'S "PIECE-OF-A-SHIP," THE DOVE!
ALL RIDING IN THIS JIT DO
SO AT THEIR OWN RISK! TEN CENTS
FOR A JOY-RIDE TO COLLEG HILL! YES,
IT'S A FORD! WHAT DO YOU CARE? GET ABOARD!
On the roof of "The Dove," or "The Crab," as the collegians
called it when
it skidded sideways, perched precariously that well-known,
beloved youth,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. He clutched his pestersome banjo and was
vigorously
strumming the strings and apparently howling a ballad, lost in
the
unearthly turmoil. As the jitney-bus stopped, the grinning Hicks
arose, and
from his lofty, position made a profound bow.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" A mighty shout arose, and Hicks
raised his hand
for silence, which was immediately delivered to him.
"Fellows, one and all," he shouted, a mist before his eyes,
for his
impulsive soul was touched by the ovation, "I—I am
glad to be back!
Say—I—I—well, I'm glad to be back—that's
all!"
At this masterly oration, which, despite its brevity,
contained volumes of
feeling, the Bannister students went wild—for a longer
period than any
political convention ever cheered a nominated candidate, they
cheered T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr.
"Roar—roar—roar—roar!" in deafening
sound-waves,
the noise swept across the campus; never had football idol,
baseball hero,
or any athletic demigod, in all Bannister's history, been
accorded such a
tremendous ovation.
"Fellows," called T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., climbing down from
his precarious
perch, "stand back; I have brought to Bannister the 'Prodigious
Prodigy.'
I have rounded up a full-back who will beat Ballard all by
himself. Behold
the new Gold and Green football eleven, 'Thor'!"
From the grinning Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, like a Russian
bear charging
from its den, lumbered a being whose enormous bulk fairly
astounded the
speechless youths; Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Tug Cardiff,
Bunch
Bingham, Buster Brown, and Pudge Langdon were popularly regarded
as the
last word in behemoths, but this "Thor" dwarfed them, towered
above them
like a Colossus over Lilliputians. He was a youth, and yet a
veritable
Hercules. Over six feet he stood, with a massive head, covered
with tousled
white hair, a powerful neck, broad shoulders, a vast chest. To a
judge of
athletes, he would tip the scales at a hundred and ninety pounds,
all solid
muscle, for that superb physique held not an ounce of superfluous
flesh.
"Hicks," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, gazing at the
mountain of
muscle, "if size means anything, you have brought old
Bannister an entire
football squad! What splendid material to train for the Big
Games, why—he
will be irresistible!"
QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER
"I didn't raise my Ford to be a jitney—
To run the streets, and stay out late at night!
Who dares to put a jitney sign, upon it—
And send my peace-ship out for fares to fight?"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., standing by his open window at 3 P. M.
one
afternoon a week after his sensational return to Bannister
College, with
the "Prodigious Prodigy" in tow, indulged in the soul-satisfying
pastime of
twanging his banjo, and roaring, in his subterranean voice, a
parody on "I
Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier." It was actually the first
Caruso-like
outburst of the pestersome youth that year, but his saengerfest
brought
vociferous howls of protest from campus and dormitories:
"Bow-wow-wow! The Grand Opery season is starting!"
"Sing some records for a talking-machine company, Hicks!"
"Kill that tom-cat! Listen to the back-fence musicale!"
"Say, Hicks—we'll take your word for that noise!"
On the Gym. steps, loafing a few moments before jogging out to
Bannister
Field for a strenuous scrimmage under the personal supervision
of
Slave-Driver Corridan, the Gold and Green football squad had
gathered. It
was from these stalwart gridiron gladiators that the caustic
criticism of
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, vocal atrocities emanated, and the
imitation of a
mournful hound by "Ichabod," the skyscraping Senior, was indeed
phenomenal.
Added to the howls, whistles, jeers, and shouts of the squad,
were like
condemnations from other collegians, sky-larking on the campus,
or in the
dorms.
"At that," grinned Captain Butch Brewster happily, "it surely
makes me feel
jubilant to hear Hicks' foghorn voice shattering the echoes, with
his
banjo strumming disturbing the peace—for which offense it
shall soon be
arrested. We can truly say that old Bannister is now officially
opened for
another year, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., has performed his
annual rite—"
"Right—!" scoffed big Pudge Langdon, indignantly, as he
gazed up at the
happy-go-lucky youth, at the window of his room on the
third-floor, campus
side, of Bannister Hall, "Hicks ought to be tarred and feathered;
there is
nothing right in the way he has acted since his return to
college! He
struts around like Herman, the Master-Magician, and all the
fellows fully
expect to see him produce white rabbits from his cap, or make
varicolored
flags out of his handkerchief."
"We ought to toss him in a blanket," stormed Beef McNaughton,
in ludicrous
rage. "Ever since he mystified Bannister by going out and
corralling a
Hercules who is an entire eleven in himself, Hicks has maintained
that
sphinx-like silence as to how he achieved the feat, and he
swaggers around,
enshrouded in mystery! All we know is that 'Thor' is John
Thorwald, of
Norwegian descent. If we ask him for information, that
wretch Hicks has
him trained to say, 'Ask the little fellow, Hicks!'"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in truth, had acted in a most
reprehensible manner
since that memorable night when he brought "Thor, the Prodigious
Prodigy,"
to the campus. Not that he ceased to be the same sunny-souled,
popular and
friendly youth. The collegians, happy at finding his room
open-house again,
flocked to his cozy quarters, Freshmen fell under the
spell of his
generous nature, his Beef-Steak Busts, down at Jerry's were
nightly
occurrences, and he was the same Hicks as of old. But, after the
dramatic
manner in which Hicks had mysteriously made good the rash vow
uttered at
Camp Bannister and had brought to Coach Corridan a blond-haired
giant who
seemed destined to perform prodigies at full-back, the sunny
Senior had
evidently labored under the delusion that he was "Kellar, The
Great
Magician."
Instead of relieving the tortured curiosity of the students,
wild to know
how and where Hicks had unearthed this physical Hercules, who in
every way
filled the details of Head Coach Corridan's "blue-prints," T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., enjoying to the full this novel method of torturing
his
comrades, made a baffling mystery of the affair, much to the
indignation of
his friends.
"Just leave it to Hicks," he would say, when the Bannister
youths
cajoled, implored, threatened, or argued. "Thor is eligible to
play four
years of football at old Bannister. I call him Thor, after the
great Norse
god, Thor; he is of Norwegian descent. That is all of the
Billion-Dollar
Mystery I can disclose; ten thousand dollars offered for the
correct
solution."
"Here comes Scoop Sawyer," said Monty Merriweather, as that
Senior, waving
his arms in air, catapulted from Bannister Hall, and strode
toward the
squad on the Gym. steps; his appearance registered wrath, in
photo-play
parlance, and on reaching his comrades he immediately acquainted
them with
its cause.
"Listen to that Hicks!" he exploded, gesticulating with a
sheaf of papers.
"Hicks, the mocking-bird! He is mocking us—with his
'Billion-Dollar
Mystery!' Say—here I am writing to Jack Merritt; he played
football four
years for old Bannister; he was captain of the Gold and Green
eleven; last
Commencement he graduated, and the last thing he said to me was,
'Scoop,
old pal, write to me next fall, tell me everything about the
football
season; keep me posted as to new material!' Everything—keep
him posted
as to new material—Bah! If I write that Hicks has brought a
fellow he
calls 'Thor,' who spreads the regulars over the field, Jack will
want
to know the details, and—that villainous Hicks won't
divulge his dread
secret!"
At this moment, Scoop Sawyer, so-called because he was
ambitious to be a
newspaper reporter, after graduation, and for his humorous
articles in the
Bannister Weekly, had his intense wrath soothed by that which
has
"power to soothe the savage breast"; T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
displaying a
wonderful originality by composing, then chanting, his parody,
concluded
the chorus roaring lustily, to a rollicking banjo
accompaniment:
"If street car companies gave seats to all patrons
The strap-hangers in jitneys would not ride.
There'd be no jits. today
If Ford owners would say,
I didn't raise my Ford to be a—jitney!"
"That is too much!" raged Captain Butch Brewster, facing his
excited
colleagues. "Come on, fellows, we'll invade Hicks' room, read him
Scoop's
letter to Jack Merritt, and make him solve the Mystery!
We're done with
diplomacy; now, we'll deliver the ultimatum; when the squad
returns from
scrimmage, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will tell us all about Thor,
or be
tossed in a blanket! Are you with me?"
"We are ahead of you!" howled Roddy Perkins, leading a
wild charge for
the entrance to Bannister Hall. Following him up the two flights
of stairs
with thunderous tread came Butch, Beef, Monty, Biff, Hefty,
Pudge, Tug,
Ichabod, Bunch, Buster, Bus Norton, and several second-team
players,
Cherub, Chub Chalmers, Don, Skeet, and Scoop Sawyer with his
letter. With
a terrific, blood-chilling clatter, and hideous howls, the
Hicks-quelling
Expedition roared down the third corridor of Bannister, and
surged into the
room of that tantalizing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!
"Safety first!" shrieked that cheery collegian, stowing his
banjo in the
closet and making a strenuous but futile effort to dive
head-first beneath
the bed, being forcibly restrained by Beef, who clung to his left
ankle.
"Say, to what am I indebted for the honor of this call? Why, when
I got
back to Bannister, you fellows gushed, 'Oh, we're so glad
you're back,
Hicks, old top; we missed even your saengerfests,' and when I
start one—"
"Hicks," pronounced Butch Brewster grimly, holding the genial
offender
by the scruff of the neck, "you tantalizing, aggravating,
irritating,
lunatical, conscienceless degenerate! You assassin of Father
Time, you
disturber of the peace, heed! Scoop Sawyer is writing to
Jack Merritt, to
tell about the football team, and Bannister's chances of the
Championship;
he wants to tell Jack all about this Thor! Now, you have acted
like
Herman-Kellar-Thurston long enough, and hear our final word. Read
Scoop's
letter, and if when you finish its perusal you fail to give us
full
information, and answer all questions about Thor—"
"The football team will toss you in a blanket until you do!"
finished Monty
Merriweather, "We intended to wait until after the scrimmage, but
Butch
evidently believes we should end your bothersome mystery as once,
and—"
"'Curiosity killed the cat!'" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.;
then seeing
the avenues and boulevards of escape were closed, but fighting
for time,
"let me peruse said missive indited by our literarily
overbalanced Scoop. I
am reluctant to dispel the clouds of mystery, but—"
Scoop Sawyer thrust the typewritten pages of the
letter—composed on
the battered old typewriter in the editorial sanctum of the
Bannister
Weekly—into Hicks' grasp and with a grin, that blithesome
youth read:
Bannister College, Sept, 27.
DEAR OLD JACK:
There is so much to tell you, old pal, that I scarcely
know where to
start, but you want to know about the football eleven, so I'll
write about
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery,' as he
calls it;
about Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. You well know what a
scatter-brained
wretch Hicks is, and how he dearly loves to plot dramatic
climaxes—to
mystify old Bannister. Just now Hicks has the campus as wrathful
as it is
possible to be with that lovable youth; he has originated a great
mystery,
and achieved a seemingly impossible feat, and instead of
explaining it, he
swaggers around like a Hindoo mystic enshrouded in mystery and
the fellows
are wild enough to tar and feather the incorrigible villain!
To get off to a sprint-start, up in Camp Bannister, before
college opened,
when the squad was in training camp, Butch Brewster says that
Coach
Corridan one day, before Hicks, expressed a fervid ambition to
find a huge,
irresistible fullback—
Here the chronicle must hang fire, while T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., grinning
at the wrath his mysterious behavior aroused, peruses those
sections of
Scoop Sawyer's epistle telling of two scenes already described;
first,
the one in the Camp Bannister grub-shack, where Head Coach
Corridan
blue-printed the Gargantuan athlete he desired, and the
blithesome Hicks
confidently requested that the Herculean task be left to him;
second, the
scene of intense excitement on the campus the night that the
missing Hicks
returned personally conducting that mountain of muscle, the
blond-haired
Thor.
Having grinned at these descriptions, the pestiferous Hicks
scanned a
picturesque description by Scoop of the events that transpired
between that
memorable night and the present invasion of the sunny Senior's
room by the
indignant squad.
—Naturally, Jack, old Bannister was intensely curious to
know who this
"Thor" could be, and how Hicks unearthed such a giant. But,
instead of
swaggering a trifle, as he inevitably does, and saying, 'Oh, I
told you
just to leave it to Hicks!' then telling all about it, after
accomplishing
what everyone believed a ridiculously impossible quest, he
maintains that
provokingly mysterious silence, and John Thorwald (we know his
name,
anyway) stolidly refers us to Hicks. So where Thor originated or
how under
the sun Hicks got on his trail, after making his rash vow to
corral a
mighty fullback, is a deep, dark mystery.
Now for Thor himself. Words cannot describe that Prodigious
Prodigy; he
must be seen to be believed! We do know that he is John Thorwald,
and of
distinctly Norwegian descent, so that calling him after the
mythic Norse
god is extremely appropriate. And he is reminiscent of the great
Thor, with
his vast strength and prowess. Thanks to T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.'s, love of
mystery, and of tantalizing old Bannister, we know nothing of
Thorwald's
past, but we are sure he has lived and toiled among men,
to possess
that powerful build. I can't describe him, old man, without
resorting to
exaggeration, for ordinary words and phrases are utterly
inadequate with
Thor! Conjure up a vision of Gulliver among the Lilliputians and
you can
picture him towering over us. He is a Viking of old, with his
fair features
and blond hair. Probably twenty-five years old, he has a powerful
frame and
prodigious strength, he dwarfs such behemoths as Butch and Beef,
and makes
such insignificant mortals as little Theophilus and myself seem
like
insects!
Thor is so big, Jack, that when he gets in a room, he
crowds everyone
into the corridor, and fills it alone. No wonder Hicks
telegraphed to knock
out the partitions between five rooms to make space for Thor!
When he
stands on the campus he blots out several sections of scenery,
and the
college disappears, giving the impression he has swallowed it.
Thor is a
slow-minded being, but possessed of a grim determination. To get
an idea
into his mind requires a blackboard and Chautauqua lecturer, but
once he
masters it, he never lets go; so it will be with football
signals, once let
him grasp a play, he will never be confused. He is simply a huge,
stolid
giant. He has a bulldog purpose to get an education, and nothing
else
matters. As for college spirit, the glad comradeship of the
campus, he has
no time for it; he pays no attention to the fellows at all, only
to Hicks.
His devotion to that wretch is pathetic! He follows Hicks
around like a
huge mastiff after a terrier, or an ocean leviathan towed by a
tug-boat; he
seems absolutely helpless without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and so
we have
a daily Hicks' personally conducted tour of Thor to interest us.
Briefly,
Jack, John Thorwald is a slow-moving, slow-minded, grimly bulldog
giant,
who has come to Bannister to study, and as for any other phase of
campus
existence, he has never awakened to it!
Now for the football story: Well, the day after Hicks'
sensational arrival,
which I described, Coach Corridan, Captain Butch Brewster, Beef,
Buster,
Pudge, Monty, and Roddy with yours truly, went to Thor's room in
Creighton
just before football practice. We found that Colossus, who had
matriculated
as a Freshman, aided by Hicks, patiently masticating mental food
as served
by Ovid. Coach Corridan said, 'Come on, Thorwald, over to the
Gym.; we'll
fix you out with togs, if we can get two suits big enough to make
one for
your bulk! Ever play the game?' 'I play some,' rumbled Thor
stolidly, never
raising his eyes from his Latin. 'Don't bother me, I want to
study.
I have not time for such foolishness. I am here to study, to get
an
education!' 'But,' urged the coach earnestly, 'you must
play football for
your Alma Mater, for old Bannister. Why, you—you
must, that's all!' Thor
gazed at Hicks questioningly—I forgot to add that insect's
name—and
asked, 'Is it so, Hicks? I got to play for the college?'
And when Hicks
grinned, 'Sure, Thor, it must be did. Bannister expects you to
smear the
other teams over the landscape,' that blond Norwegian Viking
said, 'Well,
then, I play.'
All Bannister turned out to behold the "Prodigious Prodigy" on
the football
field. Somewhere—Hicks won't divulge where—Thor has
learned the rudiments
of the game. With that bulldog tenacity of his, he has learned
them well.
Hence he was ready for the scrubs, and in the practice game it
was a
veritable slaughter of the innocents. The 'Varsity could not stop
Thor.
Remember 'Ole' Skjarsen, the big Swede of George Fitch's 'Siwash
College'
tales? Thor, after the ten minutes required to teach him a play,
would take
the ball and just wade through the regulars for big gains. The
only way to
stop him was for the entire eleven to cling affectionately to his
bulk,
and then he transported them several yards. He is a phenom, a
veritable
Prodigious Prodigy, and maybe old Bannister isn't wild
with enthusiasm.
His development will be slow but sure, and by the time the big
games for
the championship come, he will be a whole team in himself. Right
now he
goes through daily scrimmage as solemnly as if performing a
sacred rite. He
doesn't thrill with college spirit, but as for
football—
Leaving Hicks to read the rest of Scoop Sawyer's long missive,
terminating
with indignant condemnation of the sunny youth's love of mystery,
the
terrific enthusiasm roused at old Bannister by the daily
appearance on
Bannister Field of Thor, and his irresistible marches through the
'Varsity,
must be chronicled and explained.
Not for five seasons, not since the year before Hicks, Pudge,
Butch, Beef
and the others of 1919 were Freshmen, had the Gold and Green
corraled that
greatest glory, The State Intercollegiate Football Championship!
In Captain
Butch's Sophomore year, he had flung his bulk into the fray,
training,
sacrificing, fighting like a Trojan, only to see the pennant lost
by a
scant three inches, as Jack Merritt's forty-yard drop-kick for
the goal
that would have won the Championship struck the cross-bar and
bounded back
into the field. And the past season-old Bannister could still
vision that
tragic scene of the biggest game.
The students could picture Captain Brewster, with the
Bannister eleven a
few yards from Ballard's goal-line, and the touchdown that would
give the
Gold and Green that supreme glory. One minute to play; Deacon
Radford had
given Butch the pigskin, and like a berserker, he fought entirely
through
the scrimmage. But a kick on the head had blinded him, in the
mêlée—free
of tacklers, with the goal-line, victory, and the Championship so
near, he
staggered, reeled blindly, crashed into an upright, and toppled
backward,
senseless on the field, while the Referee's whistle announced the
end of
the game, and glory to Ballard. Even then, after the first
terrible shock
of the loss, of the cruel blow fate dealt the Gold and Green
two
successive seasons, the slogan was: "Next year—Bannister
will win the
Championship—next year!"
It was now "next year!" Losing only Jack Merritt, Babe McCabe
and Heavy
Hughes from the line-up, and having Monty Merrlweather and Bunch
Bingham,
fully as good, Coach Corridan's Gold and Green eleven, before the
season
started, seemed a better fighting machine than even the one of
the year
before. But when the irrepressible T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in
some
mysterious fashion making good his rash vow to produce a smashing
full-back
that can't be stopped, towed that stolid, blond Colossus, Thor,
to old
Bannister, enthusiasm broke all limits!
Mass-meetings were held every night. Speeches by Coaches,
Captain, players,
Faculty, and students, aroused the campus to the highest pitch;
every day,
the entire student-body, with The Bannister Band, turned out on
Bannister
Field to cheer the eleven, and to watch the Prodigious Prodigy
perform
valorous deeds, like the god Thor. "Bannister College—State
Championship!"
was the cry, and with the giant Thor to present an irresistible
catapulting
that could not be stopped, the Gold and Green exultantly awaited
the big
games with Hamilton and Ballard.
And yet, the stolid, unemotional, unawakened Thor, on whom
every hope of
the Championship was based, whom all Bannister came out to watch
every day,
practiced as he studied, doggedly, silently. It was evident to
all that
he hated the grind, that he wanted to quit, that his heart was
not in the
game, but for some cause, he drove his Herculean body ahead, and
could not
be stopped!
"Now, you abandoned wretch," said Butch Brewster grimly, as
the
happy-go-lucky Hicks finished Scoop's letter, and glanced about
him wildly
seeking a way of escape, "in one minute you will tell us all
about John
Thorwald, alias 'Thor,' or be tossed sky-high in a blanket by the
football
squad, and please believe me, you'll break all altitude
records!"
"Spare me, you banditti!" pleaded Hicks, reluctant to cease
torturing
Bannister with his Billion-Dollar Mystery, yet equally unwilling
to aviate
from a blanket heaved by the husky athletes. "Why seek ye to
question the
ways of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.? You have your Prodigious
Prodigy—your
smashing full-back is distributing the 'Varsity over the scenery
with
charming nonchalance that promises dire catastrophe for other
teams, once
he makes the regulars, so—"
At that dramatic moment, just as Butch Brewster glanced at
Hicks'
alarm-clock, to start the minute of grace, a startling
interruption saved
the gladsome youth from having to make a decision. A heavy,
creaking tread
shook the corridor, and the squad beheld, looming up in the
doorway, Thor.
He was not in football togs, and as he started to speak his fair
face as
stolid and expressionless as that of a sphinx, Captain Butch
Brewster
stepped toward him.
"Thor!" he exclaimed, seizing the blond Colossus by the arm,
"You aren't
ready for the scrimmage; hustle over to the Gym. and get on your
suit."
But John Thorwald, as passive of feature as though he
announced something
of the most infinitesimal importance, and were not hurling a
bomb-shell
whose explosion, was to shake old Bannister terrifically, spoke
in a
matter-of-fact manner: "I shall not play football—any
more."
"What!" Every collegian in Hicks' room, including that dazed
producer
of the Prodigious Prodigy, chorused the exclamation; to them it
was as
stunning a shock as the nation would suffer if its President
calmly
announced, "I'm tired of being President of the United States. I
shall not
report for work tomorrow." Bannister College, ever since the
night that
Thor arrived on the campus, had talked or thought of nothing but
how this
huge, blond-haired Hercules would bring the Championship to the
Gold and
Green; his prodigies on the gridiron, his ever-increasing
prowess, had
aroused enthusiasm to fever heat, and now—
"I was told wrong," said Thor, shifting his vast tonnage
awkwardly from one
foot to the other, and evidently bewildered at the consternation
caused by
what he believed a trifling announcement, "I understood that I
had to
play football, that the Faculty required it of me, and the
students let me
think so. I have just learned from Doctor Alford that such is not
true,
that I do not have to play unless I choose, hence, I quit. I came
to
college to study, to gain an education. I have toiled long and
hard for
the opportunity, and now I have it, I shall not waste my time on
such
foolishness."
Then, utterly unconscious that he had spoken sentences which
would create
a mighty sensation at old Bannister, that might doom the Gold and
Green
to defeat, lose his Alma Mater the Championship, and bring on
himself the
cruel ostracism and bitter censure of his fellows, John Thorwald
lumbered
down the corridor. A moment of tense silence followed and then
Captain
Butch Brewster groaned.
"It's all over, it's all over, fellows!" he said brokenly,
"Bannister loses
the Championship! We know it is impossible to move Thor on the
football
field, and now that he has said 'No!' to playing football,
dynamite can not
move him from his decision."
Then, crushed and disconsolate, the football squad filed
silently from the
room, to break the glad news to Coach Corridan, and to spread the
joyous
tidings to old Bannister. When they had gone, T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.,
staring at the figurative black cloud that lowered over his Alma
Mater,
strove to find its silver lining, and at last he partially
succeeded.
"Anyway," said Hicks, with a lugubrious effort to grin,
"Thor's
announcement shocked the squad so much that I was not forced to
explain my
Billion-Dollar Mystery!"
HICKS MAKES A DECISION
"In the famous words of Mr. Somebody-Or-Other," quoth T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., "something has got to be did, and immediately to
once!"
Big Butch Brewster nodded assent. So did Head Coach Patrick
Henry Corridan,
Beef McNaughton, Team Manager Socks Fitzpatrick, Monty
Merriweather, Dad
Pendleton, President of the Athletic Association, and Deacon
Radford,
quarter-back, also Shad Fishpaw, who, being Freshman
Class-Chairman,
maintained a discreet silence. Instead of the usual sky-larking,
care-free
crowd that infested the cozy quarters of the happy-go-lucky
Hicks, every
collegian present, except the ever-cheerful youth, seemed to have
lost his
best friend and his last dollar at one fell swoop!
"Oh, yes, something has got to be did!" fleered Beef
McNaughton, the
davenport creaking under the combined tonnage of himself and
Butch
Brewster, "But who will do it? Where's all that
Oh-just-leave-it-to-Hicks
stuff you have pulled for the past three years, you pestiferous
insect?
Bah! You did a lot; you dragged a Prodigious Prodigy to old
Bannister,
enshrouded him in darkest mystery, and now, when he pushed the
'Varsity off
the field and promised to corral the Championship, single-handed,
he puts
his foot down, and says, 'No—I will not play football!' Get
busy, Little
Mr. Fix-It."
"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" accommodated that blithesome
Senior, with a
cheeriness he was far from feeling. "You all do know why Thor
won't
play football; it is not like last season, when Deke Radford, a
star
quarter-back, refused either to play, or to explain his refusal.
Let me
get an inspiration, and then Thor will once again gently but
firmly thrust
entire football elevens down the field before him!"
As evidence of how intensely serious was the situation, let it
be
chronicled that, for the first time in his scatter-brained campus
career,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., did not dare strum his banjo and roar out
ballads
to torture his long-suffering colleagues. Popular and beloved as
he was,
the gladsome youth hesitated to shatter the quietude of the
campus with
his saengerfest, knowing as he did what a terrible blow Thor's
utterly
astounding announcement had been to the college.
It was nine o'clock, one night two weeks after the day when
John Thorwald,
better known as Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, so mysteriously
produced by
Hicks, had stolidly paralyzed old Bannister by unemotionally
stating his
decision to play no more football. Since then, to quote the
Phillyloo Bird,
"Bannister has staggered around the ring like a prizefighter with
the
Referee counting off ten seconds and trying to fight again before
he takes
the count." In truth, the students had made a fatal mistake in
building
all their hopes of victory on that blond giant, Thor; seeing his
wonderful
prowess, and beholding how, in the first week of the season, the
Norwegian
Colossus had ripped to shreds the Varsity line which even the
heavy Ballard
eleven of the year before could not batter, it was but natural
that the
enthusiastic youths should think of the Championship chances in
terms of
Thor. For one week, enthusiasm and excitement soared higher and
higher,
and then, to use a phrase of fiction, everything fell with a
dull,
sickening thud!
In vain did Coach Corridan, the staff of Assistant Coaches,
Captain Butch
Brewster, and others strive to resuscitate football spirit;
nightly
mass-meetings were held, and enough perfervid oratory hurled to
move a
Russian fortress, but to no avail. It was useless to argue that,
without
Thor, Bannister had an eleven better than that of last year,
which so
nearly missed the Championship. The campus had seen the massive
Thor's
prodigies; they knew he could not be stopped, and to attempt to
arouse the
college to concert pitch over the eleven, with that mountain of
muscle
blotting out vast sections of scenery, but not in football togs,
was not
possible.
"One thing is sure," spoke Dad Pendleton seriously, gazing
gloomily from
the window, "unless we get Thor in the line-up for the Big Games,
our last
hope of the Championship is dead and interred! And I feel sorry
for the big
fellow, for already the boys like him just about as much as a
German
loves an Englishman; yet, arguments, threats, pleadings, and
logic have
absolutely no effect on him. He has said 'No,' and that ends
it!"
"He doesn't understand things, fellows," defended T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
with surprising earnestness. "Remember how bewildered he seemed
at our
appeal to his college spirit, and his love for his Alma Mater. We
might as
well have talked Choctaw to him!"
Butch Brewster, Socks Fitzpatrick, Dad Pendleton, Beef
McNaughton, Deacon
Radford, Monty Merriweather, and Shad Fishpaw well remembered
that night
after Thor's tragic decision, when they—part of a Committee
formed of the
best athletes from all teams, and the most representative
collegians of old
Bannister, had invaded Thor's room in Creighton Hall, to wrestle
with the
recalcitrant Hercules. Even as Hicks spoke, they visioned it
again.
A cold, cheerless room, bare of carpet or pictures, with just
the
study-table, bed, and two chairs. At the study-table, his huge
bulk
sprawling on, and overflowing, a frail chair, they had found the
massive
John Thorwald laboriously reading aloud the Latin he had
translated,
literally by the sweat of his brow. The blond Colossus, impatient
at the
interruption, had shaken his powerful frame angrily, and with no
regard for
campus tradition, had addressed the upperclassmen in a growl:
"Well, what
do you want? Hurry up, I've got to study."
And then, to state it briefly, they had worked with (and on)
the stolid
Thorwald for two hours. They explained how his decision to play
no more
football would practically kill old Bannister's hopes of the
Championship,
would assassinate football spirit on the campus, and cause the
youths to
condemn Thor, and to ostracise him. Waxing eloquent, Butch
Brewster had
delivered a wonderful speech, pleading with John Thorwald to play
the
game. He tried to show that obviously uninterested mammoth that,
like the
Hercules he so resembled, he stood at the parting of the
ways.
"You are on the threshold of your college career, old man!" he
thundered
impressively, though he might as well have tried to shoot holes
in a
battleship with a pop-gun, "What you do now will make or break
you. Do you
want the fellows as friends or as enemies; do you want
comradeship, or
loneliness and ostracism? You have it in your power to do two
big things,
to win the Championship for your Alma Mater, and to win to
yourself the
entire student-body, as friends; will you do that, and build a
firm
foundation for your college years, or betray your Alma Mater, and
gain the
enmity of old Bannister!"
Followed more fervid periods, with such phrases as, "For your
Alma Mater,"
"Because of your college spirit," "For dear old Bannister," and
"For
the Gold and Green!" predominating; all of which terms, to the
stolid,
unimaginative Thorwald being fully as intelligible as Hindustani.
They
appealed to him not to betray his Alma Mater; they implored him,
for his
love of old Bannister; they besought him, because of his college
spirit;
and all the time, for all that the Prodigious Prodigy understood,
they
might as well have remained silent.
"I will tell you something," spoke Thor, at last, with an air
of impatient
resignation, "and don't bother me again, please! I have come to
Bannister
College to get an education, and I have the right to do so,
without being
pestered. I pay my bills, and I am entitled to all the knowledge
I can
purchase. I look from my window, and I see boys, whose fathers
are toiling,
sacrificing, to send them here. Instead of studying, to show
their
gratitude, they loaf around the campus, or in their rooms,
twanging banjos
and guitars, singing silly songs, and sky-larking. I don't know
what all
this rot is you are talking of; 'college spirit,' 'my Alma
Mater,' and so
on. I do not want to play football; I do not like the game; I
need the time
for my study, so I will not play. Both my father and myself have
labored
and sacrificed to send me to college. The past five years, with
one great
ambition to go to college and learn, I have toiled like a
galley-slave.
"And now, when opportunity is mine, do you ask me to
play? You want me to
loaf around, wasting precious time better spent in my studies.
What do I
care whether the boys like me, or hate me? Bah! I can take any
two of you,
and knock your heads together! Their friendship or enmity won't
move me. I
shall study, learn. I will not waste time in senseless
foolishness, and I
won't play football again."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. was silent as he stood by the window of
his room,
gazing down at the campus where the collegians were gathering
before
marching to the Auditorium for the nightly mass-meeting that
would vainly
strive to arouse a fighting spirit in the football "rooters."
That
blithesome, heedless, happy-go-lucky youth was capable of far
more serious
thought than old Bannister knew; and more, he possessed the rare
ability
to read character; in the case of Thor, he saw vastly deeper than
his
indignant comrades, who beheld only the surface of the affair.
They knew
only that John Thorwald, a veritable Colossus, had exhibited
football
prowess that practically promised the State Championship to old
Bannister,
and then—he had quit the game. They understood only that
Thor refused to
play simply because he did not want to, and as to why their
appeals to his
college spirit and his love for his Alma Mater were unheeded they
were
puzzled.
But the gladsome Hicks, always serious beneath his cheerful
exterior, when
old Bannister's interests were at stake, or when a collegian's
career
might be blighted, when the tragedy could be averted, fully
understood. Of
course, as originator of the Billion-Dollar Mystery, and producer
of the
Prodigious Prodigy, he knew more about the strange John Thorwald
than did
his mystified comrades. He knew that Thor, as he named him, was
just a vast
hulk of humanity, stolid, unimaginative of mind, slow-thinking, a
dull,
unresponsive mass, as yet unstirred by that strange, subtle,
mighty thing
called college spirit. He realized that Thor had never had a
chance to
understand the real meaning of campus life, to grasp the glad
fellowship of
the students, to thrill with a great love for his Alma Mater. All
that must
come in time. The blond giant had toiled all his life, had
labored among
men where everything was practical and grim. Small wonder, then,
that he
failed utterly to see why the youths "loafed on the campus, or in
their
rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and
skylarking."
"I must save him," murmured Hicks softly, for the others in
his room were
talking of Thor. "Oh, imagine that powerful body, imbued with a
vast love
for old Bannister, think of Thor, thrilling with college spirit.
Why,
Yale's and Harvard's elevens combined could not stop his rushes,
then. I
must save him from himself, from the condemnation of the fellows,
who just
don't understand. I must, some way, awaken him to a complete
understanding
of college life in its entirety, but how? He is so different from
Roddy
Perkins, or Deke Radford."
It seemed that the lovable Hicks was destined to save, every
year of his
campus career, some entering collegian who incurred the wrath,
deserved or
otherwise, of the students. In his Freshman first term, T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., indignant at the way little Theophilus Opperdyke, the
timorous,
nervous "grind," had been alarmed at the idea of being hazed, had
by a
sensational escape from a room locked, guarded, and filled with
Sophomores,
gained immunity for himself and the boner for all time, thus
winning the
loyal, pathetic devotion of the Human Encyclopedia. As a
Sophomore, by
crushing James Roderick Perkins' Napoleonic ambition to upset
tradition,
and make Freshmen equal with upperclassmen, Hicks had turned
that
aggressive youth's tremendous energy in the right channels, and
made him a
power for good on the campus.
And, a Junior, he had saved good Deacon Radford. When that
serious youth, a
famous prep. quarter, entered old Bannister, the students were
wild at the
thought of having him to run the Gold and Green team, but to
their dismay,
he refused either to report for practice or to explain his
decision. Hicks,
promising blithely, as usual, to solve the mystery and get Deke
to play,
discovered that the youth's mother, called "Mother Peg" by the
collegians,
was head-waitress downtown at Jerry's and that she made her son
promise
not to own the relationship, and that while she worked to get him
through
college, Deacon would not play football. The inspired Hicks had
gotten
Mother Peg to start College Inn, and board Freshmen unable to get
rooms
in the dormitories, and Deacon had played wonderful football. For
this
achievement, the original youth failed to get glory, for he
sacrificed it,
and swore all concerned to secrecy.
"But Roddy and Deke were different," reflected Hicks,
pondering seriously.
"Both had been to Prep. School, and they understood college life
and campus
spirit. It was Roddy's tremendous ambition that had to be curbed,
and Deke
was the victim of circumstances. But Thorwald—it is just a
problem of how
to awaken in him an understanding of college spirit. The fellows
don't
understand him, and—"
A sudden thought, one of his inspirations, assailed the
blithesome Hicks.
Why not make the fellows understand Thor? Surely, if he explained
the
"Billion-Dollar Mystery," as he humorously called it, and told
why
Thorwald, as yet, had no conception of college life, in its true
meaning,
they would not feel bitter against him; perhaps, instead, though
regretful
at his decision not to play the game, they would all strive to
awaken the
stolid Colossus, to stir his soul to an understanding of
campus
tradition and existence. But that would mean—"I surely hate
to lose my
Billion-Dollar Mystery!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
remembering
the intense indignation of his comrades at his
Herman-Kellar-Thurston
atmosphere of mystery, "It is more fun than, my 'Sheerluck
Holmes'
detective pose or my saengerfests. Still, for old Bannister, and
for Thor."
It would seem only a trifle for the heedless Hicks to give up
his mystery,
and tell Bannister all about Thor; yet, had the Hercules
reconsidered, and
played football, the torturesome youth would have bewildered his
colleagues
as long as possible, or until they made him divulge the truth. He
dearly
loved to torment his comrades, and this had been such an
opportunity for
him to promise nonchalantly to produce a Herculean full-back,
then, to
return to the campus with the Prodigious Prodigy in tow, and for
him to
perform wonders on Bannister Field, naturally aroused the
interest of the
youths, and he had enjoyed hugely their puzzlement, but
now—
"Say, fellows," he interrupted an excited conversation of a
would-be
Committee of Ways and Means to make Thor play football, "I have
an
announcement to make."
"Don't pester us, Hicks!" warned Captain Butch Brewster,
grimly. "We love
you like a brother, but we'll crush you if you start any
foolishness,
and—"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with the study-table between himself
and his
comrades, assumed the attitude of a Chautauqua lecturer, one hand
resting
on the table and the other thrust into the breast of his coat,
and
dramatically announced:
"In the Auditorium—at the regular mass-meeting
tonight—T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., will give the correct explanation of Thor, the Prodigious
Prodigy, and
will solve the Billion-Dollar Mystery!"
HICKS MAKES A SPEECH
The announcement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had practically
the same
effect on Head Coach Corridan and the cheery Senior's comrades as
a German
gas-bomb would have on the inmates of an Allied trench. For
several seconds
they stared at the blithesome youth, in a manner scarcely to be
called
aimless, since their looks were aimed with deadly accuracy at
him, but in
general, with the exception of Hicks, those in the room resembled
vastly
some of the celebrated Madame Tussaud's wax-works in London.
"Oh," breathed Monty Merriweather, with the appearance of
dawning
intelligence, "that's so, Coach, Hicks never has disclosed the
details of
his achievement; we were about to extort a confession from him,
when Thor
broke up the league with his announcement, and since then,
Bannister has
been too worried over Thorwald to trifle with Hicks!"
"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Coach Corridan, who had been
remarkably
silent, for him, pondering the football crisis, "Hicks can make
his
explanation at the regular mass-meeting tonight, in the
Auditorium. I'll
post an announcement of his purpose, and you fellows spread the
news among
the students, stating that Hicks will tell how he rounded up
Thor. Some
have shirked these meetings since Thorwald quit the game, and
this will
bring them out, so maybe we can arouse the fighting spirit
again!"
So well did Butch, Beef, Socks, Monty, Dad, Deacon, and Shad
tell the news,
that when the bell in the Administration Hall tower rang at ten
o'clock it
was ascertained by score-keepers that every youth at Bannister,
Freshmen
included, except that Hercules, Thor, had assembled in the
Auditorium. That
stolid behemoth, who regarded the football mass-meeting as
foolishness, was
reported as boning in his cheerless room, fulfilling the mission
for which
he came to college, namely, to get his money's worth of
knowledge, which he
evidently regarded as some commodity for which Bannister served
merely as a
market.
Big Butch Brewster, on the stage of the Auditorium, the big
assembly-hall
of the college, along with Coach Corridan, several of the Gold
and Green
eleven, two members of the Faculty, several Assistant Coaches,
and T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., stepped forward and stilled the tumult of
the excited
youths with upraised hand.
"We have with us tonight," he spoke, after the fashion of
introducing
after-dinner speakers, "Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the
celebrated
Magician and Mystifier, who will present for your approval his
world-famous
Billion-Dollar Mystery, and give the correct solution to Thor,
the problem
no one has been able to solve. I take great pleasure in
introducing to you
this evening, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr."
The collegians, firmly believing it was another of the
pestiferous Hicks'
jokes, and wholly unaware of the deep purpose of the
sunny-souled,
irrepressible youth's speech, went into paroxysms of glee, as
the
shadow-like Hicks stepped forward. For several minutes, the hall
echoed
with jeers, shouts, groans, whistles, and sarcastic comments:
"Hire a hall, Hicks; tell it to Sweeney!"—"Bryan better
look out. Hicks,
the Chau-talker;"—"Spill the speech, old man; spread the
oratory!"—"Oh,
where are my smelling-salts? I know I shall faint!"—"You'd
better play a
banjo-accompaniment to it, Hicks!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his campus career,
fervidly wished he
had not been such a happy-go-lucky, care-free collegian, for now,
when he
was serious, his comrades refused to believe him to be in such a
state.
However, quiet was obtained at last, thanks to the fact that the
youths
possessed all the curiosity of the proverbial cat who died
thereby, and the
sunny Senior plunged earnestly into his famous speech, that was
destined,
at old Bannister, to rank with that of Demosthenes "On The
Crown," or any
of W. J, Bryan's masterpieces.
"Fellows," began Hicks, without preface, "I know I've built
myself the
reputation of being a scatterbrained, heedless nonentity, and
it's too late
to change now. But tonight, please believe me to be thoroughly in
earnest.
Bannister faces more than one crisis, more than one tragedy. It
is true
that the football eleven is crippled by the defection of Thor,
that we
fellows have somewhat unreasonably allowed his quitting the game
to shake
our spirit, but there is more at stake than football victories,
than even
the State Intercollegiate Football Championship! The future of a
student,
of a present Freshman, his hopes of becoming a loyal, solid,
representative
college man, a tremendous power for good, at old Bannister, hang
in the
balance at this moment! I speak of John Thorwald. You students
have it in
your power to make or break him, to ruin his college years and
make him a
recluse, a misanthrope, or to gradually bring him to a full
realization of
what college life and campus tradition really mean."
"I have made a great mystery of Thor, just for a lark, but the
enmity and
condemnation of the campus for him because he quit football
suddenly, shows
me that the time for skylarking is past. For his sake, I must
plead. He is
not to blame, altogether, for quitting. Myself, and you fellows,
gave him
the impression that it was a Faculty requirement for him to play
football,
for we feared he would not play, otherwise; when he learned that
it was not
a Faculty rule, he simply quit."
Here T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., seeing that at last he had
convinced the
collegians of his earnestness, though they seemed fairly
paralyzed at the
phenomenon, paused, and produced a bundle of papers before
resuming.
"Now, I'll try to explain the 'mystery' as briefly and as
clearly as
possible. Up at Camp Bannister, before college opened, Coach
Corridan, as
you know, outlined to Butch, Deke, and myself, his dream of a
Herculean,
irresistible full-back; I said, 'Just leave It to Hicks!' and
they believed
that I, as usual, just made that remark to torment them. But such
was not
the case. When I joined them, I remarked that I had a letter from
my Dad;
Deke made some humorous remarks, and I forgot to read it aloud,
as I
intended. Then, after Coach Corridan blue-printed his giant
full-back, I
kept silent as to Dad's letter, for reasons you'll understand.
But, after
all, there was no mystery about my leaving Camp Bannister, after
making a
seemingly rash vow, and returning to college with a 'Prodigious
Prodigy'
who filled specifications, In fact, before I left Camp Bannister,
at the
moment I made my rash promise—I had Thor already lined
up!"
"I shall now read a dipping or two, and a letter or two from
my Dad. The
clippings came in Dad's letter to me at Camp Bannister, the
letter I
intended to read to Coach Corridan, Deke, and Butch, but which I
decided to
keep silent about, after the Coach told of the full-back he
wanted, for
I knew I had him already! First, a clipping from the San
Francisco
Examiner, of August 25:
MAROONED SAILOR RESCUED—TEN YEARS
ON SOUTH SEA ISLAND!SOLE SURVIVOR OF
ILL-FATED CRUISE OF THE ZEPHYR
"The trading-schooner Southern Cross, Captain Martin Bascomb,
skipper,
put into San Francisco yesterday with a cargo of copra from the
South Sea
Islands. On board was John Thorwald, Sr., who for the past ten
years
has been marooned on an uninhabited coral isle of the Southern
Pacific,
together with 'Long Tom' Watts, who, however, died several months
ago.
Thorwald's story reads like a thrilling bit of fiction. He was
first mate
of the ill-fated yacht Zephyr, which cleared from San Francisco
ten years
ago with Henry B. Kingsley, the Oil-King, and a pleasure party,
for a
cruise under the southern star. A terrific tornado wrecked the
yacht, and
only Thorwald and 'Long Tom' escaped, being cast upon the coral
island,
where for ten years they existed, unable to attract the attention
of the
few craft that passed, as the isle was out of the regular lanes.
Only when
Captain Martin Bascomb, in the trading-schooner Southern Cross,
touched
at the island, hoping to find natives with whom to trade supplies
for
copra, were they found, and 'Long Tom' had been dead some
months."
"Despite the harrowing experiences of his exile, Thorwald, a
vast hulk of a
stolid, unimaginative Norwegian, who reminds one of the Norse
god, 'Thor,'
intends to ship as first mate on the New York-Christiania
Steamship Line.
It is said that Thorwald has a son, at this time about
twenty-five years of
age, somewhere In this country, whom he will seek,
and—"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., at this juncture, terminated the
newspaper story,
and finding that his explanation held his comrades spellbound, he
produced
a letter, and drew out the message, after stating the youths
could read the
entire news-story of John Thorwald, Sr., later.
"This is the letter I received from my Dad," he explained to
the intensely
interested Bannister youths, who were giving a concentrated
attention that
members of the Faculty would have rejoiced to receive from them.
"Up at
Camp Bannister—I was just about to read it to Coach
Corridan, Butch, and
Deke Radford, when Deke chaffed me, and then the Coach outlined
the mammoth
full-back he desired, so I kept quiet. I'll now read it to
you:
"Pittsburgh, Pa., Sept, 17.
"DEAR SON THOMAS:
"Read the inclosed clipping from the San Francisco Examiner of
August 25,
and then pay close attention to the following facts: At the time
of this
news-story I was in 'Frisco on business, as you will recall, and
for
reasons to be outlined, when I read of the Southern Cross finding
the
marooned John Thorwald, and bringing him to that city, I was
particularly
interested, so much so that I at once looked up the one-time
first mate of
the ill-starred Zephyr and brought him to Pittsburgh in my
private car.
My reason was this; in my employ, in the International Steel
Combine's
mill, was John Thorwald's son, John Thorwald, Jr.
"To state facts as briefly as possible, almost a year ago, as
I took some
friends through the steel rolling mill, I chanced to step
directly beneath
a traveling crane, lowering a steel beam; seeing my peril, I was
about to
step aside when I caught my foot and fell. Just then a veritable
giant,
black and grimy, leaped forward, and with a prodigious display of
strength,
placed his powerful back under the descending weight, staving it
off until
I rolled over to safety!
"Well, of course, I had the fellow report to my office, and
instinctively
feeling that I wanted to show my gratitude, without being
patronizing, he
responded to my question as to what I could do to reward him, by
asking
simply that I get him some job that would allow him to attend
night school.
He stated that, owing to the fact that he worked alternate weeks
at night
shift he was unable to do so. Questioning him further, I learned
the
following facts:
"He was John Thorwald, Jr., only son of John Thorwald, Sr., a
Norwegian;
his mother was also a Norwegian, but he is a natural born
American.
Realizing the opportunities for an educated young man in our
land,
Thorwald's parents determined that he should gain knowledge, and
until he
was fifteen years old, he attended school in San Francisco. When
he was
fifteen, his father signed as first mate on the yacht Zephyr,
going with
the oil-king, Henry B. Kingsley, on a pleasure cruise in the
Southern
Pacific; Thorwald, Sr.'s, story you read in the paper. Soon after
the news
of the Zephyr's wreck, with all on board lost, as was then
supposed,
Thorwald's mother died. Her dying words (so young Thorwald told
me, and I
was moved by his simple, straightforward tale) were an appeal to
her
boy. She made him promise, for her sake, to study, study, study
to gain
knowledge, and to rise in the world! Thorwald promised. Then,
believing
both his parents dead, the young Norwegian, a youth of fifteen
without
money, had to shift for himself.
"Thomas, Jack London could weave his adventures into a
gripping
masterpiece. Starting in as cabin-boy on a freighter to Alaska,
young
Thorwald, in the past ten years, has simply crowded his life
with
adventure, thrill, and experience, though thrills mean nothing to
him. He
was in the Klondike gold-fields, in the salmon canneries, a
prospector, a
lumber-jack in the Canadian Northwest, a cowboy, a sailor, a
worker in the
Panama Canal Zone, on the Big Ditch, and too many other things to
remember.
Finally, he drifted to Pittsburgh, where his prodigious strength
served him
in the steel-mills, and, let me add, served me, as I
stated.
"And ever, no matter where he wandered, or what was his toil,
whenever
possible, Thorwald studied. His promise to his mother was always
his goal,
and in the cities he studied, or in the wilds he read all the
books he
could find. The past year, finding he had a good-pay job in
Pittsburgh, he
settled to determined effort, and by sheer resolution, by his
wonderful
power to grasp facts and ideas for good once he gets them, he
made great
progress in night school, until he was shifted, a week before he
saved my
life, to work that required him to toil nightly, alternate weeks.
So, for a
year, Thor has had every possible advantage, some, unknown to
him, I paid
for myself; I got him clerical work, with shorter hours, he went
to night
school, and I employed the very best tutor obtainable, letting
Thorwald
pay him, as he thought, though his payments wouldn't keep the
tutor in
neckties. The gratitude of the blond giant is pathetic, and
suspecting that
I paid the tutor something, he insisted on paying all he could,
which I
allowed, of course.
"Well, in August, a year after Thorwald rescued me from
serious injury,
perhaps death, I was in 'Frisco, and read of Thorwald, Sr.'s
rescue and
return. Overjoyed, I took the father to Pittsburgh, to the son. I
witnessed
their meeting, with the father practically risen from the dead,
and all
those stolid, unimaginative Norwegians did was to shake hands
gravely!
Young Thorwald told of his mother's last words, and of his
promise, of his
having studied all the years, and of his late progress, so that
he was
ready to enter college. His father, happy, insisted that he enter
this
September, and he would pay for his son's college course, to make
up for
the years the youth struggled for himself—Kingsley's heirs,
I believe,
gave Thorwald, Sr., five thousand dollars on his return. So,
though
grateful to me for the aid I offered, they would receive no
financial
assistance, for they want to work it out themselves, and help the
youth
make good his promise to his dying mother.
"Much as I love old Bannister, my Alma Mater, I would not have
tried to
send Thorwald there, had I not deemed it a good place for him.
However,
since it is a liberal, not a technical, education he wants, it is
all
right; and that prodigious strength will serve the Gold and Green
on the
football field. Now, Thomas, I want you to meet him in
Philadelphia, and
take him to Bannister, look out for him, get him started O. K.,
and do all
you can for him. Get him to play football, if you can, but don't
condemn
if he refuses. Remember, his life has been grim and
unimaginative; he has
toiled and studied, it is probable he will not understand college
life at
first."
"That's all I need to read of Dad's letter, fellows,"
concluded T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr. "After I got it, and Coach Corridan, Butch, and Beef
heard my
seemingly rash vow to round up a giant full-back, I made a
mystery of it; I
loafed in Philadelphia and Atlantic City until I met Thor, and
brought him
here. You have all the data regarding Thor, 'The Billion-Dollar
Mystery.'"
The students, almost as one, drew a deep breath. They had been
enthralled
by the story, and their feeling toward Thor had undergone a vast
change.
Stirred by hearing of his promise to his dying mother, thrilled
at the way
the stolid, determined Norwegian had ceaselessly studied to make
something
of himself for the sake of his mother's sacred memory, the
Bannister youths
now thought of football, of the Championship, as insignificant,
beside the
goal of Thorwald, Jr. The blond Colossus, whom an hour ago all
Bannister
reviled and condemned for not playing the game, who was a campus
outcast,
was now a hero; thanks to the erstwhile heedless Hicks, whose
intense
earnestness in itself was a revelation to the amazed collegians,
Thor stood
before them in a different light, and the impulsive,
whole-souled, generous
youths were now anxious to make amends.
"Thor! Thor! Thor!" was the thunderous cry, and the Bannister
yell for
the Prodigious Prodigy shattered the echoes. Then T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
ecstatically joyous, again stilled the tumult, and spoke in
behalf of John
Thorwald.
"We all understand Thor now, fellows," he said, beaming on his
comrades.
"We want him to play football, and we'll keep after him to play,
but we
won't condemn him if he refuses. At present, Thor is simply a
stolid,
unimaginative, dull mass of muscle. As you can realize, his
nature, his
life so far have not tended to make him appreciate the gayer,
lighter side
of college life, or to grasp the traditions of the campus. To
him, college
is a market; he pays his money and he takes the knowledge handed
out. We
can not blame him for not understanding college existence in its
entirety,
or that the gaining of knowledge is a small part of the
representative
collegian's purpose.
"Now, boys, here's our job, and let's tackle it together: To
awaken in
Thor a great love for old Bannister, to cause college spirit to
stir his
practical soul. Let every fellow be his friend, let no one speak
against
him, because of football. We must work slowly, carefully,
gradually making
him grasp college traditions, and once he awakens to the real
meaning of
campus life, what a power he will be in the college and on the
athletic
field! Maybe he will not play football this season, but let us
help him to
awaken!"
With wild shouts, the aroused collegians poured from the
Auditorium, an
excited, turbulent mass of youthful humanity, a tide that swept
T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., on the shoulders of several, out on the campus.
Massed beneath
the window of John Thorwald's room, in Creighton Hall, the
Bannister
students, now fully understanding that stolid Hercules, and
stirred to
admiration of him by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, great speech,
cheered the
somewhat mystified Thor again and again; in vast sound waves, the
shouts
rolled up to his open window:
"Rah! Rah! Rah-rah-rah! Thor! Thor! Thor!" Captain Brewster,
through a
big megaphone, roared; "Fellows—What's the matter with
Thor?"
And in a terrific outburst which, as the Phillyloo Bird
afterward said,
"Like to of busted Bannister's works!" the enthusiastic
collegians
responded:
"He's—all—right!"
Then Butch, apparently in quest of information, persisted:
"Who's all right?"
To which the three hundred or more youths, all seemingly
equipped with
lungs of leather, kindly answered:
"Thor! Thor! Thor!"
Still, though the Phillyloo Bird declared that this vocal
explosion caused
the seismographs as Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and in
Salt Lake
City, Utah, to register an earthquake somewhere, it had on the
blond
Freshman a strange effect. The vast mountain of muscle lumbered
heavily
across the room, gazed down at the howling crowd of collegians
without
emotion, then slammed down the window, and returned to study.
"Good night" called Hicks. "The show is over! Let him have
another yell,
boys, to show we aren't insulted; then we'll disband!"
Considering Thorwald's cool reception of their overtures,
which some youth
remarked, "Were as noisy as that of a Grand Opera Orchestra," it
was quite
surprising to the students, in the morning, when what occurred an
hour
after their serenade was revealed to them. As the story was told
by those
who witnessed the scene, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, Beef,
Monty, Pudge,
Roddy, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, and Coach Corridan after the
commotion
subsided, retired to the sunny Hicks' quarters, where the
football
situation was discussed, along with ways and means to awaken
Thor, when
that colossal Freshman himself loomed up in the doorway.
As they afterward learned, several excited Freshmen had dared
to invade
Thor's den, even while he studied, and give him a more or less
correct
account of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s masterly oration in his
defense. Out of
their garbled descriptions, big John Thorwald grasped one salient
point,
and straightway he started for Hicks' room, leaving the indignant
Freshmen
to tell their story to the atmosphere.
"Hicks," said Thor, not bothering with the "Mr." required of
all Freshmen,
as his vast bulk crowded the doorway, "is it true that Mr. Thomas
Haviland
Hicks, Sr., wants me to play football? He has been very kind to
me, and
has helped me, and so have you, here at college. After a year of
study, I
should have had to stop night-school, but for him—instead,
I got another
year, and prepared for Bannister. I did not know that he
desired me to
play, but if he does, I feel under obligation to show my great
gratitude,
both for myself and for my father."
A moment of silence, for the glorious news could not be
grasped in a
second; those in the room, knowing Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.'s,
brilliant
athletic record at old Bannister, and understanding his great
love for
his Alma Mater, knew that Hicks, Sr., had sent Thor to Bannister
to play
football for the Gold and Green, though, as he had written his
son, he
would not have done so had he honestly believed that another
college would
suit the ambitious Goliath better.
"Does he?" stammered the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while
the others
echoed the words feebly, "Yes, I should say he does!"
For a second, the ponderous young Colossus hesitated, and
then, as calmly
as though announcing he would add Greek to his list of studies,
and wholly
unaware that his words were to bring joy to old Bannister, he
spoke
stolidly.
"Then I shall play football."
HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY.
"Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the Devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
T HAVILAND HICKS, JR., his chair tilted at a perilous angle,
and his feet
thrust gracefully atop of the study-table, in his cozy room, one
Friday
afternoon two weeks after John Thorwald's return to the football
squad, was
fathoms deep in Stevenson's "Treasure Island." As he perused the
thrilling
pages, the irrepressible youth twanged a banjo accompaniment, and
roared
with gusto the piratical chantey of Long John Silver's buccaneer
crew;
Hicks, however, despite his saengerfest, was completely lost in
the
enthralling narrative, so that he seemed to hear the parrot
shrieking,
"Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and the wild refrain:
"Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
He was reading that breathlessly exciting part where the
cabin-boy of the
Hispaniola, and Israel Hands have their terrible fight to the
death, with
the dodging over the dead man rolling in the scuppers, the
climbing up the
mast, and the dirk pinning the boy's shoulder, before Hands is
shot and
goes to join his mate on the bottom; just at the most absorbing
page, as he
twanged his beloved banjo louder, and roared the chantey, there
sounded,
"Tramp—tramp—tramp!" in the corridor, the heavy tread
of many feet
sounded, coming nearer. Instinctively realizing that the
pachydermic parade
was headed for his room, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., rushed to
the closet,
murmuring, "Safety first!" as usual, and stowed away his banjo.
He was just
in the nick of time, for a second later there crowded into his
room Captain
Butch, Pudge, Beef, Hefty, Biff, Monty, Roddy, Bunch, Tug,
Buster, Coach
Corridas, and Thor, the latter duo bringing up the rear.
"Hicks, you unjailed public nuisance!" said Butch Brewster,
affectionately.
"We, whom you behold, are going for to enter into that room
across the
corridor from your boudoir, and hold a football signal quiz and
confab. We
should request that you permit a thunderous silence to originate
in your
cozy retreat, for the period of at least a hour! A word to the
wise is
sufficient, so I have spoken several, that even you may
comprehend my
meaning."
"I gather you, fluently!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
taking up
"Treasure Island" and his graceful pose once more. "Leave me to
peruse the
thrilling pages of this classic blood-and-thunder book, and I'll
cause a
beautiful serenity to obtain hither."
"See that you do, you pestiferous insect!" threatened Beef
McNaughton,
ominously. "Come on, fellows, Hicks can't escape our vengeance,
if
he bursts into what he fatuously believes is song. Just let him
act
hippicanarious, and—"
When the Gold and Green eleven, half of which, to judge by
size, was
Thor, had gone with Coach Corridan into the room across from that
of the
blithesome Hicks, the sunny-souled Senior tried to resume his
perusal of
"Treasure Island," but somehow the spell had been broken by the
invasion of
his cozy quarters. So, after vainly essaying to take up the
thread of the
story again, Hicks arose and stood by the window, gazing across
the campus
to Bannister Field, deserted, since the football team rested for
the game
of the morrow. As he stood there, the gladsome Hicks reflected
seriously.
He thought of "Thor," and decided sorrowfully that the problem of
awakening
that stolid Colossus to a full understanding of campus life was
as unsolved
as ever.
"But I won't give it up!" declared Hicks, determinedly.
"I have always
been good at math, and I won't let this problem baffle me."
Since the night, two weeks back, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
had made his
memorable speech, explaining to his fellow-students the
"Billon-Dollar
Mystery," and arousing in them a vast admiration for the
slow-minded,
plodding John Thorwald, every collegian had done his best to
befriend the
big Freshman. Upperclassmen helped him with his studies. Despite
his almost
rude refusal to meet any advances, the collegians always had a
cheery
greeting for him, and his class-mates, in fear and trembling,
invaded
his den at times, to show him they were his friends. Yet, despite
these
whole-hearted efforts, only two of old Bannister did the silent
Thor
seem to desire as comrades: the festive Hicks, for reasons
known,
and—remarkable to chronicle—little Theophilus
Opperdyke, the timorous,
studious "Human Encyclopedia."
"Colossus and Lilliputian!" the Phillyloo Bird quaintly
observed once when
this strangely assorted duo appeared on the campus. "Say,
fellows—some
time Thor will accidentally sit on Theophilus, and we'll have
another
mystery, the disappearance of our boner!"
The generous Hicks, longing for Thor's awakening to come, was
not in the
least jealous of his loyal little friend, Theophilus. In fact, he
was
sincerely delighted that the unemotional Hercules desired the
comradeship
of the grind, and he urged the Human Encyclopedia to strive
constantly to
arouse in Thor a realization of college existence, and a true
knowledge of
its meaning. At least one thing, Theophilus reported, had been
achieved by
Hicks' defense of Thorwald, and the subsequent attitude of the
collegians—
the colossal Freshman was puzzled, quite naturally. When over
three hundred
youths criticized, condemned, and berated him one night, and the
next, even
before he reconsidered his decision about football, came under
his window
and cheered him, no wonder the young Norwegian was
bewildered.
On the football field, with his dogged determination, his
bulldog way of
hanging on to things until he mastered them, big Thor progressed
slowly,
and surely; the past Saturday, against the heavy Alton eleven,
the blond
Freshman had been sent in for the second half, and, to quote an
overjoyed
student, he had "busted things all up!" It seemed simply
impossible to stop
that terrible rush of his huge body. Time after time he plowed
through the
line for yards, and old Bannister, visioning Thor distributing
Hamilton and
Ballard over the field, in the big games, literally hugged
itself.
And yet, despite Thorwald's invincible prowess, despite the
vast joy of
old Bannister at the chances of the Championship, some
intangible
shadow hovered over the campus. It brooded over the
training-table, the
shower-rooms after scrimmage, on Bannister Field during practice;
as yet,
no one had dared to give it form, by voicing his thought, but
though no
youth dared admit it, something was wrong, there was a defective
cog in the
machinery of that marvelous machine, the Gold and Green
eleven.
"'Oh, just leave it to Hicks," quoth that sunny youth, at
length, turning
from the window; "I'll solve the problem, or what is more
probable,
Theophilus may stir that sodden hulk of humanity, after awhile. I
won't
worry about it, for that gets me nothing, and it will all come
out O.K.,
I'm positive!"
At this moment, just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., picked up
"Treasure Island"
again, he heard drifting across the corridor from the room
opposite, in
Butch Brewster's familiar voice:
"—Yes, I'll win three more Bs'—one each in
football, baseball and track;
next spring, I'll annex my last B at old Bannister,
fellows—"
His last B—The words struck the blithesome Hicks
with sledge-hammer
force. Big Butch Brewster was talking of his last B, when he, T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., had never won his first; with a feeling almost of
alarm, the
sunny youth realized that this was his final year at old
Bannister, his
last chance to win his athletic letter, and to make happy his
beloved Dad,
by helping him to realize part of his life's ambition—to
behold his son
shattering Hicks, Sr.'s, wonderful record. His final chance, and
outside of
his hopes of winning the track award in the high-jump, Hicks saw
no way to
win his B.
Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., as has been chronicled, the
beloved Dad of the
cheery Senior, a Pittsburgh millionaire Steel King, was a
graduate of old
Bannister, Class of '92. While wearing the Gold and Green, he had
made
an all-round athletic record never before, or afterward, rivaled
on
the campus. At football, basketball, track, and baseball, he was
a
scintillating star, annexing enough letters to start an alphabet,
had they
been different ones. Quite naturally, when the Doctor, speaking
anent
the then infantile Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., said, "Mr. Hicks,
it's a
boy!"—the one-time Bannister athlete straightway began to
dream of the day
when his only son and heir should follow in his Dad's footsteps,
shattering
the records made at Bannister, and at Yale, by Hicks,
père.
However, to quote a sporting phrase, the son of the Steel King
"upset the
dope!" At the start of his Senior year, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
had not
annexed a single athletic honor, nor did the signs point to any
records
being in peril of getting shattered by his prowess; as Hicks
himself
phrased it, "Dame Nature was some stingy when she handed
out the Hercules
stuff to me!" The happy-go-lucky youth, when he matriculated as a
Freshman
at Bannister College, was builded on the general lines of a
toothpick, and
had he elected to follow a pugilistic career, a division somewhat
lighter
than the tissue paperweight class would have had to be devised
to
accommodate the splinter-student. A generous, sunny-souled,
intensely
democratic collegian, despite his father's wealth, the festive
Hicks, with
his room always open-house to all; his firm friendship for star
athlete
or humble boner, his never-failing sunny nature, together with
his famous
Hicks Personally Conducted Expeditions downtown to the Beef-Steak
Busts he
had originated, in his three years at old Bannister, had made
himself the
most popular and beloved youth on the campus, but, he had not won
his B!
And he had tried. With a full realization, of his Dad's
ambition, his
life-dream to behold his son a great athlete, the blithesome
Hicks had
tried, but with hilariously futile results. Nature had endowed
him, as he
told his loyal comrade, Butch Brewster, with "the Herculean build
of a
Jersey mosquito," and his athletic powers neared zero infinity.
In his
Freshman year, he inaugurated his athletic career by running the
wrong way
in the Sophomore-Freshman football game, scoring a touchdown that
won for
the enemy, and naturally, after that performance, every athletic
effort was
greeted with jeers by the students.
"I have tried!" said Hicks, producing two letters from
the study-table,
"But not like I should have tried. I could never have played on
the eleven,
or on the nine, but I have a chance in the high-jump. I know I've
been
indolent and care-free, and I ought to have trained harder. Well,
I just
must win my track B this spring, but as to keeping the rash
promise I made
to Butch as a Freshman—not a chance!"
It had been at the close of his Freshman year, after Hicks, in
the
Interclass Track Meet, had smashed hurdles, broken high-jumping
cross-bars,
finished last in several events, and jeopardized his life with
the shot and
hammer, that he made the rash vow to which he now had reference.
Butch,
believing his sunny friend had entered all the events just to
entertain the
crowd, in his fun-loving way, was teasing him about his
ridiculous fiascos,
when Hicks had told him the story—how his Dad wanted him to
try and be a
famous athlete; he showed Butch a letter, received before the
meet, asking
his son to try every event, and to keep on training, so as to win
his B
before he graduated. Butch, great-hearted, was surprised and
moved by the
revelation that the gladsome youth, even as he was jeered by his
friendly
comrades, who thought he performed for sport, was striving to
have his
Dad's dream come true; he had sympathized with his classmate, and
then his
scatter-brained colleague had aroused his indignation by vowing,
with a
swaggering confidence:
"'Oh, just leave it to Hicks!' Remember this, Butch, before I
graduate from
old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of
sport!"
Butch had snorted incredulously. To win the football or the
baseball B,
the gold letter for the former, and the green one for the latter
sport,
an athlete had to play in three-fourths of the season's games, on
the
"'Varsity"; to gain the white track letter, one had to win a
first place in
some event, in a regularly scheduled track meet with another
team. And now,
Butch's skepticism seemed confirmed, for at the start of his last
year at
college, Hicks had not annexed a single B, though he bade fair to
corral
one in the spring in the high-jump.
"Heigh-ho!" chuckled Hicks, at length. "Here I am threatening
to get gloomy
again! Well I'll sure train hard to win my track letter, and that
seems
all I can do! I'd like to win my three B's, and jeer at Butch,
next June,
but—it can't be did! I shall now twang my trusty
banjo, and drive dull
care away."
Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the corridor,
and of Butch
Brewster's request for quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out
his
beloved banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared:
"Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the—"
"Hicks!" Big Butch Brewster crashed across the corridor, both
doors being
open. "Is this how you maintain a quiet? I'm going to call Thor
over and
make him sit down on you! Why, you—"
"Have mercy!" plead the grinning Hicks. "Honest, Butch, I
didn't go to bust
up the league—I—I heard you talk about your B's, and
I got to thinking
that I have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here's
proof—read
these letters I was perusing—"
Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in the May of
their
Freshman year; Hicks had received it before the class track meet,
and, as
chronicled, he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it
impelled the
splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister believed him
to enter
them for fun. The letter was post-marked "Pittsburgh, Pa.," and
it read:
DEAR SON THOMAS:
Your last term's report gratified me immensely, and I am proud
of your
class record, and scholastic achievements. Pitch in, and lead
your class,
and make your Dad happy.
But there is something else of which I want to write, Thomas.
As you must
know, it has always been a cause of keen regret to me that you
have never
seemed to care for athletics of any sort; you appear to be too
indolent and
ease-loving to sacrifice, or to endure the hardships of training.
I suppose
it is because of my athletic record both at Bannister and at old
Yale that
I am so eager to see you become a star; in fact, it is my life's
most
cherished ambition to have you become as famous as your Dad.
However, I realize that my fond dream can never come true.
Nature has not
made you naturally strong and athletic, and what athletic success
you may
gain, must come from long and hard training and practice. If you
can only
win your college letter, your B, Thomas, while at Bannister, I
shall be
fully content.
I said nothing when you failed even to try for the teams at
your
Preparatory School, but I did hope that at Bannister, under good
coaches
and trainers, you would at least endeavor to win your letter. I
must admit
that I am disappointed, for you have not even made an earnest
effort to
find your event. Often, by trying everything, especially in a
track meet, a
fellow finds his event, and later stars in it.
I really believe that if you would start in now to develop
yourself by
regular, systematic gymnasium work, and if you would only try, in
a year
or so you could make a Bannister team. Theodore Roosevelt, you
know, was a
puny, weakly boy, but he built himself up, and became an athlete.
If you
want to please me, start now and find your event. Attempt all the
sports,
all the various track and field events, and always build yourself
up by
exercise in the Gym.
And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after
conscientious
effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your
college
and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember,
the fellow
who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good
enough to give
the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first
track squad
a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister.
I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will
make me happy
just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the
scrubs, just to
hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in
that humble
unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you
can win
your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take
until your
Senior year, but once you start, stick.
Your loving
DAD.
"Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a
hail of, "Oh,
you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet
Wigglesworth's
abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness.
Don't wait
for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking
football."
Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that
had known
and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that
his athletic
efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because
of a
great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second
letter,
dated a few days before:
DEAR SON THOMAS:
You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your
final chance
to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if
you win your
letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for
nature
gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up
to you.
Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your
track B,
and I'll rest content!
Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the
top in your
studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak
highly of you.
Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud
of you.
Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those
sons of old
Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win
your gold B
by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get
in a big
game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach
Corridan
about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades—they
just don't
know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma
Mater
to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the
goods! Your
peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs
it this
season, I hear—
There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as
the behemoth
Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks,
Sr.,
mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if
you'll get
confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe
it to your
Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you
have the
goods—" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
possessed no more
football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet—
"Another Hicks mystery," groaned Butch, holding the two
letters
thoughtfully. "And father and son are in it, But if Hicks don't
get his B,
it will be a shame. Say, I know—"
A few moments later, good-hearted Butch Brewster, in the
behalf of his
sunny comrade, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was making to the Gold and
Green
eleven and Coach Corridan, as eloquent a speech as that
blithesome youth,
two weeks before, had made in defense of the condemned and
ostracized Thor!
He read them the two letters of Hicks' beloved Dad, and told how
the cheery
collegian wanted to win his B for his father's sake; graphically,
he
related Hicks, Sr.'s, great ambition, and how Hicks, Jr., for
three years
had vainly tried to make good at some athletic sport, and to win
his
letter. Big Butch, warming to his theme, spoke of how T. Haviland
Hicks,
Jr., letting the students believe that he entered every event in
the track
meet of his Freshman year just for fun, had been trying to find
his event,
and train for it; he explained that the festive youth, ever
sunny-natured,
under the good-humored jeers of his comrades, who did not know
his real
purpose, really yearned to win his B.
"You fellows, and you, Coach," he thundered, "all know how
Hicks, unable
to make the 'Varsity, has always done humble service for old
Bannister,
cheerfully, gladly; how he keeps the athletes in good spirits at
the
training-table, and is always on hand after scrimmage to rub them
out. He
is chock-full of college spirit, and is intensely loyal to his
Alma Mater.
Why, look how he rounded up Thor—he ought to have his B for
that!"
Thanks to Butch's speech, the Gold and Green football stars,
most of whom
were Hicks' closest friends, saw the scatter-brained,
happy-go-lucky
youth in a new light; his eloquent defense of John Thorwald had
shown old
Bannister that he could be serious, but the knowledge that T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., even as he made a ridiculous farce in athletics, was
ambitious
to win his B, just to make his Dad happy, stunned them. For three
years,
the sunny Hicks' appearance on old Bannister Field, to try for a
team, had
meant a small-sized riot of jeers and good-natured ridicule at
his expense;
but Hicks had always grinned à la Cheshire cat,—and
no one but good
Butch Brewster, all the time, had known how in earnest the
lovable
collegian was.
"Now," concluded Butch, "Hicks may win a B in track
work, if he gets a
first place in the high-jump, and if so, O.K., but if he does
not—"
"You mean—" Monty Merriweather—understood, "if he
fails, then the
Athletic Association ought to—"
"Present him with a B!" said Butch, earnestly, "as a deserved
reward for
his faithful loyalty and service to old Bannister's athletic
teams. Don't
let him graduate without gaining his letter, and making his Dad
realize a
part of his ambition—a two-thirds vote of the Athletic
Association can
award him his letter, and when all the students know the truth
about his
ridiculous fiasco on Bannister Field, and realize the serious
purpose
beneath them all, they—"
"We'll give him his B!" shouted Beef, loudly, "If he fails in
track work
next spring, we'll vote him his letter, anyway!"
Out in the corridor, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., returning from
Skeet
Wigglesworth's room and entering his own cozy quarters, could not
help
hearing the conversation, as the doors of both his den and the
room across
the corridor were open. A great love for his comrades came to his
impulsive
heart, and a mist before his eyes, as he heard how they wanted to
vote him
his B in case he failed to win it in track work; he thrilled at
Butch's
speech, but—
"Fellows," he startled them by appearing in the doorway,
"I—I thank you
from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't help hearing, you
know—I do
appreciate your generous thoughts, but—I can't and won't
accept my B
unless I win it according to the rule of the Athletic
Association."
A silence, and then Butch Brewster, gripping his comrade's
hand
understandingly, held out to him the two letters.
"Forgive me, old man," he breathed, "for reading them aloud,
but I wanted
the fellows to know, to appreciate you! And say, Hicks, what does
your Dad
mean by saying that you are the 'Class Kid' of Yale, '96, and
that those
sons of old Eli want you to win your letter? And what does he
mean by
saying that you may get in a big game—may win
it—that you have
the goods in football, but lack the confidence to announce it to
Coach
Corridan? Also that old Bannister needs just the peculiar brand
you
possess?"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his sunny, Cheshire cat grin
illuminating his
cherubic countenance, beamed on the eleven and Coach Corridan a
moment.
"Oh, that's a mystery," he said, cheerfully. "If I
do gain the courage
and confidence, I'll explain, but unless I do—it remains
a—mystery!"
COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN
"ALL MEMBERS OF THE FIRST ELEVEN ARE
URGENTLY REQUESTED TO BE PRESENT IN
THE ROOM OF T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.—
AT EIGHT P. M. TONIGHT;
YOU WILL BE DETAINED ONLY A FEW MINUTES,
BUT LET EVERY PLAYER COME, AS A MATTER OF
EXTREME IMPORTANCE WILL BE PRESENTED.
PATRICK HENRY COERIDAN, HEAD-COACH."
"Now, what do you suppose is up Coach Corridan's sleeve?"
demanded T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., cheerfully. "Has Ballard learned our
signals, or some
Bannister student sold them to a rival team, as per the usual
football
story? Though the notice doth not herald it, I am to be present,
for my
room is to be used, and the Coach gave me a special invitation to
cut the
Gordian knot with my keen intellect."
The sunny Hicks, with Butch, Beef, Tug, and Monty, had just
come from
"Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, after supper; they
had paused
before the Bulletin Board at the Gymnasium entrance, where all
college
notices were posted, and the Coach's urgent request had caught
their gaze.
The announcement had caused quite a stir on the campus. The
Bannister
youths stood in excited groups talking of it, and in the
dormitories it
superseded all thought of study; however, there seemed little
chance that
any but the "'Varsity" and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who was always
consulted
in football problems, would know what took place in this
meeting.
"There is only one way to find out, Hicks," responded big
Butch Brewster,
his arm across his blithesome comrade's shoulders, "and that is,
attend
the meeting! You can wager that every member of the eleven will
be there,
except Thor—he regards it as 'foolishness,' I suppose, and
he won't spare
that precious time from his studies."
At five minutes past eight, Butch's prophecy was fulfilled,
for every
member of the eleven was in Hicks' cozy room, except Thor,
the Prodigious
Prodigy, whose presence would have caused a mild sensation. It
was an
extremely quiet and orderly gathering, for Coach Corridan, who
had the
floor, was so grave that he impressed the would-be sky-larking
youths.
Having their undivided attention, he proceeded to make a speech
that, to
all intents and purposes, had much the same effect on the team
and Hicks as
a Zeppelin's bombs on London:
"Boys," he spoke, in forceful sentences, driving straight to
the point,
"I am going to take the eleven, and Hicks, whose suggestions are
always
timely, into my confidence, in the hope that we, working
together, may
carry out an idea of mine for the awakening of Thor to a
realization
of things! I ask you not to let what I shall tell you be known to
the
student-body, but you fellows play with Thor every day, and you
will
understand the crisis, and appreciate why it is done, if I
decide it
necessary to drop John Thorwald from the football squad."
"Drop Thor from the squad!" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
staggered, and
then pandemonium broke loose among the players. Drop the
Prodigious Prodigy
from the squad, why, what could the Slave-Driver be
thinking of? Why,
look how Thorwald, on the scrubs, tore through the heavy 'Varsity
line for
big gains. He was simply unstoppable; and yet, almost on the eve
of the big
game that old Bannister depended on Thor to win by his splendid
prowess, he
might be dropped from the squad! Excited exclamations sounded
from Captain
Butch Brewster, Beef, and the others of the Gold and Green
eleven:
"Why not give the big games to Ballard and Ham, Coach?"
"Say, shoot Theophilus Opperdyke in at full-back!"
"Good-by, championship! No hopes now, fellows!"
"If Thor doesn't play in the Big Games—good night!"
A greater sensation could not have been caused even had kindly
white-haired
Prexy announced his intention of challenging Jess Willard for the
World's
Heavy-Weight Championship. Dropping that human battering-ram,
Thor, from
the football, squad was something utterly undreamed-of. Coach
Corridan
raised his hand for silence, and the youths subsided.
"Hear me carefully, boys," he urged, "I know that old
Bannister has come to
regard John Thorwald as invincible, to use his vast bulk as a
foundation
on which to build hopes of the Championship, which is a bad
policy, for no
team can be a one-man team and win. I realize that as a
football player,
Thor hasn't an equal in the State today, and if he had the right
spirit, he
would have few in the country. It would be ridiculous to decry
his prowess,
for he is a physical phenomenon. But you remember T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s,
splendid defense of Thor, a week or so ago? Hicks gave you a full
and clear
explanation of the big fellow, and showed you why he does
not know what
college spirit is, what loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater
mean! His
masterly speech changed your attitude toward Thor, and even
before he
decided to play football, for Mr. Hicks' sake, you admired him,
because
of his indomitable purpose, his promise to his dying mother. Now
I am
telling you why he may be dropped from the squad, because I want
you
fellows to give Thor a square deal, to remember what Hicks told
you of him,
and to keep on striving to awaken him to the true meaning of
campus years,
to make him realize that college life is more than a mere buying
of
knowledge. I want to keep him on the squad, if humanly possible,
and I
shall outline my plot later.
"Tomorrow we play Latham College. It is the last game before
the big games
for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Saturday
after this,
we play Hamilton, and the following week Ballard, the Champions!
The eleven
I send in against those teams must be a solid unit, one in
spirit and
purpose—every member of the Gold and Green team must be
welded with his
team-mates, and they must forget everything but that their Alma
Mater must
win the Championship! With no thought of self-glory, no other
purpose in
playing than a love for old Bannister, every fellow must go into
those
games to fight for his Alma Mater! Now, as for Thor, I need not
tell you
that he is not in sympathy with our ambition; he simply does not
understand
campus tradition and spirit. He is as yet not possessed of an
Alma Mater;
he plays football only because of gratitude to Mr. Thomas
Haviland Hicks,
Sr., and he hates to lose the time from his studies for the
practice.
The football squad knows that his presence is a veritable wet
blanket on
enthusiasm and the team's fighting spirit."
It was true. That intangible shadow of something wrong,
brooding over
training-table, shower-room, and Bannister Field, that
self-evident
truth which almost every collegian had for days confessed to
himself yet
hesitated to voice, had been given definite form by Coach
Corridan talking
to the eleven. The good that Thorwald might do for the team by
his superb
prowess and massive bulk was more than offset and nullified by
his
attitude.
To the blond Colossus, daily practice was unutterable mental
torture. His
mind was on his studies, to which his bulldog purpose shackled
him; he
begrudged the time spent on Bannister Field; he was stolid,
silent, aloof.
He scarcely ever spoke, except when addressed. He reported for
practice at
the last second, went through the scrimmage like a great, dumb,
driven ox,
doing as he was ordered; and when the squad was dismissed he
hurried to his
room. He was among the squad, but not of them; he neither
understood nor
cared about their love for old Bannister, their vast desire to
win for
their Alma Mater; he played football because he was grateful to
Hicks, Sr.,
for helping him to get started toward his goal, but as Coach
Corridan now
told the 'Varsity, he killed the squad's enthusiasm,
"All of this cannot fail to damage the esprit de corps,
the morale, of
the eleven," declared Coach Corridan, having outlined Thor's
attitude. "I
know that every member of the squad, if Thor played the game
because of
college spirit, for love of old Bannister, would rejoice at his
prowess.
But as it is they are justly resentful that he is not in the
spirit of the
game. What we may gain by his playing, we lose because the others
cannot do
their best with his example to hurt their fighting spirit. I do
not want,
nor will I have on my eleven, any player who plays for other
reasons than a
love for his Alma Mater, be he a Hogan, Brickley, Thorpe, or
Mahan. I have
waited, hoping Thorwald would be awakened, as Hicks explained,
but now I
must act. Tomorrow's game with Latham must see Thor awakened, or
I must,
for the sake of the eleven, drop him from the squad for the rest
of the
season.
"Yet I beg of you, in case the plan I shall propose fails,
remember Hicks'
appeal! Do not condemn or ostracize John Thorwald in any degree.
He has
three more seasons of football, so let us keep on trying to make
him
understand campus life, college tradition. Be his friends, help
him all you
can, and sooner or later he will awaken. Something may suddenly
shock him
to a true understanding of what old Bannister means to a fellow.
Or perhaps
the awakening will be slow, but it must come. And Bannister can
win without
Thor, don't forget that! We'll make one final effort to awaken
Thor, and
if it fails, just forget him, boys, so far as football goes, and
watch the
Gold and Green win that championship."
"What is your scheme, Coach?" questioned Captain Butch
Brewster, his honest
countenance showing how heavily the responsibility of team-leader
weighed
upon him. "You are right; as Thor is now, he is a handicap to the
eleven,
but—"
"My idea is this," explained the Slave-Driver earnestly.
"Select some
student to go to Thorwald and try to show him that unless he gets
into the
game and plays for old Bannister, he will be dropped from the
squad. If
possible, let the fellow make him understand that, in his case,
it will be
a shame and a dishonor. Now, Butch, you and Hicks can probably
approach
Thor, or perhaps you know of someone who—"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cherubic countenance showed the
light of dawning
inspiration, and Coach Corridan paused, as the sunny youth
exhibited a
desire to say something, with him not by any means a
phenomenal
happening; given the floor, the blithesome youth burst forth
excitedly:
"Theophilus—Theophilus Opperdyke is the one! He has more
influence over
Thor than any other student, and the big fellow likes the little
boner.
Thor will at least listen to Theophilus, which Is more than any
of us can
gain from him."
After the meeting had adjourned, and the last inspection had
been made in
the other dorms, the Seniors being exempt, several members of the
Gold and
Green team—Captain Butch, Beef, Pudge, Monty, Roddy, and
Bunch, together
with little Theophilus Opperdyke, dragged from his
studies—foregathered in
the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; those who had heard
the
coach's talk were still stunned at the ban likely to be placed on
the
Brobdingnagian Thor. On the campus outside Creighton Hall, a
horde of
Bannister youths, incited by Tug Cardiff, who gave them no reason
for his
act, were making a strenuous effort to awaken the Prodigious
Prodigy,
evidently depending on noise to achieve that end, for a vast
sound-wave
rolled up to Hicks' windows—"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor!
Thor!
He's—all—right!"
"Listen!" exploded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignantly. "You
and I,
Theophilus, would give a Rajah's ransom just to hear the fellows
whoop it
up for us like that, and it has no more effect on that sodden
hulk of a
Thor than bombarding an English super-dreadnaught with Roman
candles!
Howsomever, Coach Corridan exploded a shrapnel bomb on old
Bannister's
eleven tonight."
Then Hicks carefully outlined to the dazed little boner the
substance of
the coach's talk to the team, and Theophilus was alarmed when he
thought of
Thor's being dropped from the squad. When Captain Butch had
outlined the
Slave-Driver's plot for striving to awaken the Colossus to a
realization of
what a disgrace it would be to be sent from the gridiron, though
he did not
announce that the Human Encyclopedia had been elected to carry
out Coach
Corridan's last-hope idea, Theophilus sat on the edge of the
chair,
blinking owlishly at them over his big-rimmed spectacles.
"After all, fellows," quavered Theophilus nervously, "Coach
Corridan, if he
drops Thor from the squad, won't create such a riot on the campus
as you
might expect. You see, the students, even as they built and
planned on
Thor, gradually came to know that there is vastly more to be
considered
than physical power. That great bulk actually acts as a drag on
the eleven,
because Thor isn't in sympathy with things! Still, if he could
only be
aroused, awakened, wouldn't the team play football, with him
striving for
old Bannister, and not because he thinks he ought to play, for
Hicks' dad?
Oh, I do hope the Coach's plan succeeds, and he awakens
tomorrow; I
know the boys won't condemn him, if he doesn't,
but—I—I want him to
understand!"
"It's his last chance this season," reflected T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
enshrouded in a penumbra of gloom. "I made a big boast that I
would round
up a smashing full-back. I returned to Bannister with the
Prodigious
Prodigy. I made a big mystery of him, and
then—biff!—Thor quit football.
Then I explained the mystery, and got the fellows to admire him,
and when
Thor decided to play the game I thought 'All O.K.; I'll just wait
until
he scatters Hamilton and Ballard over Bannister Field, then I'll
swagger
before Butch and say, "Oh, I told you just to leave it to
Hicks!"' But now
Thor has spilled the beans again."
"I—I hope that the one you have chosen to appeal to
Thor—" spoke
Theophilus timorously, "will succeed, for—Oh, I
don't want him to be
dropped from the squad, and—"
Big Butch Brewster, who had been gazing at little Theophilus
Opperdyke with
a basilisk glare that perturbed the bewildered Human
Encyclopedia, suddenly
strode across the room and placed his hand on the grind's thin
shoulders.
"Theophilus, old man, it's up to you!" he said earnestly.
"Thor has a
strong regard for you; in fact, outside of his good-natured
tolerance
for Hicks, you alone have his friendship. Now I want you to go to
him,
Theophilus, and make a last appeal to Thor. Try to awaken him, to
make him
understand his peril of being dropped from the squad, unless he
plays
the game for his college! It's for old Bannister, old man, for
your Alma
Mater—"
"Go to it, Theophilus!" urged Beef McNaughton. "Coach Corridan
said Thor
might be suddenly awakened by a shock, but no electric battery
can shock
that Colossus, and, besides, miracles don't happen nowadays. Yes,
it's up
to you, old man."
For a moment little Theophilus, his big-rimmed spectacles
falling off
as fast as he replaced them, and his puny frame tense with
excitement,
hesitated. Sitting on the extreme edge of the chair, he surveyed
his
comrades solemnly and was convinced that they were in earnest.
Then, "I—I
will try, sir!" exclaimed Theophilus, who would
never forget his
Freshman training. "I'm sure Hicks, or somebody, could do
It better than
I; but—I'll try!"
THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK
"College ties can ne'er be broken—
Loyal will remain each heart;
Though the last farewell be spoken—
And from Bannister we part!
"Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!
Echoes softly from each heart;
We'll be ever loyal to thee—
Till we from life shall part!"
Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, intensely studious Human
Encyclopedia,
stood at the window of John Thorwald's study room. That behemoth,
desiring
quiet, had moved his study-table and chair to a vacant room
across the
second-floor corridor of Creighton, the Freshman dormitory, when
the
Bannister youths cheered him, and he was still there, so that
Theophilus,
on his mission, had finally located him by his low rumblings, as
he
laboriously read out his Latin. The little Senior was gazing
across the
brightly lighted Quadrangle. He could see into the rooms of the
other
class dormitories, where the students studied, skylarked,
rough-housed,
or conversed on innumerable topics; from a room in Nordyke, the
abode of
care-free Juniors, a splendidly blended sextette sang songs of
their
Alma Mater, and their rich voices drifted across the Quad. to
Thor and
Theophilus:
"Though thy halls we leave forever
Sadly from the campus turn;
Yet our love shall fail thee never
For old Bannister we'll yearn!
Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!"
Theophilus turned from the window, and looked despairingly at
that young
Colossus, Thor. The behemoth Norwegian, oblivious to everything
except the
geometry problem now causing him to sweat, rested his massive
head on his
palms, elbows on the study-table, and was lost in the intricate
labyrinth
of "Let the line ABC equal the line BVD." The frail chair creaked
under his
ponderous bulk. On the table lay an unopened letter that had come
in the
night's mail, for, tackling one problem, the bulldog Hercules
never let go
his grip until he solved it, and nothing else, not even
Theophilus, could
secure his attention. Hence the Human Encyclopedia, trembling at
the
terrific importance of the mission entrusted to him, waited,
thrilled by
the Juniors' songs, which failed to penetrate Thor's mind.
"Oh, what can I do?" breathed Theophilus, sitting down
nervously on the
edge of a chair and peering owlishly over his big-rimmed
spectacles at the
stolid John Thorwald. "I am sure that, in time, I can help Thor
to—to know
campus life better; but—tomorrow is his last chance!
He will be dropped
from the squad, unless—"
As Thor at last leaned back and gazed at his little comrade,
just then, to
the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," an augmented chorus drifted
across the
Quadrangle:
"And we'll sing one song
For the college that we love—
For our dear old Bannister—good-by"
To the Bannister students there was something tremendously
queer in the
friendship of Theophilus and Thor. That the huge Freshman, of all
the
collegians, should have chosen the timorous little boner was most
puzzling.
Yet, to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a keen reader of human nature, it
was
clear; Thorwald thought of nothing but study, Theophilus was a
grind,
though he possessed intense college spirit, hence Thor was
naturally drawn
to the little Senior by the mutual bond of their interest in
books, and
Theophilus, with his hero-worshiping soul, intensely admired the
splendid
purpose of John Thorwald, toiling to gain knowledge, because of
the promise
of his dying mother. The grind, who thought that next to T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., Thor was the "greatest ever," as Hicks phrased it, had been,
doing
what that care-free collegian termed "missionary work," with the
stolid,
unimaginative Prodigious Prodigy for some weeks. Thrilled with
the thought
that he worked for his Alma Mater, he quietly strove to make
Thorwald
glimpse the true meaning and purpose of college life and its
broadness of
development. The loyal Theophilus lost no opportunity of
impressing his
behemoth friend with the sacred traditions of the campus, or of
explaining
why Thor was wrong in characterizing all else than study as
foolishness and
waste of time.
"Thor," began Theophilus timidly yet determinedly, for he was
serving old
Bannister now, "old man, do you feel that you are giving the
fellows at
Bannister a square deal?"
John Thorwald, slowly tearing open the letter that had come
that night,
and had lain, unnoticed, on the study-table while he wrestled
with his
geometry, turned suddenly. The Human Encyclopedia's vast
earnestness and
the strange query he had fired at Thor, surprised even that
stolid mammoth.
"Why, what do you mean, Theophilus?" spoke Thor slowly. "A
square deal?
Why, I owe them nothing! I sacrifice my time for them, leaving my
studies
to go out and waste precious time foolishly on football.
Why—"
"I mean this," Theophilus kept doggedly on, his earnest desire
to stir Thor
conquering his natural timidity. "You were brought to old
Bannister by
Hicks, who made a great mystery of you, so we knew nothing of
you; but the
fellows all thought you were willing to play football. Then,
after they
got enthused, and builded hopes of the championship on
you, came
your quitting. Hicks defended you, Thor, and changed the boys'
bitter
condemnation to vast admiration, by telling of your life, your
father's
being a castaway, your mother's dying wish, your toil to get
learning, and
your inability to grasp college life. Then from gratitude to Mr.
Hicks you
started to play again—naturally, the students waxed
enthusiastic, when you
ripped the 'Varsity to pieces, but now you may be dropped by the
coach,
after tomorrow, because you don't play for old Bannister, and
your
indifference kills the team's fighting spirit. You do not care if
you are
dropped; it will give you more time to study, and relieve you of
your
obligation, as you so quixotically view it, to play because Mr.
Hicks will
be glad; but—think of the fellows.
"They, Thor, disappointed in you, their hopes of your bringing
by your
massive body and huge strength the Championship to old Bannister
shattered,
are still your friends—they of the eleven, I mean
especially, for, as yet,
the rest do not know you may be dropped. And the fellows came
beneath your
window tonight to cheer you; they will do so, Thor, even if you
are dropped
and they know that you will not use that prodigious power for
their Alma
Mater in the big games; they will stand by you, for they
understand! Just
think, old man; haven't the fellows, despite your rude rebuffs,
tried
to be your comrades? Haven't they helped you to get settled to
work and
assisted you with your studies? Why, you have been a big boor,
cold and
aloof, you have upset their hopes of you in football, and yet
they have no
condemnation for you, naught but warm friendliness.
"You are not giving them or yourself a square deal, Thor! You
won't even
try to understand campus life, to grasp its real purpose,
to realize what
tradition is! The time will come, Thor, when you will see your
mistake; you
will yearn for their good fellowship, you will learn that getting
knowledge
is not all of college life. You will know that this 'silly
foolishness' of
singing songs and giving the yell, of rooting for the eleven, of
loyalty
and love for one's Alma Mater, is something worth while. And you
may find
it out too late. Oh, if you could only understand that it isn't
what you
take from old Bannister that makes a man of you, it is what you
give to
your college—in athletics, in your studies, in every phase
of campus life;
that in toiling and sacrificing for your Alma Mater you grow and
develop,
and reap a rich reward!"
Could T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch Brewster, and the Gold and
Green eleven
have heard little Theophilus' fervent and eloquent appeal to John
Thorwald,
they would have felt like giving three cheers for him. They loved
this
pathetic little boner, who, because of his pitifully frail body,
could
never fight for old Bannister on gridiron, diamond, or track, and
they
tremendously admired him for working for his college and for the
redemption
of Thor. Timorous and shrinking by nature, whenever his Alma
Mater, or a
friend, needed him the Human Encyclopedia fought down his painful
timidity
and came up to scratch nobly.
It was Theophilus whose clear logic had vastly aided T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., to originate The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, in 1919's
Sophomore
year, and quell Roddy Perkins' Freshman Equal Rights campaign. In
fact, it
had been the boner's suggestion that gave Hicks his needed
inspiration.
And, a Junior, Theophilus had been elected business manager of
the
Bannister Weekly, with Hicks as editor-in-chief as a colossal
joke. The
entire burden of that almost defunct periodical had been thrust
on those
two, and, thanks to the grind's intensely humorous "copy," the
Weekly had
been revived and rebuilt. And Theophilus, in writing the humorous
articles,
had been moved by a great ambition to do something for old
Bannister.
"Look at me, Thor!" continued Theophilus Opperdyke, his puny
body dwarfed
as he faced the colossal Prodigious Prodigy. "A poor, weak,
helpless
nothing! I'd cheerfully sacrifice all the scholastic honor or
glory I ever
won, or shall win, just to make a touchdown for the Gold and
Green, just to
win a baseball game, or to break the tape in a race for old
Bannister!
And you—you, with that tremendous body, that massive
bulk, that vast
strength—you won't play the game for your Alma Mater, you
won't throw
that big frame into the scrimmage, thrilled with a desire to win
for your
college! Oh, what wonderful things you could do with your
powerful build;
but it means nothing to you, while I— Oh, you don't care,
you just won't
awaken; and, unless you do, in tomorrow's game you'll be dropped
from the
squad, a disgrace."
John Thorwald-Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, that Gargantuan
Freshman of
whom Bannister said he possessed no soul—stirred uneasily,
shifted his
vast tonnage from one foot to the other, and stared at little
Theophilus
Opperdyke. That solemn Senior, who had not seen the slightest
effect his
"Missionary Work" was having on the stolid Thor, was in despair;
but he did
not know the truth. As Hicks had once said, "You don't know
nothing what
goes on in Thor's dome. There's a wall of solid concrete around
the
machinery of his mind, and you can't see the wheels, belts, and
cogs at
work!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with all his keen insight into human
nature, had
failed utterly to diagnose Thor's case, had not even stumbled on
the true
cause of that young giant's aloofness. The truth was unknown to
anyone,
but there was one natural reason for John Thorwald's not mingling
with his
fellows of the campus-the blond Colossus was inordinately
bashful! From his
fifteenth year, Thor had seen the seamy side of life, had lived,
grown and
developed among men. In his wanderings in the Klondike, the wild
Northwest,
in Panama, his experiences as cabin-boy, miner, cowboy,
lumber-jack, and
Canal Zone worker, he had existed where everything was roughness
and
violence, where brawn, not brain, usually held sway, where
supremacy was
won, kept, and lost by fists, spiked boots, or guns! In his
adventurous
career, young Thorwald had but seldom encountered the finer
things of life,
and his nature, while wholesome, was sturdy and virile, not
likely to be
stirred by sentiment; so that now, among the good-natured,
friendly boys of
old Bannister, he, accustomed to rude surroundings and rough
acquaintances,
was bashful.
And Theophilus, as well as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot far
wide of the
mark in believing that the big Hercules had no power to feel; he
possessed
that power, but, with it the ability to conceal his feelings.
They thought
nothing appealed to him, had stirred his soul, at college, but
they were
wrong; true, Thor was unable to understand this new, strange
life; he was
puzzled when the collegians condemned and ostracized him at
first, when
he quit football because it was not a Faculty rule to play, but
he was
grateful when Hicks defended him, and the admiration of the
student-body
was welcome to him. He had thought he was doing all they desired
of him,
when he went back to the game, and now—when Theophilus told
him that he
might be dropped from the squad, he was bewildered. He could not
understand
just why this could be, when he was reporting for scrimmage every
day!
But the friendliness of the youths, their kind help with his
studies,
the assistance of the genial Hicks, and, more than all, above
even
the admiration of the Freshmen for his promise and purpose, the
daily
missionary work of little Theophilus, for whom the massive Thor
felt a real
love, had been slowly, insidiously undermining John Thorwald's
reserve. No
longer did he condemn what he did not understand. At times he had
a vague
feeling that all was not right, that, after all, he was missing
something,
that study was not all; and yet, bashful as he was, fearing to
appear
rough, crude, and uncouth among these skylarking youths, Thor
kept on his
silent, lonely way, and they thought him untouched by their
overtures. Of
late, when unobserved, the big Freshman had stood by the window,
watching
the collegians on the campus, listening to their songs of old
Bannister,
and yet because he felt embarrassed when with them, he gave no
sign that he
cared.
Now, however, the splendid appeal of loyal, timorous
Theophilus stirred
Thor, and yet he could not break down the wall of reserve he had
builded
around himself. He had deluded himself that this comradeship was
not for
him, that he could never mingle with these happy-go-lucky youths,
that
he must plod straight ahead, and live to himself, because his
past had
roughened him.
"You are a Freshman!" spoke Theophilus, unaware that forces
were at work on
Thor, and making a last effort. "You stand on the very threshold
of your
campus years; everything is before you. I am at the journey's
end—very
nearly, for in June I graduate from old Bannister. I never had
the chance
to fight for my Alma Mater on the athletic field, and
you—Oh, think of
what you can do! About to leave the campus, I, and my
class-mates, realize
how dear our college has become to us. If you could just
know that
Bannister means something to you, even now, if you only felt it,
you
could make your years mean great things to you. Thor, could you
leave old
Bannister tomorrow without regret, without one sigh for the dear
old place?
We, who soon shall leave it forever, fully understand
Shakespeare, when in
a sonnet he wrote:
"This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong—
To love that well which thou must leave ere long!"
There was a silence, and then Thor slowly drew out a letter
from its
envelope, scanning the scrawl across its pages. A few moments,
while its
meaning seemed to seep into his slow-acting mind, and then a look
of
helpless bewilderment, as though the stolid Freshman just could
not
understand at all, came to his face; a minute John Thorwald
stood, as in a
trance, staring dully at the letter.
"Thor! Thor! What's the matter? What's wrong?" quavered the
alarmed
Theophilus, "Have you gotten bad news?"
"Read it, read it," said the big Freshman lifelessly,
extending the letter
to the startled Senior. "It's all over, I suppose, and I've got
to go to
work again. I've got to leave college, and toil once more, and
save. My
promise to my mother can't be fulfilled—yet. And just as I
was getting
fairly started."
Theophilus Opperdyke hurriedly perused the message, which had
come to Thor
in that night's mail but which the blond giant had let lie
unnoticed while
he tackled his geometry. With difficulty Theophilus deciphered
the scrawl
on an official letterhead:
THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANA STEAMSHIP LINE
(New York Offices)
Nov. 4, 19—.
DEAR SON:
I am writing to tell you that I've run into a sort of
hurricane, and you
and I have got a hard blow to weather. I started you at college
on the
$5,000 received from the heirs of Henry B. Kingsley, on whose
yacht, as
you know, I was wrecked in the South Seas, and marooned for ten
years. I
figured on giving you an education with that sum, eked out by my
wages, and
what you earn in vacations.
I had the $5,000, untouched, in a New York bank, and I wanted
to take it
over to Christiania; when I was about to sail on my last voyage,
I drew out
the sum, and put it in care of the Purser of the Norwhal, on
which I
was mate, intending, of course, to get it on docking, and deposit
it in
Christiania. At the last hour I was transferred to the Valkyrie,
to sail
a few days later, and I knew the Norwhal's purser would leave the
$5,000
for me in the Company's Christiania offices, so I did not bother
to
transfer it to the Valkyrie.
Perhaps you read in the newspapers that the Norwhal struck a
floating
mine, and went down with a heavy loss of life. The Purser was
among those
lost, and none of the ship's papers were saved; my $5,000, of
course, went
down also.
I am sorry, John, but there seems nothing to do but for you to
leave
college and work. For your mother's sake, I wish we could avoid
it; but we
must wait and work and tackle it again. Your first term expenses
are paid,
so stay until the term is out. Perhaps Mr. Hicks can give you a
job in one
of his steel mills again, but we must work our own way, son.
Don't lose
courage, we'll fight this out together with the memory of your
promise to
your dying mother to spur you on. The road may be long and rocky
but we'll
make it. Just work and save, and in a year or two you can start
at college
again. You can study at night, too, and keep on learning.
I'll write later. Stay at college till the term is up, and in
the meantime
try to land a job. However, you won't have any trouble to do
that. Keep
your nerve, boy, for your mother's sake. It's a hard blow, but
we'll
weather it, never fear, and reach port.
Your father,
JOHN THORWALD, SR.
P.S. I am sailing on the Valkyrie today, will write you on my
return to
New York, in a few weeks.
Theophilus looked at the massive young Norwegian, who had
taken this
solar-plexus blow with that same stolid apathy that characterized
his every
action. He wanted to offer sympathy, but he knew not how to reach
Thor. He
fully understood how terrific the blow was, how it must stagger
the
big, earnest Freshman, just as he, after ten years of grinding
toil, of
sacrifice, of grim, unrelenting determination, had conquered
obstacles and
fought to where he had a clear track ahead. Just as it seemed
that fate had
given him a fair chance, with his father rescued and five
thousand dollars
to give him a college course, this terrible misfortune had
befallen him.
Theophilus realized what it must mean to this huge, silent
Hercules, just
making good his promise to his dying mother, to give up his
studies, and go
back to work, toil, labor, to begin all over again, to put off
his college
years.
"Leave me, please," said Thor dully, apparently as unmoved by
the blow
as he had been by Theophilus' appeal. "I—I would like to be
alone, for
awhile."
Left alone, John Thorwald stood by the window, apparently not
thinking of
anything in particular, as he gazed across the brightly lighted
Quad. The
huge Freshman seemed in a daze—utterly unable to comprehend
the disaster
that had befallen him; he was as stolid and impassive as ever,
and
Theophilus might have thought that he did not care, even at
having to give
up his college course, had not the Senior known better.
Across the Quadrangle, from the room of the Caruso-like
Juniors,
accompanied by a melodious banjo-twanging, drifted:
"Though thy halls we leave forever
Sadly from the campus turn;
Yet our love shall fail thee never
For old Bannister we'll yearn!
"'Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!'
Echoes softly from each heart;
We'll be ever loyal to thee
Till we from life shall part."
Strangely enough, the behemoth Thorwald was not thinking so
much of having
to give up his studies, of having to lay aside his books and take
up again
the implements of toil. He was not pondering on the cruelty of
fate in
making him abandon, at least temporarily, his goal; instead, his
thoughts
turned, somehow, to his experiences at old Bannister, to the
football
scrimmages, the noisy sessions in "Delmonico's Annex," the
college
dining-hall, to the skylarking he had often watched in the
dormitories. He
thought, too, of the happy, care-free youths, remembering Hicks,
good Butch
Brewster, loyal little Theophilus; and as he reflected, he heard
those
Juniors, over the way, singing. Just now they were chanting
that
exquisitely beautiful Hawaiian melody, "Aloha Oe," or "Farewell
to Thee,"
making the words tell of parting from their Alma Mater. There was
something
in the refrain that seemed to break down Thor's wall of reserve,
to melt
away his aloofness, and he caught himself listening eagerly as
they sang.
Somehow he felt no desire to condemn those care-free youths,
to call their
singing silly foolishness, to say they were wasting their time
and their
fathers' money. Queer, but he actually liked to hear them sing,
he realized
he had come to listen for their saengerfests. Now that he had to
leave
college, for the first time he began to ponder on what he must
leave. Not
alone books and study, but—
As he stood there, an ache in his throat, and an awful sorrow
overwhelming
him, with the richly blended voices of the happy Juniors drifting
across to
him, chanting a song of old Ballard, big Thor murmured
softly:
"What did little Theophilus say? What was it Shakespeare
wrote? Oh, I have
it:
"'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong—
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.'"
THOR'S AWAKENING
"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!"
"In the famous words of the late Mike Murphy," said T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
"the celebrated Yale and Penn track trainer, 'you can beat a team
that
can't be beat, but—you can't beat a team that won't be
beat!' Latham must
be in the latter class."
It was the Bannister-Latham game, and the first half had just
ended.
Captain Butch Brewster's followers had trailed dejectedly from
Bannister
Field to the Gym, where Head Coach Corridan was flaying them with
a tongue
as keen as the two-edged sword that drove Adam and Eve from the
Garden of
Eden. A cold, bleak November afternoon, a leaden sky lowered
overhead, and
a chill wind swept athwart the field; in the concrete stands, the
loyal
"rooters" of the Gold and Green, or of the Gold and Blue,
shivered,
stamped, and swung their arms, waiting for the excitement of the
scrimmage
again to warm them. Yet, the Bannister cohorts seemed silent
and
discouraged, while the Latham supporters went wild, singing,
cheering,
howling. A look at the score-board explained this:
END OF FIRST HALF: SCORE:
Bannister ........ 0
Latham ........... 3
The statement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a gold and
green
blanket and humped on the Bannister bench, to shivering little
Theophilus
Opperdyke, the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and several more
collegians
who had joined him when the half ended, was singularly
appropriate. In
Latham's light, fast eleven, trained to the minute, coached to a
shifty,
tricky style of play with numberless deceptive fakes from which
they worked
the forward pass successfully, Bannister seemed to have
encountered, as
Mike Murphy phrased it, "A team that won't be beat!" According to
the
advance dope of the sporting writers, who, in football, are
usually as good
prophets as the Weather Bureau, Bannister was booked to come out
the winner
by at least five touchdowns to none. But here a half was gone,
and Latham
led by three points, scored on a rather lucky field-goal!
The psychology of football is inexplicable. Yale, beaten by
Virginia,
Brown, and Wash-Jeff, with the Blue's best gridiron star
ineligible to
play, a team that seemed at odds with itself and the 'Varsity,
mismanaged,
poorly coached, journeys to Princeton to battle with old Nassau;
the Tiger,
Its tail as yet untwisted, presents its best eleven for several
seasons, a
great favorite in the odds, and yet the final score is Yale, 14;
Princeton,
7! A strange fear of the Bulldog, bred of many bitter defeats, of
similar
occasions when a feeble Yale team aroused itself and trampled an
invincible
Orange and Black eleven, when the Blue fought old Nassau with a
team that
"wouldn't" be beat, gave victory to the poorer aggregation. So
many things
unforeseen often enter into a football contest, shifting the
balance of
power from the stronger to the weaker team. One eleven gets the
jump on the
other, the favorite weirdly goes to pieces—team dissension
may exist, a
dozen other causes—but, boiled down, Mike Murphy's
statement was most
appropriate now.
Latham simply would not be beat! The sporting pages had
said: "Latham
simply can't beat Bannister!" Here the team, that could not be
beaten was
being defeated, and the team that would not be defeated was, so
far, the
victor. Perhaps the threatened dropping of Thor from the Gold and
Green
squad shook somewhat Captain Butch's players; more likely, the
Latham
aggregation got the jump on Bannister, opening up a bewildering
attack of
criss-crosses, line plunges, cross-bucks, and tandems, from all
of which
the forward pass frequently developed; they literally overwhelmed
a
supposedly unbeatable team. And once they got the edge, it was
hard for
Bannister to regain poise and to smother the fast plays that
swept through
or around the bewildered eleven.
"We have got to beat 'em!" growled Shad, "Mike Murphy
or not. Why,
if little old Latham cleans us up, smash go our chances of the
State
Championship! Oh, look at Thor—the big mountain of muscle.
Why doesn't he
wake up, and go push that team off the field?"
Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, his vast hulk unprotected from
the cold wind
by a football blanket, squatted on the ground, on the side-line,
apparently
in a trance. Ever since the night before, when his father's
letter had
dealt such a knock-out blow to his hopes of fulfilling the
promise to his
dying mother, had rudely side-tracked him from the climb to his
goal, the
blond giant had maintained that dumb apathy. If anything, it
seemed that
the cruel blow of fate had only served to make Thor more stolid
and
impassive than ever, and Theophilus wondered if the Colossus had
really
grasped the import of the tragic letter as yet. The news had
spread over
the college and campus, and the students were sincerely sorry for
Thor. But
to offer him sympathy was about as difficult as consoling a Polar
bear with
the toothache.
Coach Corridan, carrying out his plot, had decided not to
start Thor in
the first half of the game. So the Norwegian Hercules, having
received no
orders to the contrary, however, donned togs and appeared on the
side-line,
where he had sat, paying not the slightest heed to the scrimmage
and
seemingly unaware that the Gold and Green was facing defeat and
the loss of
the Championship, for a game lost would put the team out of the
running.
All big John Thorwald knew was, in a few weeks he must leave old
Bannister,
must give up, for a time, his college course. Just when the grim
battle was
won, he must leave, to work. Not that the Viking cared about
toil. It was
the delay that chafed even his stolid self. He was stunned at
having to
wait, maybe two years, before starting again.
And yet, as he squatted on the side-line, oblivious to
everything but his
bitter reflections, the Theophilus-quoted words of Shakespeare
persisted in
intruding on his thoughts:
"This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong—
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long."
Try as he would, he could not fight away the keen realization
that
books and study were not all he would regret to leave. He was
forced to
acknowledge that his mind kept wandering to other things. He
found himself
pondering on the parting with Theophilus Opperdyke, with that
crazy Hicks;
he wondered if he, out in the world again, toiling his lonely
way, would
miss the glad fellowship of these care-free youths that he had
watched,
but never shared, if he would ever think of the weeks at old
Bannister.
Somehow, he felt that he would often vision the Quad at night,
brightly
lighted, dormitories' lights agleam, students crossing and
recrossing,
shouting at studious comrades. He would hear again the
melodious
banjo-twanging, the gleeful saengerfests, the happy skylarking of
the boys.
He had never entered into all this, and yet he knew he would miss
it all;
why, he would even miss the daily scrimmage on Bannister Field;
the noisy
shower-room, with its clouds of steam, and white forms flitting
ghostlike.
He would miss the classrooms; in brief, everything!
John Thorwald was awakening! Even had this blow not befallen
him, the huge,
slow-minded Norwegian, in time, with Theophilus Opperdyke's
missionary
work, would have gradually come to understand things
better—at least, to
know he was wrong in his ideas, which is the beginning of wisdom.
Already,
he had ceased to condemn all this as foolishness, to rail at the
youths
for wasting time and money. Already something stirred within him,
and yet,
stolid as he was, bashful among the collegians, he was apparently
the same.
But the sudden shock Head Coach Corridan spoke of had come. His
father's
letter telling of his loss and that Thor must leave Bannister had
awakened
him to the startling knowledge that he did care for something
more than
study, that all the things that had puzzled him, that he had
sneered at,
meant something to his existence, that he dreaded leaving other
things than
his books.
"I—I don't understand things," thought Thorwald.
"But—if I could only
stay, I'd want to learn. I'd try to get this 'college' spirit!
Oh, I've
been all wrong, but if I could only stay—"
As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the big Freshman
beheld marching
toward him Theophilus Opperdyke, his spectacles off, and his face
aglow,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., evidently in the throes of emotional
insanity; a
Senior whom he knew as Parson Palmetter; Registrar Worthington,
and Doctor
Alford, the kindly, beloved Prexy of old Bannister. The last
named placed
his hand on the puzzled behemoth's ponderous shoulder.
"Thorwald," he said kindly, "Hicks, Opperdyke and Brewster,
last night,
came to my study and acquainted me with your misfortune. They
told me of
your life-history, of your splendid purpose to gain knowledge, to
make
something of yourself, for your dying mother's sake. Old
Bannister needs
men like you, Thorwald. Perhaps you do not understand campus ways
and
tradition yet, perhaps you are not in sympathy with everything
here; but
once a love for your Alma Mater is awakened, you will be a power
for good
for your college.
"Now I at once took up the matter with Mr. Palmetter,
President of The
Students' Aid Bureau. This year, for the first time in our
history, we have
dispensed with janitors and sweeps in the dormitories, and with
dining-hall
waiters, so that needy and deserving students may work their way
through
Bannister. Owing to the fact that Mr. Deane, a Senior, has given
up his
dormitory, Creighton Hall, as he has funds for the year and needs
the time
to study, we can offer you board and tuition, in exchange for
your work in
the dormitory, and waiting on tables in the dining-hall. Since
your first
term bills, until January first, are paid, if you will start to
work at
once, we will credit any work done this term on books and
incidentals for
next term. By this means—"
"Why, you don't—you can't mean—" rumbled
Thor, who had just dimly
grasped the greatest point in Prexy's speech. "Why, then I won't
have to
leave Bannister—I won't have to quit my studies! Oh, thank
you, sir; thank
you! I will work so hard. I am not afraid of work; I love
it—a chance to
toil and earn my education, that's what I want! Thank you!"
"And in addition," said the Registrar, "Mr. Palmetter reports
that he can
secure you, downtown, a number of furnaces to tend this winter,
which you
can do early in the morning and at night; this will bring you an
income for
living expenses, and in the spring something else will offer
itself. It
means every moment of your time will be crowded, but Bannister
needs
workers—"
Something stirred in John Thorwald. His heart had been touched
at last. He
thought of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, and little Theophilus
worried
at his having to leave college, going to Doctor Alford; of Prexy,
the
Registrar, and Parson Palmetter, working to keep Thor at old
Bannister.
He recalled how sympathetic all the youths had been, how they
admired his
purpose and determination; and he had rewarded their friendliness
with
cold aloofness. He felt a thrill as he visioned himself working
for his
education, rising in the cold dawn, tending furnaces, working in
the dorm.,
waiting on tables—studying. With what fierce joy he would
assail his
tasks, glad that he could stay! He knew the students would
rejoice, that
they would not look down on him; instead, they would respect and
admire
him, toiling to grow and develop, to attain his goal!
"Go to it, Thor!" urged T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "We all want
you to stay,
old man; we'll give you a lift with your studies. Old Bannister
wants
you, needs you, so stick!"
"Stay, please!" quavered little Theophilus. "You don't want to
leave your
Alma Mater; stay, Thorwald, and—you'll understand things
soon,"
"Report at the Registrar's office at seven tonight, Thorwald,"
said Prexy,
and then, because he understood boys and campus problems, "and to
show your
gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team which is
trying to
lick old Bannister."
John Thorwald, when Doctor Alford and the Registrar had gone,
arose and
stood gazing across Bannister Field. He saw not the white-lined
gridiron,
the gaunt goal-posts, the concrete stands filled with spectators,
or the
gay banners and pennants. He saw the buildings and campus of old
Bannister,
the stately old elms bordering the walks; he beheld the Gym., the
four
dormitories—Bannister, Nordyke, Smithson, and
Creighton—the white Chapel,
the ivy-covered Library, the Administration and Recitation Halls;
he
glimpsed the Memorial Arch over the entrance driveway, and big
Alumni Hall.
All at once, like an inundating wave, the great realization
flashed on
Thor that he did not have to leave it all! Often again would he
hear the
skylarking youths, the gay songs, the banjo-strumming; often
would he see
the brightly lighted Quad., would gaze out on the campus! It was
still
his—the work, the study, and, if he tried, even the glad
comradeship of
the fellows, the bigger things of college life, which as yet he
did not
understand.
The big slow-minded youth could not awaken, at once, to a full
knowledge
and understanding of campus life and tradition, to a knowledge of
college
spirit; but, thanks to the belief that he had to leave it all, he
had
awakened to the startling fact that already he loved old
Bannister. And
now, joyous that he could stay, John Thorwald suddenly felt a
strong desire
to do something, not for himself, but for these splendid fellows
who had
worried for his sake, had worked to keep him at college. And just
then he
remembered the somewhat unclassical, yet well meant, words of
dear old
Doctor Alford, "And to show your gratitude, you might go out
there and
spank that team, which is trying to lick old Bannister."
John Thorwald for the first time looked at the score-board; he
saw, in big
white letters:
BANNISTER .......... 0
LATHAM ............. 3
From the Gym. the Gold and Green players—grim,
determined, and yet worried
by the team that "won't be beat!"—were jogging, followed by
Head Coach
Patrick Henry Corridan. The Latham eleven was on the field, the
Gold and
Blue rooters rioted in the stands. From the Bannister cohorts
came a
thunderous appeal:
"Hold 'em, boys—hold 'em,
boys—hold—hold—hold!
Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!"
A sudden fury swayed the Prodigious Prodigy; it was his
college, his
eleven, and those Blue and Gold youths were actually beating old
Bannister!
The Bannister boys had admired him, some of them had helped him
in his
studies, three had told Doctor Alford of him, had made it
possible for him
to stay, to keep on toward his goal. They would be
sorrow-stricken if
Latham won! A feeling of indignation came to Thor. How dare those
fellows
think they could beat old Bannister! Why, he would go out
there and show
them a few things!
Head Coach Corridan, let it be chronicled, was paralyzed when
he ducked
under the side-line rope—stretched to hold the spectators
back—to collide
with an immovable body, John Thorwald, and to behold an eager
light on that
behemoth's stolid face. Grasping the Slave-Driver in a grip that
hurt, Thor
boomed:
"Mr. Corridan, let me play, please! Send me out this
half. We can win.
We've got to win! I want to do something for old
Bannister. Why, if we
lose today, we lose the Championship! I don't understand things
yet, but I
do love the college. I want to fight for Bannister. Please let me
play!"
The astonished coach and the equally dazed Gold and Green
eleven, with the
bewildered collegians who heard Thor's earnest appeal, were
silent a few
moments, unable to grasp the truth. Then Captain Brewster, his
face aglow,
seized the big Freshman's arm excitedly.
"Sure you'll play, Thor!" he shouted. "Fullback, old man! Come
on, team.
Thor's awake! He wants to fight for his Alma Mater; he wants
Bannister to
win! Oh, watch us shove Latham off the field—everybody
together now—the
yell, for Thor!"
"Right here," grinned an excitedly happy T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., when the
yell was given, "is where a team that won't be beat gets licked
by a chap
what can lick 'em!"
What took place when the blond Prodigious Prodigy lumbered on
Bannister
Field at the start of the last half of the Bannister-Latham game
can be
imagined by the final score-board figures:
BANNISTER ......... 27
LATHAM ............. 3
It can best be described with the aid of Scoop Sawyer's
account in the next
Bannister Weekly:
—At the start of the second half, however, the Latham
cohorts were given
a shock when they beheld a colossal being almost as big as the
entire Gold
and Blue eleven, go in at fullback for Bannister. And the Latham
eleven
received a series of shocks when Thor began intruding that
massive body
of his into their territory. Tennyson's saying, "The old order
changeth,
yielding place to new" was aptly illustrated in the second half;
for
Bannister's bugler quit sounding "Retreat!" and blew "Charge!"
Four
touchdowns and three goals from touchdowns, in one half, is
usually
considered a fair day's work for an entire team. Even Yale or
Harvard; but
when one player corrals four touchdowns in a half—he is
going some! Well,
Thor went some! Most of the half he furnished free transportation
for
two-thirds of the Latham team, carrying them on his back, legs,
and neck,
as he strode down the field; a writ of habeas corpus could not
have stopped
the blond Colossus. Anyone would have stood more show to stop an
Alpine
avalanche than to slow up Thor, and the stretcher was constantly
in
evidence, for Latham knockouts.
The game turned into a Thor's Personally Conducted Tour.
Thorwald, escorted
by the Gold and Green team, made four quick tours to the Latham
goal-line.
It was simply a matter of giving the ball to the Prodigious
Prodigy, then
waving the linesmen to move down twenty yards or more toward
Latham's line.
Thor was simply unstoppable, and more beneficial even than his
phenomenal
playing was his encouragement to the team. He kept urging them to
action,
his foghorn growl of, "Come on, boys!" was a slogan of victory!
Judging by
Thor's awakening, and his work of the Latham game, Bannister's
hopes of The
State Intercollegiate Football Championship are as roseate as the
blush on
a maiden's cheek at her first kiss, and—
That night, in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., John
Thorwald,
supremely happy yet withal as uncomfortable as a whale on the
Sahara
Desert, overflowed an easy-chair. The room was filled, or what
space Thor
left, with the Bannister eleven, second-team players, Coach
Corridan, and
several students; on the campus a riotous crowd of Bannister
youths "raised
merry Heck," as Hicks phrased it, and their cheer floated up to
the
windows:
"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's—all—right!"
"Come, fellows," spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
"Let's sing to the captain, good old Butch! Let 'er go!"
"Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink it down!
Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink It down!
Here's to good Butch Brewster—
He plays football like he uster—
Drink it down! Drink it
down—down—down—down!"
A strange sound startled the joyous youths; it was a rumbling
noise,
like distant thunder, and at first they could not place it. Then,
as It
continued, they located the disturbance as coming from the
prodigious body
of Thor, and at last the wonderful phenomenon dawned on them.
"Thor is singing college songs!" quavered little Theophilus
Opperdyke,
so happy that his big-rimmed spectacles rode the end of his nose.
"Oh,
Hicks—Butch—Thor is awake at last! He is trying to
get college spirit, to
understand campus life—"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., suddenly realized that what he had so
ardently
longed for had come to pass; aided by Theophilus' missionary work
and by
the sudden shock of Thorwald, Sr.'s, letter. Thor was awakened,
had come to
know that he loved old Bannister. His awakening, as shown in the
football
game, had been splendid. How he had towered over the scrimmage,
in every
play, urging his team to fight, himself doing prodigies for old
Bannister.
Thor, who had been so silent and aloof! Then the sunny-souled
youth
remembered.
"Oh, I told you I'd awaken Thor, Butch!" he began, but that
behemoth
quelled him with an ominous look.
"You!" he growled, with pretended wrath, "you! It was
Theophilus
Opperdyke who did the most of it, and Thorwald's father did the
rest! Don't
you rob Theophilus of his glory, you
feeble-imitation-of-some-thing-human!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinned à la Cheshire cat. The
happy-go-lucky
Senior was vastly glad that Thor had awakened, that now he would
try
to grasp the real meaning of college existence. He felt that the
young
Hercules, from now on, would slowly and surely develop to a
splendid
college man, that he would do big things for his Alma Mater. And
the
generous Hicks gave Theophilus all the credit, and impressed on
that
happy Human Encyclopedia the fact that he had done a great deed
for old
Bannister. Just so, Thor was awakened.
"Oh, I say, Deke Radford, Coach, and Butch," Hicks chortled,
getting the
attention of that triumvirate as well as that of the others in
the room,
"remember up in Camp Bannister, in the sleep-shack, when Coach
Corridan
outlined a smashing full-back he wanted?"
"Sure!" smiled Deke. "What of it, Hicks?"
Then T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., that care-free, lovable,
irrepressible youth,
whose chance to swagger before this same trio had been postponed
so long
and seemingly lost forever, satiated his fun-loving soul and
reaped his
reward. Calling their attention to Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy,
and asking
them to remember his playing against Latham that day, the sunny
Senior
strutted before them vaingloriously.
"Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!" he declared,
grinning happily.
"I promised to round up an unstoppable fullback, a Gargantuan
Hercules, and
I did! Just think of what he will do to Hamilton and Ballard in
the big
games! As I have often told you, always—leave It to
Hicks!"
"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"
"Oh, what we'll do to Ballard
Will surely be a shame!
We'll push their team clear off the field
And win the football game!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one night three days after the first
big game, that
with Hamilton, a week following Thor's great awakening in the
Latham game,
sat in his cozy room, having assumed his favorite
position—chair tilted
back at a perilous angle and feet thrust atop of the radiator.
The
versatile youth, having just composed a song with which to
encourage
Bannister elevens in the future, was reading it aloud, when his
mind was
torpedoed by a most startling thought.
"Land o' Goshen!" reflected the sunny-souled Senior, aghast.
"I haven't
twanged my ole banjo and held forth with a saengerfest for a
coon's age! I
surely can do so now without arousing Butch to wrath. Thor has
awakened,
Hamilton is walloped, and Bannister will surely win the
Championship!
Everything is happy, an' de goose hangs high, so here goes!"
Holding his banjo à la troubadour, the blithesome
Hicks, who as a Senior
was harassed by no study-hours or inspections, strode from his
room and out
into the corridor, up and down which he majestically paced, like
a sentinel
on his beat, twanging his beloved banjo with abandon, and roaring
in his
foghorn, subterranean voice:
"Oh, the way we walloped Hamilton
Surely was a shame!
And we're going to win the Championship—
For we'll do Ballard the same!
"And Bannister shall flaunt the flag
For at least three seasons more;
Because—no team can win a game
While the Gold and Green has Thor!"
On Bannister Field, three days before, the Gold and Green had
crushed the
strong team from "old Ham" to the tune of 20 to 0; Thor's
magnificent
ground-gaining, in which he smashed through the supposedly
impregnable
defense of the enemy, was a surprise to his comrades and a shock
to
Hamilton. Time and again, on the fourth down, the ball was given
to
Thorwald, and the blond Colossus, with several of old Ham's
players
clinging to him, plunged ahead for big gains. So now with a
monster
mass-meeting in half an hour, the exultant Bannister youths
pretended to
study, but prepared to parade on the campus, cheer the eleven and
Thor,
and arouse excitement for the winning of the biggest game, a
victory over
Ballard, a week later.
From the rooms of would-be studious Seniors on both sides of
the corridor,
as Hicks patrolled it, came vociferous protests and classic
criticisms,
gathering in force and volume as the breezy youth's foghorn voice
roared
his song; that heedless collegian grinned as he heard:
"R-r-rotten! Give that Jersey calf more rope!"
"Hicks has had a relapse! Sing-Sing for yours, old man!"
"Arrest Hicks, under the Public Nuisance Act!"
"Woof! Woof! Shoot it quick! Don't let it suffer!"
Just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., strumming the banjo blithely
and Carusoing
with glee, reached the end of the corridor and executed a brisk
'bout-face,
he heard a terrific commotion on the stairway, and, a moment
later, Butch
Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford and Monty Merriweather
gained the
top of the stairs. As they were now between the offending Hicks
and
his quarters, there seemed no chance for the sunny Senior to play
his
safety-first policy; so he waited, panic-stricken, as Butch and
Beef
lumbered heavily down the corridor.
"Help! Aid! Succor! Relief! Assistance!" shrieked Hicks,
leaning his
beloved banjo against the wall and throwing himself into what
he
fatuously believed was an intensely pugilistic pose. "I am a
believer in
preparedness. You have me cornered, so beware! I am a follower of
Henry
Ford, but even I will fight—at bay!"
"Well, you are at sea now!" growled Beef, tucking the
splinter youth
under one arm and striding down the corridor, followed by Butch
with the
banjo, and Monty with Deacon. "You desperado, you destroyer of
peace and
quietude, you one-cylinder gadabout! You're off again! We'll
instruct you
to annoy real students, you faint shadow of something human!"
"Them's harsh sentences, Beef!" chuckled T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., as that
behemoth kicked open Hicks' door, bore the futilely squirming,
kicking
youth into the room, and hurled him on the davenport. "Watch my
banjo,
there, Butch; have a couple of cares! Say, what'smatter wid youse
guys,
anyhow? This is my first saengerfest for eons. Old Bannister has
a clear
track ahead at last, the Championship is won for sure, and
Thor, that
mighty engine of destruction to Ham's and Ballard's hopes, after
much
tinkering, is hitting on all twelve cylinders. Why, I prithee,
deny me the
pleasure of a little joyous song?"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., since the memorable Latham game, when
Thor had
awakened between halves, and the Prodigious Prodigy had shown
himself
worthy of his title by winning the game after defeat leered at
old
Bannister, had suffered a relapse, and was again his old sunny,
heedless,
happy-go-lucky self. Now that John Thorwald had been startled
into
realizing that he loved his college and had been saved from
having to
leave, now that he played football for his Alma Mater, and
Bannister's
hopes of the Championship were roseate, the blithesome Hicks had
abandoned
himself to a golden existence of Beefsteak Busts downtown at
Jerry's,
entertaining jolly comrades in his cozy room, and pestering the
campus with
his banjo and ridiculous imitations of Sheerluck Holmes, the
Dachshund
Detective. Big Butch Brewster, lecturing him for his care-free
ways, as
futilely as he had done for three years past, gave up in
despair.
"I might as well be showing moving-pictures to the inmates of
a blind
asylum," he growled on one occasion, "as to persuade you to quit
acting
like a lunatic! You, a Senior—acting like an escaped
inhabitant of
Matteawan! Bah!"
Big Butch Brewster, drawing a chair up to the davenport,
assumed the manner
of a physician toward a recalcitrant patient, while Beef
carefully stowed
the banjo in the closet and Deacon Radford, an interested
spectator, sat
on the bed. The happy-go-lucky Hicks, at a loss to account for
the strange
expressions of his comrades, tried to arise, but the football
captain
pinned him down with one hand.
"Seriously, Hicks," spoke Butch, "your saengerfest came at a
lamentably
inopportune time! I regret to Inform you that old Bannister faces
another
problem, with regard to Thor, and unless it is solved, I
fear—"
"Thor has balked again?" gasped the dazed Hicks, whom Butch
now allowed to
sit up, as he showed interest. "Has the engine of destruction
stalled?
Why, as fast as we get him lined up, off he slides at an angle!
Well, you
fellows did perfectly right to bring this baffling problem,
whatever it is,
to me. What is the trouble—won't Thor play football?"
The irrepressible Hicks was bewildered at hearing that a new
problem
regarding Thor had arisen, and, naturally, he at once connected
it with
football, since the big Freshman had twice balked in that
respect. Since
his awakening, effected by Theophilus' missionary work, his last
appeal,
and Thor's letter from his father, Thor had earnestly striven to
grasp the
true meaning of college life, to understand campus tradition. No
longer did
he hold aloof, boning always, in his lonely room. Instead, he
mingled with
his fellows, lingering with the team for the skylarking in the
shower-room
after scrimmage, turning out for the nightly mass-meeting. Often,
as the
youths practiced songs and yells on the campus, Thor's terrific
rumble was
heard—some had even dared to slap his massive back and say,
"Hello, Thor,
old man!" and the big Freshman had responded. It was evident to
all that
Thorwald was striving to become a collegian, and knowing his
slow, bulldog
nature, there was no doubt as to his ultimate success; hence T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., was vastly puzzled now.
"Oh, Thor hasn't backslid!" smiled Beef. "You see, Hicks, it's
this way:
Owing to Mr. Thorwald's losing the five thousand dollars, Thor,
as you
know, is working his way at Bannister. Well, with his hustling,
his studies
and football scrimmage, he simply does not have a minute for the
other
phases of college life, for the comradeship with his
fellows—"
"Here is his day's schedule," chimed in Deacon, referring to a
paper: "Rise
at four-thirty A. M. Hustle downtown to tend several furnaces
until seven.
Breakfast at seven. Till nine, make beds and sweep dormitory
rooms.
Nine till three-fifteen P. M., recitation periods and dormitory
work,
sandwiched. Then until supper, football practice, and nights
study. Add
to that waiting on tables for the three meals, and what time has
Thor to
broaden and develop, to take in all the big things of campus
existence, to
grow into an all-round college man?"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wonderful to chronicle, was silent. He
was
reflecting on the irony of fate; as Deacon said, now that Thor
had
awakened, and earnestly wanted to be a collegian, he had no time
to enter
into campus life. Glad at being able to stay at old Bannister, to
keep on
with his studies, climbing steadily toward his goal, and finding
a joy in
his new relationship with the students, the ponderous Thorwald
had flung
himself into his hustling, as the youths called working one's way
at
college, with zeal. To the huge Freshman, toil was nothing, and
since it
meant that he could keep on with his study, he was content. The
collegians
vastly admired his grim determination; they aided all they could
with
his studies, and helped with his work, so he could have more time
for
scrimmage, and yet another phase of the problem came to
Hicks.
It seemed unjust that John Thorwald, after his long years of
hard physical
toil, and his mental struggles, often after hours of grinding
work, at the
very time when the five thousand dollars from Henry B. Kingsley's
heirs
promised him a chance to study without a body tortured and
exhausted,
should be forced again to take up his stern fight for knowledge.
And it
was cruel that Thor, just awakening to the true meaning of
college life,
striving to grasp campus tradition, and eager to serve his Alma
Mater in
every way, should have so little time to mingle with his fellows.
He should
be with them on the campus, on the athletic field, in the dorms.,
the
literary society halls, the Y. M. C. A. He should be realizing
the golden
years of college life, the glad comradeship of the campus.
Instead, he must
arise in the bitter cold, gray dawn, and from then until late
night toil
and study unceasingly.
"It's a howling shame!" declared the serious Hicks, a heart
full of
sympathy for Thor. "Just as he wakes up and is trying to
understand things
at old Bannister, bang! the Norwhal is blown up by a stray mine,
and
down goes his dad's money. Why didn't Mr. Thorwald get the five
thousand
transferred to the Valkyrie? Oh, if that money hadn't gone down
to Davy
Jones' locker, Thor would be awakened and have time for college
life, too!"
Butch Brewster started to speak when the thunderous tread of
John Thorwald
sounded in the corridor. The Prodigious Prodigy seemed
approaching at
double-quick time, and the youths stared at each other. However,
when
Thor appeared in the doorway, a letter in hand, they gazed at him
in
bewilderment, for his face fairly glowed.
"Read it, fellows, read it!" he breathed, with what, for him,
was almost
excitement. "It just came! Oh, isn't that good news? Read it out,
Captain
Butch. Won't we wallop Ballard now!"
Big Butch Brewster, mystified by Thor's happiness, and urged
on by his
equally puzzled comrades, drew out the letter, and a glad smile
coming to
his honest countenance, he read aloud:
"THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA. STEAMSHIP LINE (New York Office)
"Nov. 18, 19—.
"MR. JOHN THORWALD, JR., Bannister College.
"DEAR SIR:
"We beg to state that your father, first mate on our liner,
the Valkyrie,
three days outbound from New York to Christiania, sent a message,
via
wireless, to our New York offices by the inbound Dutch Line's
Rotterdam.
The Rotterdam relayed the message to us, and we forward it
herewith,
verbatim:
"'DEAR SON: Purser of my ship, the Valkyrie, informed me today
that the
purser of the ill-fated Norwhal, learning of my transfer to this
liner,
transferred my $5,000 to the Valkyrie before he sailed to his
fate. I am
sending this via the Rotterdam, inbound, and our office
will forward it
to you. Will write on arriving at Christiania. Father.'
"We are sorry for the delay in forwarding this message, but
through an
accident, it was mislaid in our office for a few days.
"Yours truly,
"THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA STEAMSHIP LINE,
"per J. L. G."
A moment of silence; outside on the campus the Bannister
youths, preparing
for the mass-meeting in the Auditorium, started cheering. Someone
caught
sight of Thor, standing now by the window of Hicks' room, on the
third
floor of Bannister Hall, and a few seconds later there
sounded:
"Thor! Thor! Thor! Thor will bring the Championship to old
Bannister! Rah!
Rah! Rah!—Thor!"
"Oh," shouted T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning happily, his
arm across
Thor's massive shoulders, "'All's well that ends well,' as Bill
Shakespeare
says. It's all right now, Thor. Fate dealt you a hard punch, but
it served
its purpose; for it made you realize how you would regret to
leave college.
Now you won't have to hustle and have all your time filled with
toil and
study; you can go after every phase of campus life, and serve old
Bannister
in so many ways."
John Thorwald stood, a contented look on his placid, impassive
face,
gazing down at the campus below and hearing the plaudits of the
excited
collegians. The stately old elms, gaunt and bare, tossed their
limbs
against a leaden sky; a cold, dreary wind sent clouds of dry
leaves
scurrying down the concrete walks. In the faint moonlight that
struggled
through the clouds, the towers and spires of old Bannister were
limned
against the sky-line. Across the campus, on Bannister Field,
the
goal-posts, skeleton-like, kept their lonely vigil. On that
field, in
less than a week, the Gold and Green must face the crucial
test—against
Ballard's championship eleven, in the Biggest Game; and now,
almost on the
eve of battle, the shackles had been knocked from him; he was
free of the
great burden, free to serve his Alma Mater, to fight for the Gold
and
Green, to grow and develop into an all-round, representative
college man.
All of a sudden it dawned on the slow-thinking young Norwegian
just how
much this freedom to grow and expand meant to him, and he turned
from the
window. From below, the shouts of "Thor! Thor! Thor!" drifted,
stirring his
blood, as he looked at Hicks, Butch, Beef, Monty and Deacon.
"'All's well that ends well,' you say. Hicks," he spoke
slowly, his face
joyous. "That's true; but I'm just starting, fellows. I'm just
beginning
to live my college years, not for myself, but for old Bannister,
for my
Alma Mater, for I am awake, and free!"
THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS
Big Butch Brewster, a life-sized picture of despair, roosted
dejectedly on
the Senior Fence, between the Gym and the Administration
Building. It was
quite cold, and also the beginning of the last study-period
before Butch's
final and most difficult recitation of the day, Chemistry. Yet
instead
of boning in his warm room, the behemoth Senior perched on the
fence and
stared gloomily into space.
As he sat, enveloped in a penumbra of gloom, the campus
entrance door of
Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., opened suddenly, and T.
Haviland Hicks,
Jr., that happy-go-lucky youth, came out cautiously, after the
fashion of a
second-story artist, emerging from his crib with a bundle of
swag, the
last item being represented by a football tucked under Hicks'
left arm.
Beholding Butch Brewster on the Senior Fence, the sunny-souled
Senior
exhibited a perturbation of spirit seeming undecided whether to
beat a
retreat or to advance.
"Now what's ailin' you?" demanded Butch wrathily,
believing the
pestersome Hicks to be acting in that burglarious manner for
effect. "Why
should you sneak out of a dorm., bearing a football like
it was an auk's
egg? Why, you resemble a nigger, making his get-away after
robbing a
hen-roost! Don't torment me, you
accident-somewhere-on-its-way-to-happen. I
feel about as joyous as a traveling salesman who has made a town
and gotten
nary a order!"
"It's awful!" soliloquized T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
perching beside the
despondent Butch on the Senior Fence. "I am not a fatalist, old
man, but
it does seem that fate hasn't destined Thor to play
football for old
Bannister this season! Here, after he won the Ham game, and we
expected him
to waltz off with Ballard's scalp and the Championship, he has to
tumble
downstairs! Oh, it's tough luck!"
It was two days before the biggest game, with
Ballard—the contest that
would decide the State Intercollegiate Football Championship.
Ballard, the
present champions, discounting even Hamilton's stories of Thor's
prowess,
were coming to Bannister with an eleven more mighty than the one
that had
crushed the Gold and Green the year before, with a heavy,
stonewall line,
fast ends, and a powerful, shifty backfield. The Ballard team was
confident
of victory and the pennant. Bannister, building on the awakened
Thorwald,
superbly sure of his phenomenal strength and power, of his
unstoppable
rushes, serenely practiced the doctrine of preparedness, and
awaited the
day.
And then John Thorwald, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose gigantic
frame seemed
unbattered by the terrific daily scrimmage, whom it was
impossible to
hurt on the gridiron, the day before, going downstairs in
Creighton Hall,
hurrying to a class, had caught his heel on the top step, and
crashed to
the bottom! And now, with a broken ankle, the blond Colossus,
heartbroken
at not being able to win the Championship for old Bannister,
hobbled about
on crutches. Without Thor, the Gold and Green must meet the
invincible
Ballard team! It was a solar-plexus blow, both to the Bannister
youths,
confident in Thor's prowess, building on his Herculean bulk, and
to the
big Freshman. Thorwald, awakened, striving to grasp campus
tradition, to
understand college life, was eager to fling himself into the
scrimmage, to
give every ounce of his mighty power, to offer that splendid
body, for his
Alma Mater, and now he must hobble impotently on the side-line,
watching
his team fight a desperate battle.
"If Bannister only had a sure, accurate drop-kicker!"
reflected Captain
Butch hopelessly. "One who could be depended on to average eight
out of ten
trials, we'd have a fighting chance with Ballard. Deke Radford is
a wonder.
He can kick a forty-five-yard goal, but he's erratic! He might
boot the
pigskin over when a score is needed from the forty-yard line, and
again he
might miss from the twenty-yard mark. Oh, for a kicker who isn't
brilliant
and spectacular, but who can methodically drop 'em over from,
say, the
thirty-five-yard line! Hello, what's the row, Hicks?"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., started to speak, changed his mind,
coughed, grew
red and embarrassed, and acted in a most puzzling manner. At any
other
time, big Butch would have been bewildered; but with Thor's loss
weighing
on his mind, the Gold and Green captain gave his comrade only a
cursory
glance.
"I—I—Oh, nothing, Butch!" stammered Hicks, to
whom, being "fussed," as
Bannister termed embarrassment, was almost unknown. "I—I
guess I'll
take this football over to my locker in the Gym. I ought to
glance at my
Chemistry, too. So-long, Butch; see you later, old top!"
When the splinter-youth had drifted into the Gym., Butch
Brewster,
remembering his strange actions, actually managed to transfer his
thoughts
for a time from the eleven to the care-free T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr. The
behemoth Senior reflected that, to date, the pestiferous Hicks
had not
explained his baffling mystery he recalled the day when he had
told the
Gold and Green eleven of the loyal Hicks' ambition to please his
dad by
winning his B, when he had described the youth's intense college
spirit
and had suggested that if Hicks failed to corral his letter the
Athletic
Association award him one for his loyalty to old Bannister. And
Butch saw
again the bewildering sentences in the letter from Thomas
Haviland Hicks,
Sr., to his son.
"Evidently," meditated Butch, literally and figuratively "on
the fence,"
"Hicks has failed to summon up enough self-confidence to explain
his
mystery; queer, too, for he usually is bubbling with faith in
himself. He
has acted like a bashful schoolgirl at frequent times—he
starts to tell
me something, then he gets embarrassed, back-fires, and stalls.
He and
Theophilus have been sneaking out in the early dawn, too. Wow!
What did he
sneak out of the dorm. that way, with a football, for? He looked
like a
yeggman working night shift. Why should he skulk out with
a football? He
has never explained his dad's letter, or told just what Mr. Hicks
meant by
calling him the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and saying those
members of old
Eli wanted him to star! Oh, he's a tantalizing wretch, and I'd
like to
solve his mystery, without his knowledge, so I could—"
At that instant, to the intense indignation and bewilderment
of good Butch
Brewster, little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous Human
Encyclopedia of
old Bannister, exited from Bannister Hall. The Senior boner gave
a correct
imitation of the offending Hicks, in that he skulked out, gazing
around
him nervously; but he portaged no pigskin, and, unlike the sunny
youth, on
periscoping Butch, he seemed relieved.
"Theophilus, come here!" thundered the wrathful
football captain,
shifting his tonnage on the Senior Fence. "What's the plot,
anyhow? It's
bad enough when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sneaks out, bearing a
football,
like an amateur cracksman making a getaway; but when you appear,
imitating
a Nihilist about to hurl a bomb—say, what's the answer to
the puzzle, old
man?"
Little Theophilus, his pathetically frail body trembling with
suppressed
excitement, his big-rimmed spectacles tumbling off with
ridiculous
regularity, and his solemn eyes peering owlishly at his behemoth
classmate,
stood before the startled Butch. It was evident that the 1919
grind
labored under great stress. He was waging a terrific battle with
himself,
struggling to make some vast and all-important decision. He
strove to
speak, hesitated, choked, coughed apologetically, and acted as
fussed as
Hicks had done, until Butch was wild; then, as if resolved to
cast the die
and cross the Rubicon, he decided, and plunged desperately
ahead.
"It's—it's Hicks, Butch!" he quavered, torn cruelly by
conflicting
emotions. "Oh, I don't want to be a traitor—he trusted me
with his secret,
and I—I can't betray him, I just can't! But he didn't make
me promise not
to tell. He just told me not to. Oh, it's his very last chance,
Butch, and
with Thor hurt, old Bannister might need him in the Ballard
game."
"What is it, Theophilus, old man?" Butch spoke kindly, for he
saw the
solemn little Senior was intensely excited. "Tell me—if our
Alma Mater
needs any fellow's services, you know, he should give them
freely—since
you did not promise not to tell about Hicks, if Bannister may be
able
to use Hicks against Ballard—though I can't, by any stretch
of the
imagination, figure how—then it is your duty to tell! I
think I glimpse
the dark secret—Hicks possesses some sort of football
prowess, goodness
knows what, and he lacks the confidence to tell Coach Corridan!
Now, were
it only drop-kicking—"
"It is drop-kicking!" Theophilus burst forth desperately.
"Hicks is a
drop-kicker, Butch, and a sure one—inside the thirty-yard
line. He almost
never misses a goal, and he kicks them from every angle,
too. He isn't
strong enough to kick past the thirty-yard line, but inside that
he is
wonderfully accurate. With Thor out of the Ballard game, a
drop-kick may
win for Bannister, and Deke Radford is so erratic! Oh, Hicks will
be angry
with me for telling; but he just won't tell about himself, after
all his
practice, because he fears the fellows will jeer. He is afraid he
will fail
in the supreme test. Oh, I've betrayed him, but—"
"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a drop-kicker!" exploded the dazed
Butch, who
could not have been more astounded had Theophilus announced that
the sunny
youth possessed powers of black magic. "Theophilus Opperdyke,
Tantalus
himself was never so tantalized as I have been of late. Tell me
the whole
story, old man—hurry. Spill it, old top!"
Butch Brewster, by questioning the excited Human Encyclopedia,
like a
police official giving the third degree, slowly extracted from
Theophilus
the startling story. A year before, just as the Gold and Green
practiced
for the Ham game, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one afternoon, had
arrayed his
splinter-structure in a grotesque, nondescript athletic outfit,
and had
jogged out on Bannister Field. The gladsome youth's motive had
been free
from any torturesome purpose. He intended to round up the
Phillyloo Bird,
Shad Weatherby, and other non-athletic collegians, and with them
boot the
pigskin, for exercise. However, little Skeet Wigglesworth,
beholding him
as he donned the weird regalia of loud sweater, odd basket-ball
stockings,
tennis trousers, baseball shoes, and so on, misconstrued his
plan, and
believed Hicks intended to torment the squad. Hence, he hurried
out,
so that when Hicks appeared in the offing, the football squad and
the
spectators in the stands had jeered the happy-go-lucky Junior,
and had
good-natured sport at his expense.
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., after Jack Merritt had drop-kicked a
forty-yard
goal, made the excessively rash statement that it was easy.
Captain Butch
Brewster had indignantly challenged the heedless youth to show
him, and
the results of Hicks' effort to propel the pigskin over the
crossbar were
hilarious, for he missed the oval by a foot, nearly dislocated
his knee,
and, slipping in the mud, he sat down violently with a thud.
However, so
the excited Theophilus now narrated, even as the convulsed
students jeered
Hicks, hurling whistles, shouts, cat-calls, songs and humorous
remarks at
the downfallen kicker, one of Hicks' celebrated inspirations had
smitten
the pestersome Junior, evidently jarred loose by his crashing to
terra
firma.
"Hicks figured this way, Butch," explained little Theophilus
Opperdyke,
eloquent in his comrade's behalf, "nature had built him like a
mosquito,
and endowed him with enough power to lift a pillow; hence he
could never
hope to play football on the 'Varsity; but he knew that many
games are
won by drop-kicks and by fellows especially trained and coached
for that
purpose, and they don't need weight and strength, but they must
have the
art, that peculiar knack which few possess. His inspiration was
this:
Perhaps he had that knack, perhaps he could practice faithfully,
and
develop into a sure drop-kicker. If he trained for a year, in his
Senior
season, he might be able to serve old Bannister, maybe to win a
big game.
So he set to work."
Theophilus hurriedly yet graphically narrated how T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
had made the loyal, hero-worshiping little Human Encyclopedia his
sole
confidant. He told the thrilled Butch how the sunny youth, from
that
day on, had watched and listened as Head Coach Corridan trained
the
drop-kickers, learning all the points he could gain. Vividly he
described
the mosquito-like Hicks, as he with a football bought from the
Athletic
Association began in secret to practice the fine art of
drop-kicking! For a
year, at old Bannister and at his dad's country home near
Pittsburgh, Hicks
had faithfully, doggedly kept at it. With no one bat Theophilus
knowing of
his great ambition, he had gone out on Bannister Field, when he
felt safe
from observation; here, with his faithful comrade to keep watch,
and to
retrieve the pigskin, he had practiced the instructions and
points gained
from watching Coach Corridan train the booters of the squad. To
his vast
delight, and the joy of his little friend, Hicks had found that
he did
possess the knack, and from before the Ham game until
Commencement he had
kept his secret, practicing clandestinely at old Bannister; he
had improved
wonderfully, and when vacation started the cheery collegian had
told his
beloved dad, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., of his hopes.
The ex-Yale football star, delighted at his son's ambition to
serve old
Bannister and joyous at discovering that Hicks actually possessed
the
peculiar knack of drop-kicking, coached the splinter-youth all
summer at
their country place near Pittsburgh. Under the instruction of
Hicks, Sr.,
the youth developed rapidly, and when he returned to the campus
for his
final year, he was a sure, dependable drop-kicker, inside the
thirty-yard
line. As Theophilus stated, beyond that he lacked the power, but
in that
zone he could boot 'em over the cross-bar from any angle.
"He's been practicing all this season, in secret!" quavered
the little
Senior, "and he's a—a fiend, Butch, at drop-kicking.
And yet, here it is
time for the last game of his college years, and—he lacks
confidence to
tell you, or Coach Corridan. Oh, I'm afraid he will be angry with
me for
betraying him, and yet—I just can't let him miss his
splendid chance,
now that Thor is out and old Bannister needs a
drop-kicker!"
Big Butch was silent for a time. The football leader was
deeply impressed
and thrilled by Theophilus Opperdyke's story of T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s
ambition. As he roosted on the Senior Fence, the behemoth
gridiron
star visioned the mosquito-like youth, whom nature had endowed
with a
splinter-structure, sneaking out on Bannister Field, at every
chance, to
practice clandestinely his drop-kicking. He could see the
faithful Human
Encyclopedia, vastly excited at his blithesome colleague's
improvement,
retrieving the pigskin for Hicks. He thrilled again as he thought
of the
bean-pole Hicks, who could never gain weight and strength enough
to make
the eleven, loyally training and perfecting himself in the
drop-kick,
trying to develop into a sure kicker, within a certain zone,
hoping
sometime, before he left college forever, to serve old Bannister.
With Thor
in the line-up at fullback, he would not have been needed, but
now, with
the Prodigious Prodigy out, it was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s big
chance!
And Butch Brewster understood why the usually confident Hicks,
even with
the knowledge of his drop-kicking power, hesitated to announce it
to old
Bannister. Until Butch had told the Gold and Green football team
of Hicks'
being in earnest in his ridiculous athletic attempts of the past
three
years, no one but himself and Hicks had dreamed that the sunny
youth meant
them, that he really strove to win his B and please his dad. The
appearance
of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on Bannister Field was always the
cause of
a small-sized riot among the squad and spectators. Hicks was
jeered
good-naturedly, and "butchered to make a Bannister holiday," as
he blithely
phrased it. Hence, the splinter-Senior was reluctant to announce
that he
could drop-kick. He knew that when tested he would be so in
earnest, that
so much would hang in the balance and the youths, unknowing how
important
it was, would jeer. Then, too, knowing his long list of athletic
fiascos,
ridiculous and otherwise, Hicks trembled at the thought of being
sent into
the biggest game to kick a goal. He feared he might fail!
"You are a hero, Theophilus!" said Butch, with deep
feeling. "I can
realize how hard it was for Hicks to tell us. He would have kept
silent
forever, even after his training in secret! And how you must have
suffered,
knowing he could drop-kick, and yet not desiring to betray him!
But your
love for old Bannister and for Hicks himself conquered. I'll take
him out
on the gridiron, before the fellows come from class, and see what
he
can do. Aha! There is the villain now. Hicks, ahoy! Come hither,
you
Kellar-Herman-Thurston. Your dark secret is out at last!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., peering cautiously from the Gym.
basement doorway,
in quest of the tardy Theophilus, who was to have accompanied him
on a
clandestine journey to Bannister Field, obeyed the summons.
Bewildered,
and gradually guessing the explanation from the shivering little
boner's
alarmed expression, the gladsome youth approached the stern Butch
Brewster,
who was about to condemn him for his silence. "Don't be angry
with me,
Hicks, please!" pled Theophilus, pathetically fearful that
he had
offended his comrade, "I—I just had to tell, for it
was positively your
last chance, and—and old Bannister needs your sure
drop-kicking! I never
promised not to tell. You never made me give my word,
so—"
"It was Theophilus' duty to tell!" spoke Butch, hiding a grin,
for the
grind was so frightened, "and yours, Hicks, knowing as you do how
we need
you, with Thor hurt! You graceless wretch, you aren't usually so
like ye
modest violet! Why didn't you inform us, then swagger and say,
'Oh, just
leave it to Hicks, he'll win the game with a drop-kick?' Now, you
come with
me, and I'll look over your samples. If you've got the goods,
it's highly
probable you'll get your chance, in the Ballard game; and I'm
glad, old
man, for your sake. I know what it would mean, if you win it!
But—now that
the 'mystery' is solved, what's that about your being a
'Class Kid,' of
Yale, '96?"
"That's easy!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his arm across
Theophilus'
shoulders, "I was the first boy born to any member of Yale, '96;
it is the
custom of classes graduating at Yale to call such a baby the
class kid!
Naturally, the members of old Eli, Class of 1896, are vastly
interested in
me. Hence, my Dad wrote they'd be tickled if I won a big game for
Bannister
with a field-goal!"
A moment of silence, Theophilus Opperdyke, gathering from
Hicks' arm,
across his shoulders, that the cheery youth was not so awfully
wrathful at
his base betrayal, adjusted his big-rimmed spectacles, and stared
owlishly
at Hicks.
"Hicks, you—you are not angry?" he quavered. "You are
not sorry. I—I
told—"
"Sorry?" quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "Class Kid," of Yale,
'96, with a
Cheshire cat grin, "sorry? I should say not—I
wanted it to be known to
Butch, and Coach Corridan, but I got all shivery when I tried to
confess,
and I—couldn't! Nay, Theophilus, you faithful friend, I'm
so glad, old
man, that beside yours truly, the celebrated Pollyanna resembles
Niobe,
weeping for her lost children."
HICKS—CLASS KID—YALE '96
"Brekka-kek-kek—Co-Ax—Co-Ax!
Brekka-kek-kek—Co-Ax—Co-Ax!
Whoop-up! Parabaloo! Yale! Yale! Yale!
Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a cumbersome Gold and Green
football
blanket, and crouching on the side-line, like some historic
Indian, felt a
thrill shake his splinter-structure, as the yell of "old Eli"
rolled from
the stand, across Bannister Field. In the midst of the Gold and
Green flags
and pennants, fluttering in the section assigned the Bannister
cohorts, he
gazed at a big banner of Blue, with white lettering:
YALE UNIVERSITY—CLASS OF 1896
"Oh, Butch," gasped Hicks, torn between fear and hope, "just
listen to
that. Think of all those Yale men in the stand with my Dad! Oh,
suppose I
do get sent in to try for a drop-kick!"
It was almost time far the biggest game to start, the contest
with Ballard,
the supreme test of the Gold and Green, the final struggle for
The State
Intercollegiate Football Championship! In a few minutes the
referee's
shrill whistle blast would sound, the vast crowd in the stands,
on the
side-lines, and in the parked automobiles, would suddenly still
their
clamor and breathlessly await the kick-off—then, seventy
minutes of grim
battling on the turf, and victory, or defeat, would perch on the
banners of
old Bannister.
It was a thrilling scene, a sight to stir the blood. Bannister
Field, the
arena where these gridiron gladiators would fly at each other's
throats—or
knees, spread out—barred with white chalk-marks, with the
skeleton-like
goal posts guarding at each end. On the turf the moleskin clad
warriors,
under the crisp commands of their Coaches, swiftly lined down,
shifted to
the formation called, and ran off plays. Nervous subs. stood in
circles,
passing the pigskin. Drop-kickers and punters, tuning up, sent
spirals, or
end-over-end drop-kicks, through the air. The referee,
field-judge, and
linesmen conferred. Team-attendants, equipped with buckets of
water,
sponges, and ominous black medicine-chests, with Red Cross
bandages, ran
hither and thither. On the substitutes' bench, or on the ground,
crouched
nervous second-string players; Ballard's on one side of the
gridiron, and
Bannister's directly across.
A glorious, sunshiny day in late November, with scarcely a
breath of
wind, the air crisp and bracing; the radiant sunlight fell
athwart the
white-barred field, and glinted from the gay pennants and banners
in the
stands! Here was a riot of color, the gold and green of old
Bannister; in
the next section, the orange and black of Ballard. The bright
hues and
tints of varicolored dresses, and the luster of the official
flowers
all contributed to a bewilderingly beautiful spectacle!
Flower-venders,
peddlers of pennants, sellers of miniature footballs with the
college
colors of one team and the other, hawked their wares, loudly
calling above
the tumult, "Get yer Ballard colors yere!" "This way fer the
Bannister
flags!" Ten thousand spectators, packed into the cheering
sections of the
two colleges, or in the general stands, or standing on the
side-lines,
impatiently awaited the kick-off. At the appearance of each
football star,
a tremendous cheer went up from the mass. Across the field from
each other,
the two bands played stirring strains. The confident Ballard
cohorts
cheered, sang, and yelled and those of Bannister, not
quite so sure of
victory, with Thor out, nevertheless, cheered, sang, and yelled
as loudly,
for the Gold and Green.
The sight of that vast Yale banner, so conspicuous, with its
big white
letters on a field of blue, amidst the fluttering pennants of
gold and
green, excited comment among the Ballard followers. The Bannister
students,
however, knew what it meant; Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and
thirty
members of Yale, '96, were in the stand, ready to cheer Captain
Butch's
eleven, and hoping for a chance to whoop it up for T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
if he got his big chance.
Two days before, when little Theophilus Opperdyke, after a
terrible
struggle with himself, divided between loyalty to Hicks and a
love for
his Alma Mater, had betrayed his toothpick class-mate to Captain.
Butch
Brewster, that behemoth Senior had rounded up Coach Corridan, and
together
they had dragged the shivering Hicks out to the football field.
Here, while
the rest of the student body, unsuspecting the important event in
progress,
made good use of the study-hour, or attended classes in
Recitation Hall,
the Gold and Green Coach, with the team-Captain, and the excited
Human
Encyclopedia, watched T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. show his samples
of
drop-kicks. And the success of that happy-go-lucky youth, after
his nervous
tension wore off, may be attested by the Slave-Driver's somewhat
slangy
remark, when the exhibition closed.
"Butch," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, impressively,
"what it
takes to drop-kick field-goals, from anywhere inside the
thirty-yard line,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is broke out with!"
The proficiency attained by the heedless Hicks in the
difficult art of
drop-kicking, gained by faithful practice for a year, aided by
his Dad's
valuable coaching, was wonderful. Of course, Hicks possessed
naturally the
needed knack, but he deserved praise for his sticking at it so
loyally. He
had no surety that he would ever be of use to his college, and,
indeed,
with the advent of Thor, his hopes grew dim, yet he plugged on,
in case old
Bannister might sometime need him—and yet, but for
Theophilus, he would
not have summoned the courage to tell! To the surprise and
delight of the
Coach and Captain, Hicks, after missing a few at first,
methodically booted
goals over the crossbar from the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard
lines, and
from the most difficult angles. There was nothing showy or
spectacular in
his work, it was the result of dogged training, but he was almost
sure,
when he kicked!
"Good!" ejaculated Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks'
shoulders, as they
walked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you
in to try
for 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 for
a brief mass-meeting at the end of the last class period, and
Butch and I
will 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 in
the biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man,
and they
won't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for
you! Oh, just
wait until you hear them cheer you, and mean
it—you'll astonish the
natives, Hicks!"
Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that
same day, T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart
in his
shoes, 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 fought
their way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush
took it five
yards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the
right-half-back
to the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
hurried out
on the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians
yelling
frenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took
his
position 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 'Varsity
players 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, and
committed himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had
dispatched a
telegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his
distinguished
parent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old
Bannister, and
that the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try
for a
field-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr.
Thomas
Haviland 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 old
Bannister—bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our
Class Kid will
get his chance against Ballard.
Dad.
On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks'
private car the
Vulcan, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other
members of
Yale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College
Hill in
good old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
proudly
introduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All
morning, Mr.
Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who
listened to his
tales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale
breathlessly. The
ex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending
them out on
Bannister Field resolved to do or die!
"My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the
side line; as
he gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his
athletic
figure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or
wonderfully
tender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his
wealth,
was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians
were his
comrades.
"Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee
raised his
whistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal
may win
for us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a
touchdown
is gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try
Deke
Radford, 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's
whistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of substitutes,
coaches,
trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of
Bannister and
Ballard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to
receive
the 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
breathless
stillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end,
then
strode back to his position.
"All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an
affirmative from the
Orange and Black leader.
"Ready, Bannister?"
"Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of
encouragement to
his players.
The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly
excited and
partisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black
would
battle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle,
Ballard,
three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought
the
strongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of
victory.
Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had
snatched
the greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Sophomore year,
when Jack
Merritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when
Butch
himself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into
the
upright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five
years, and
now—when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the
Prodigious
Prodigy—smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt
the annual blow
in advance, by crippling him.
"Oh, we've got to win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
"Oh, I hope I
don't get sent in—I mean—I hope Bannister wins
without me! But if I do
have to kick—Oh, I hope I send it over that
cross-bar—"
A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe
ripped into
the pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into
Bannister's
territory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of
Captain
Butch 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!
THE GREATER GOAL
"Time out!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green
blanket, and
standing on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out
on
Bannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of
scrimmage
had crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into
Ballard's
stonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a
five-yard
loss. The mass of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad
players rose
from 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, the
game is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last
quarter
is nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick.
It's our
very last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from
defeat!"
The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time
out, stopped
the game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and
several
players worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the
exultant Ballard
cohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their
banners, arose
en 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, and
supporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their
hearts, yet
determined to the last, came the famous old slogan of
encouragement to
elevens 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't let 'em win from the Green and the Gold!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on
the deserted
subs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like
Senior
gazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters
and
figures:
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 by
the ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been
trained to the
second for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted
gonfalon
of glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately,
while
Ballard'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 past
three, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of
Juggernaut
over all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest
the
banner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to
retain
possession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the
alumni
could find none in past history to compare, was the result.
Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and
Gargantuan strength
would have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically
the same
eleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been
defeated by a
scant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a
furious
rush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first
down.
Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its
own
thirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon
Radford, who
booted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score
3-0 in
Bannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker,
apparently
in fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild.
In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as
sporting
writers term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with
a series
of body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the
Bannister lines
like the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way,
trench by
trench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the
loss of a
single 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 from
touchdown 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 so
brilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate
chance, the
Bannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of
the goal
posts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to
be
depended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by
Ballard's
battering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the
Bannister
cohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter,
their
last hope. The forward pass had been futile, for the visitors
were trained
especially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up
every
attempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on
Bannister's
twenty-yard line, came a fumble—like a leaping tiger, Monty
Merriweather
had 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 excited
students, as Monty sprinted. "Go it,
Monty—touchdown! Sprint, old man,
sprint!"
But Cupid Colfax, Ballard's famous sprinter, playing
quarterback, was off
on Monty's trail almost instantly, and his phenomenal speed cut
down the
Ballard end's advantage; still, by dint of exerting every ounce
of energy,
it was on Ballard's forty-yard line that Monty Merriweather,
hugging the
pigskin grimly, finally crashed to earth.
"Come on, Bannister!" shouted Captain Butch Brewster, as the
two teams
lined 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 with
thrilling plays, with sensational tackles, and blood-stirring
scrimmage.
The Bannister players, nerved by Captain Brewster's exhortation,
by sheer
will-power drove their battered bodies into the scrimmage. End
runs,
line-smashing tandem plays, forward passes, followed in
bewildering
succession, until the ball rested on Ballard's twenty-yard line,
and a
touchdown meant victory and the Championship for old Bannister,
Another
rush, and five yards gained, then, Ballard, fighting at the last
ditch,
made a stand every bit as heroic and thrilling as that
sensational march
in the first half. The Gold and Green's tigerish rushes were
hurled
back—three times Captain Butch threw his backfield against
the line, and
three times not an inch was gained. On the third down, Monty
Merriweather
was forced back for a loss, so now, with two minutes to play and
the ball
in Bannister's possession, with eight yards to gain, the play was
on
Ballard's twenty-two-yard line!
And the biggest game had produced a new hero of the gridiron.
Biff
Pemberton, left half-back, imbued with savage energy, had borne
the brunt
of that spectacular advance; and now, he stretched on the turf,
white and
still.
"Hicks, old man," T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. turned as a hand
rested grippingly
on his shoulder. Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, his face
grim, had come
to him, and in quick, terse sentences, he outlined his plan.
"It's Bannister's last chance—" he said, tensely. "We
can't make the
first down, the way Ballard is fighting, unless we take desperate
odds.
Now, Hicks, it's up to you. On you depend old
Bannister's hopes."
A great, chilling fear swept over T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
leaving him weak
and shaken. It had come at last-the moment for which he had
trained and
practiced drop-kicking, for a year, in secret, that moment he had
hoped
would come, sometime, and yet had dreaded, as in a nightmare.
Before that
vast, howling crowd of ten thousand madly partisan spectators,
he must
go out on Bannister Field, to try and boot a drop-kick from
the
twenty-eight-yard-line, to save the Gold and Green from defeat.
And he
thought of the great glory that would be his, if he succeeded-he
would be a
campus hero, the idol of old Bannister, the youth who saved his
Alma Mater
from defeat, in the biggest game! Then he remembered his Dad,
inspiring
the eleven, between the halves, by a ringing speech; he heard
again his
sentences:
"—And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor
to our dear Alma
Mater, is our greater goal! Go back into the game, throw
yourselves into
the scrimmage, with no thought of personal glory, of the plaudits
of the
crowd—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
Alma
Mater!"
"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 Dad
advises it! A tie score means the Championship stays with
Ballard. To win
it, we must win this game—and on you
everything depends."
"But—how—" stammered Hicks, dazed—the only
way to tie the score was by
a drop-kick; the only way to win, by a touchdown—did the
Coach mean he was
not to realize his great ambition to save old Bannister by
a goal, the
reward of his long training?
"You jog out," whispered Coach Corridan, hurriedly, for a
stretcher was
being rushed to Biff Pemberton, "report to the Referee, and
whisper to
Butch to try Formation Z; 23-45-6-A! Now, here is the dope: our
only chance
is to fool Ballard completely. When you go out, the Bannister
rooters, and
your 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
your
slender build. You act as though you intend to try for a goal,
and have
Captain Butch make our fellows act that way. Then—it is a
fake-kick; the
backfield 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, or
if the end Is blocked, rushes it himself! Hurry-the referee's
whistle is
blowing; remember, Hicks, my boy, it's the greater goal, it's for
your Alma
Mater."
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 he
visioned this scene, only—he pictured himself saving the
game by a
drop-kick, and now Coach Corridan ordered him to sacrifice this
glory! From
the stands came the thunderous cheer of the excited Bannister
cohorts,
firmly believing that the slender youth, so ludicrously fragile,
among
those 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 jogged
across the turf:
"Breka-kek-kek—co-ax—Yale! Hicks-Hicks-Hicks!"
But the Bannister Senior did not thrill. Now, instead, a
feeling of growing
resentment filled his soul; even this intensely loyal youth, with
all his
love for old Bannister, was vastly human, and he felt cheated of
his just
rights. How the students were cheering him, how those Yale men
called his
name, and he was not to have his big chance! That for which he
had trained
and practiced; the opportunity to serve his Alma Mater, by
kicking a goal
at the crucial moment, and saving Bannister from defeat, was
never to be
his. 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 off
the play! Instead of everything, a tie game, or a defeat,
depending on his
kicking, defeat or victory hung on that fake play, on Butch
Brewster
and Monty Merriweather! So—the ear-splitting plaudits of
the crowd for
"Hicks!" meant nothing to him; they were dead sea fruit,
tasteless as
ashes—as the ashes of ambition. And then—
"—And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor
to our dear Alma
Mater, 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 for
the greater goal—one's Alma Mater—"
"I was nearly a traitor" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
his Dad's words
echoing In his memory, and a vision of that staunch, manly
Bannister
ex-athlete before him. "Oh, I was betraying my Alma Mater.
Instead of
rejoicing to make any sacrifice, however big, for
Bannister, I thought
only of myself, of my glory! I'll do it, Dad, I'll strive for the
greater
goal, and—we just can't fail."
Reaching the scrimmage, Hicks, whose nervous dread had left
him, when
he fought down selfish ambition, and thirst for glory, reported
to the
Referee, and hurriedly transferred Coach Corridan's orders to
Captain
Butch Brewster; half a minute of precious time was spent in
outlining the
desperate 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 Bannister
from defeat—"
The Gold and Green backfield shifted to the kick formation.
Ten yards back
of the center, on the thirty-two-yard line of Ballard, stood T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr.; the vast crowd was hushed, all eyes stared at that
slender
figure, standing there, with Captain Butch Brewster at his right,
and Beef
McNaughton on his left hand-the spectators believed the
frail-looking
youth had been sent in to try a drop-kick. The Ballard rooters
thought
it, and—the Ballard eleven were sure of 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 a
desperate chance; better a fighting hope for that glory, with a
try for
a touchdown, than a field-goal, and a tie-score! The lines of
scrimmage
tensed. The linesmen dug their cleats in the sod, those of
Ballard tigerish
to break through and block; old Bannister's determined to
hold. Back of
Ballard's line, the backfield swayed on tip-toe, every muscle
nerved, ready
to crash through; the ends prepared to knock Roddy and Monty
aside, the
backs would charge madly ahead, in a berserk rush, to crash into
that slim
figure.
"Boot it, Hicks!" shrieked Deke Radford, and as he shouted,
the pigskin
shot 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 the
left end, let him crash past, while he sprinted
ahead—Captain Butch
Brewster, to whom the pass had been made, ran forward, until he
saw he was
blocked, 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—the
Biggest Game and the Championship had come to old Bannister at
last!
Followed a scene pauperizing description! For many long years
old Bannister
had waited for this glory; years of bitter disappointment,
seasons when the
Championship had been missed by a scant margin, a drop-kick
striking the
cross-bar, Butch Brewster blindly crashing into an upright. But
now, all
their pent-up joy flowed forth in a mighty torrent! Singing,
yelling,
dancing, howling, the Bannister Band leading them, the Gold and
Green
students, alumni, Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around
Bannister
Field. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound around the
gridiron,
everyone who possessed a hat flinging it over the cross-bars.
The
victorious eleven, were borne by the maddened
youths—Captain Butch, Pudge,
Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty, Buster, Bunch,
and—T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try a
field-goal, had
been taken completely off guard. Surprised by the daring attempt,
it had
succeeded with ease, and the final score was Bannister—10;
Ballard—6!
"At last! At last!" boomed Butch Brewster, to whom this was
the happiest
day 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 quieted
somewhat, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and
looking down
from the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his Dad. Mr.
Hicks' strong
face was aglow with pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son's
hand again
and again.
"I understand, Thomas!" he said, and his words were reward
enough for the
youth. "It was a big sacrifice, but you made it
gladly—I know! You
gave up personal glory for the greater goal, and—old
Bannister won the
Championship! You helped win, for the winning play turned on
you. It was
splendid, my son, and I am proud of you! No matter if your
sacrifice is
never known to the fellows, I understand."
A moment of silence on Hicks' part; then the sunny youth
grinned at his
beloved Dad, as he responded blithesomely: "I'm Pollyanna, that
old
Bannister and I won out, Dad!"
HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"
"Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, human
beings,
and—Freshmen! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic
High-Jump
Champion, holder of the World's record, and winner at the
Panama-Pacific
International Exposition National Championships, in his event, is
about to
high jump! The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks is the
Herculean
athlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded in
that
flamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and insane colors, that
inevitably
attended his athletic efforts, shaming Joseph's
coat-of-many-colors, gazed
despairingly 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
megaphone
imitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement to
the
hilarious crowd of collegians in the stand. "Old Bannister will
never
take 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 to
annex first place and my track B in the Intercollegiates,
but—hear
them!"
It was a balmy, sunshiny afternoon in late May. The
sunny-souled,
happy-go-lucky T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had trained indefatigably
for
the high jump, with the result that he had won several points for
his
team—however, he had not realized his great ambition of
first place, and
his track letter.
As Hicks now exclaimed to his team-mate and Coach Brannigan,
no matter,
to the howling Bannister youths, if he had won three
places in the high
jump, in regularly scheduled meets; his comrades had been jeering
at
his athletic fiascos for nearly four years, and even had Hicks
suddenly
blossomed out as a star athlete, they would not have abandoned
their joyous
habit. Still, those football 'Varsity players to whom good Butch
had read
Hicks, Sr.'s, letters, and explained the sunny youth's
persistence, despite
his ridiculous failures, though they kept on hailing his
appearance on
Bannister Field with exaggerated joy, understood the care-free
collegian,
and loved him for his ambition to please his Dad. Since Hicks
had
absolutely refused to accept his B, for any sport, unless he won
it
according to Athletic Association eligibility rules, the eleven
had kept
secret the contents of the letters Butch Brewster had read to
them, for
Hicks requested it.
The Bannister College track squad, under Track Coach Brannigan
and Captain
Spike Robertson, had been training most strenuously for that
annual
cinder-path classic, the State Intercollegiate Track and
Field
Championships. The sprinters had been tearing down the
two-twenty
straightaway like suburban commuters catching the 7.20 A.M. for
the city.
Hammer-throwers and shot-putters—the weight
men—heaved the sixteen-pound
shot, or hurled the hammer, with reckless abandon, like the
Strong Man of
the circus. Pole-vaulters seemed ambitious to break the altitude
records,
and In so doing, threatened to break their necks; hurdlers
skimmed over
the standard as lightly as swallows, though no one ever beheld
swallows
hurdling. The distance runners plodded determinedly around the
quarter-mile
track, 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 Bird
quaintly stated, somewhat wrongly, since the appearance of that
blithesome
youth in the offing, his flamboyant bathrobe concealing his
shadow-like
frame, had started the show, causing the track squad, as
well as a
hundred spectator-students, to rush for seats in the stand. The
arrival
of 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 sport
at his expense, because—
"You can't live down your athletic past, Hicks!" smiled
good-hearted Butch
Brewster. "Your making a touchdown for the other eleven, by
running the
wrong way with the pigskin, your hilarious fiascos in every
sport, your
home-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 of
hammer-heavers and shot-putters—Tug Cardiff, Beef
McNaughton, Pudge
Langdon, Buster Brown, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and
Bunch
Bingham, equipped with megaphones, and with the basso
profundo voices
nature gave them, lined up on both sides of the
jumping-standards, and
chanted loudly:
"All hail to T. Haviland Hicks!
He runs like a carload of bricks;
When to high jump he tries
From 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 amused
youths in the stands, who hailed the grinning Hicks with jeers,
cat-calls,
whistles, and humorous (so they believed) remarks:
"Say, Hicks, you won't never be able to jump anything
but your
board-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-jumper
in 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
the
happy-go-lucky youth's shoulders. "Listen to me; the
Intercollegiates will
be the last track meet of your college years, and unless you take
first
place in your event, you won't win your track B. Second, McQuade,
of
Hamilton, will do five-eight, and likely an inch higher, so to
take first
place, you, must do five-ten. You have trained and practiced
faithfully
this season, but no matter what I do, I can't give you
that needed two
inches, and—"
"I know it, Coach!" responded the chastened Hicks, throwing
aside his
lurid bathrobe determinedly, and exposing to the jeering students
his
splinter-frame. "Leave it to Hicks, I'll clear it this time,
or—"
"Not!" fleered Butch, whom Hicks' easy self-confidence never
failed to
arouse. "Hicks, listen to me, I can tell you why you can't get
two inches
higher. The whole trouble with you is this; for almost four years
you have
led an indolent, butterfly, care-free existence, and now, when
you must
call on yourself for a special effort, you are too lazy! You can
dear
five-ten; you ought to do it, but you can't summon up the energy.
I've
lectured you all this time, for your heedless, easy-going ways,
and
now—you pay for your idle years!"
"You said an encyclopedia, Butch!" agreed the Coach, with
vigor. "If only
something would just make Hicks jump that high, if only he
could do it
once, and know it is in his power, he could do it in the
Intercollegiates,
aided by excitement and competition! Let something scare
him so that he
will sail over five-ten, and—he will win his B. He has the
energy, the
build, the spring, and the form, but as you say, he is so
easy-going and
lazy, that his natural grass-hopper frame avails him naught."
"Here I go!" announced Hicks, who, to an accompaniment of loud
cheers from
the stand, had been jogging up and down in that warming-up
process known to
athletes as the in place run, consisting of trying to dislocate
one's
jaw by bringing the knees, alternately, up against the chin. "Up
and
over—that's my slogan. Just watch Hicks."
Starting at a distance of twenty yards from the high-jump
standards, on
which 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 he
attempted to jump over the bar before it had time to rise higher.
With a
beautiful take-off, a splendid spring—a quick, writhing
twist in air, and
two spasmodic kicks, the whole being known as the scissors form
of high
jump, the mosquito-like youth made a strenuous effort to clear
the needed
height, but—one foot kicked the cross-bar, and as Hicks
fell flat on his
back, in the soft landing-pit, the wooden rod, In derision,
clattered down
upon 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!"
"Your head is 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.,
reposed
gracefully on his back, staring up at the cross-bar, which
someone kindly
replaced on the pegs, big Butch Brewster, who seemed suddenly to
have
gone crazy, tried to attract Coach Brannigan's attention.
Succeeding,
Butch—usually a grave, serious Senior, winked, contorted
his visage
hideously, pointed at Hicks, and sibilated, "Now, Coach—now
is your
chance! Tell Hicks—"
Tug Cardiff, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, Bunch
Bingham, Buster
Brown, Beef McNaughton, and Pudge Langdon, who had been attacked
in a
fashion similar to Butch's spasm, concealed grins of delight, and
made
strenuous efforts to appear guileless, as Track-Coach Brannigan
approached
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. To that cheery youth, who was brushing the
dirt from
his 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
get
more strength and power in your limbs! Now, I am going to send
the
Heavy-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,
but
Butch, 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, had
he not been so anxious to make five-ten in the high-jump.
However, willing
to jog with these behemoths, with whom even he could keep pace,
so as to
develop more jumping power, the blithesome youth cast aside his
garish
bathrobe, pranced about in what he fatuously believed was Ted
Meredith's
style, 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, which
had ceased the game to watch the start, yelling, cheering,
howling, and
whistling, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drawing his knees up in
exaggerated
style at every stride, started to lead the
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade
on its cross-country run. Without wondering why Coach Brannigan
had
suddenly elected to send him along with the
hammer-throwers and
shot-putters, on the jog, and not having seen the insane facial
contortions
of the Brigade, before the Coach gave orders, the gladsome
Senior
started forth in good spirits, resembling a tugboat convoying a
fleet of
battleships.
"'Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! And over the country we go!'" warbled Hicks,
as the squad
left Bannister Field, and jogged across a green meadow.
"'—O'er hill and
dale, through valley and vale, Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho!'"
"Save your wind, you insect!" growled Butch Brewster, with
sinister
significance that escaped the heedless Hicks, as the behemoth
Butch, a
two-miler, swung into the lead. "You'll need it, you fish,
before we get
back to the campus! Not too fast, you flock of human
tortoises. You'll be
crawling 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 over
green pastures, up gentle slopes, and across a plowed field, by
way of
variety. At length, he left the road on which the pachydermic
aggregation
had lumbered for some distance, and turned up a long lane,
leading to a
farm-house. Back of it they periscoped an orchard, with
cherry-trees,
laden with red and white fruit, predominating. Also, floating
toward the
collegians 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's
orchard and seize some cherries—the old pirate can't catch
us, for we are
attired for sprinting. Don't they look good?"
"Nothing stirring!" declared Hicks, slangily, but vehemently,
as he stopped
short in his stride. "Old Bildad has got a bulldog what am as big
as the
New York City Hall. He had it on the campus last month, you know!
Not for
mine! I don't go near that house, or swipe no cherries from his
trees. If
you wish to shuffle off this mortal coil, drive right ahead, but
I will
await 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 now
jeered 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
great
forethought, when cherries began to ripen, the farmer had brought
Caesar
Napoleon to the campus, exhibited him to the awed youths, and
said, "My
cherries be for sale, not to be stole!" which
object lesson, brief as
it was, to date, had seemed to have the desired effect.
Yet—here was Butch
proposing that they literally thrust their heads, or other
portions of
their anatomies, into the jaws of death!
"Well," said Bunch Bingham at last, "I tell you what; we'll
jog up to the
house and ask old Bildad to sell us some cherries; we can
pay him when he
comes to the campus with eggs to sell, Come along. Hicks, I'll
beard the
bulldog in his kennel."
So, dragged along by the bulky hammer-throwers and
shot-putters, the
protesting T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in mortal terror of Caesar
Napoleon, and
the other canine guardians of old Bildad's property, progressed
up the lane
toward the house.
"I got a hunch," said the reluctant Hicks, sadly, "that things
ain't
a-comin' out right! In the words of the immortal
Somebody-Or-Other, 'This
'ere ain't none o' my doin'; it's a-bein' thrust on me!'
All right, my
comrades, I'll be the innocent bystander, but heed me—look
out for the
bulldog!"
THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON
The Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, towing the mosquito-like
T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., advanced on the stronghold of old Bildad, so named
because he
was a pessimistic Job's comforter, like Bildad, the Shuhite, of
old—like
a flock of German spies reconnoitering Allied trenches. Hearing
the house,
with Butch and Beef holding the helpless, but loudly protesting
Hicks, who
would fain have executed what may mildly be termed a strategic
retreat, big
Tug Cardiff boldly marched, in close formation, toward the door,
when the
portal 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 the
paralyzed Hicks, who could not have run, with his wobbly knees,
had he
been set free by his captors, old Bildad, towed from the house by
Caesar
Napoleon, who strained savagely at the leash until his face
bulged, burst
upon 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 so
was Caesar Napoleon, an immense bulldog, cruel, bloodthirsty, his
massive
jaws working convulsively, his ugly fangs gleaming, as he set his
great
body against the leash, and gave evidence of a sincere desire to
make free
lunch of the Bannister youths. As Buster Brown afterward stated,
"Neither
one would take the booby prize at a beauty show, but at that, the
bulldog
had a better chance than Bildad!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., let it
be
recorded, could not have qualified as a judge, since his
undivided
attention 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
ponderous
fist with the other, "Hike—git off'n my land, y'hear? Git,
er Caesar
Napoleon'll git holt o' them scanty duds ye got on!"
"We want to—to buy some cherries, Mr.—Mr. Bildad!"
explained Bunch
Bingham, edging away nervously. "We won't steal any, honest, sir.
Well pay
you 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, "A
likely tale, lads—an' when I come for my money, ye'll jeer
me off the
campus, an' tell me to whistle for it! Off my
land—git, an' don't let me
cotch ye on it inside o' two minutes, or I'll let Caesar Napoleon
make a
meal off'n yer bones—git!"
To express it briefly, they got. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., not
standing on
the order of his going, set off at a sprint that, while it might
have
caused Ted Meredith to lose sleep, also aroused in Caesar
Napoleon an
overwhelming 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
pachydermic
crew, awed by Caesar Napoleon's bloodthirsty actions, jogged off
in the
wake 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 one
from which they came to Bildad's house, ran alongside the orchard
for two
hundred yards, inside the fence; at its end was a high roadgate.
At
what they decided was a safe distance from the "war zone,"
the
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the
latter
forcibly restrained from widening the margin between him and
peril, held a
council on preparedness.
"The old pirate!" stormed Butch Brewster, gazing back to where
the vast
figure of old Bildad, striding toward the house, towered. "We
can't let him
get 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 to
an obsession. "He can still see us, and if you leave the lane, he
will send
Caesar Napoleon after us! Oh, don't—"
But Butch Brewster, evidently wrathful at being balked, strode
from the
path, or lane, of virtue, toward a cherry-tree, whose red fruit
hung
temptingly low, and his example was followed by every one of the
Brigade,
leaving the terrified Hicks to wait in the lane, where, because
of his
alarm, he had no time to wonder at the bravado of his behemoth
comrades.
However, finding that Bildad had disappeared, and believing he
had taken
Caesar Napoleon into the house, the sunny Hicks, who was far from
a coward
otherwise, but who had an unreasonable dread of dogs, little or
big, was
about to wax courageous, and join his team-mates, when a wild
shout burst
from Pudge Langdon:
"Run, fellows—run! Bildad's put the bulldog on
us! Here comes—Caesar
Napoleon—!"
With a blood-chilling "Woof! Woof!" steadily sounding louder,
nearer,
a streak of color shot across the orchard, from the house, toward
the
affrighted Brigade, while old Bildad's hoarse growl shattered the
echoes
with "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 the
orchard-grass at terrific speed, and then:
"Run!" howled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., terror providing him
with wings, as
per proverb. Down the lane, at a pace that would have done credit
to Barney
Oldfield in his Blitzen Benz, the mosquito-like youth sprinted
madly, and
ever, closer, closer on his trail, sounded that awful "Woof!
Woof!" from
Caesar Napoleon, who, as Hicks well knew, was acting with full
authority
from Bildad! He heard, as he fled frantically, the excited shouts
of his
comrades.
"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—jump it—and you're safe!"
The terrible truth dawned on the frightened youth, as he
desperately
sprinted: the innocent bystander always gets hurt. He had
protested against
the theft of Bildad's cherries, and naturally, the bulldog had
kept after
him! But it was too late to stop, for the old adage was
extremely
appropriate, "He who hesitates is lost." He must make that
road-gate, and
tumble 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 panting
breath of the ferocious Caesar Napoleon, and his incessant
"Woof-woof!"
became louder. It seemed to the desperate Hicks that the bulldog
was at his
heels, and every instant he expected to feel those sharp teeth
take hold of
his anatomy! Once, the despairing youth imitated Lot's wife and
turned his
head. He saw a body streaking after him, gaining at every jump,
also he
lost speed; so thereafter, he conscientiously devoted his every
energy to
the task in hand, that of making the gate, and getting over it,
before
Caesar Napoleon caught his quarry!
At last, the road-gate, at least ten feet high, to Hicks'
fevered
imagination, came so close that a quick decision was necessary,
for Caesar
Napoleon, also, was in the same zone, and in a few seconds he
would
overhaul the fugitive. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., realizing that a
second
lost, perhaps, might prove fatal to his peace of mind,
desperately resolved
to dash at the gate, and jump; if he succeeded even in striking
somewhere
near the top, and falling over, he would not care, for the
bulldog would
not follow him off Bildad's land. From his comrades, far in the
rear, came
the chorus:
"Jump, Hicks! He's right on your heels!"
Like the immortal Light Brigade, Hicks had no time to reason
about
anything. His but to jump or be bitten summed up the situation.
So, with
a last desperate sprint, a quick dash, he left the
ground—luckily, the
earth 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 with
him, and instinctively he turned, writhed, and kicked—
For a fleeting second, he saw the top of the gate beneath his
body, and
he felt a thrill as he beheld twisted strands of barbed wire,
cruel and
jagged, across it; then, with a great sensation of joy, he knew
that he
had cleared the top, and a second later, he landed on the ground,
in the
country 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
of
Longfellow's, "And things are not-what they seem!" Instead of
the
ferocious, bloodthirsty bulldog, Caesar Napoleon, a huge,
half-grown
St. Bernard pup gamboled inside the gate, frisking about
gleefully, and
exhibiting, even so that Hicks, with all his innate dread of
dogs, could
understand 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 the
Bannister College track squad rushed on the scene. To their
surprise, they
found not a savage bulldog, but a clumsy, good-natured St.
Bernard puppy,
who frisked wildly about them, groveled at their feet, and put
his huge
paws on them, with the playfulness of a juvenile elephant.
"Why, it isn't Nappie, for a fact!" gasped Butch. "Oh,
I am so glad
that old Bildad wasn't mean enough to put the bulldog after us,
for he is
dangerous. He scared us, though, and put this pup on our trail.
He wanted
to play, and he thought it all a game, when Hicks fled. Oho! What
a joke on
Hicks."
"I don't care!" grinned Hicks, thus siding with the famous Eva
Tanguay.
"You fellows were fooled, too! You were too scared to run,
and if it had
been Caesar Napoleon, I'd have saved your worthless lives by
getting him
after me! I'll bet Bildad is snickering now, the old reprobate!
Why, Tug,
are you crazy?"
Tug Cardiff, indeed, gave indications of lunacy. He marched up
to the
road-gate, and stood close to it, so that the barbed wire top was
even with
his hair; then he backed off, and gazed first at the gate, then
at the
bewildered Hicks, while he grinned at the dazed squad in a
Cheshire cat
style.
"Measure it, someone!" he shouted. "I am nearly six feet tall,
and it comes
even with the top of my dome! Can't you see, you brainless
imbeciles, Hicks
cleared it."
"Wait for me here!" howled big Butch Brewster, climbing the
fence and
starting down the road at a pace that did credit even to that
fast
two-miler. The Brigade, In the absence of their leader, tried to
estimate
the height of the gate, and Hicks, gazing at its barbed-wire
top,
shuddered. The St. Bernard pup, having caused T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., for
once in his indolent life to exert every possible ounce of energy
in his
splinter-frame, groveled at his feet, and strove to express his
boundless
joy at their presence.
Butch Brewster, in fifteen minutes, returned, panting and
perspiring,
bearing a tape-measure, borrowed at the next farm-house. With all
the
solemnity of a sacred rite being performed, the youths waited, as
Butch and
Tug, holding the tape taut, carefully measured from the ground to
the top
of the barbed wire on the gate. Three times they did this, and
then, with
an expression of gladness on his honest countenance, Butch hugged
the
dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while Tug Cardiff howled, "Now for
the
Intercollegiates and your track B, Hicks! You can do
five-ten in the
meet, for Coach Brannigan said you could dear it, if only you did
it
once."
"Why—what do you mean, Tug?" quavered Hicks, not daring
to allow himself
to believe the truth. "You—you surely don't
mean—"
"I mean, that now you know you can jump that high,"
boomed Tug, executing
a weird dance of exultation, In which, the Brigade joined, until
it
resembled a herd of elephants gone insane, "for you have done
it—allowing
for 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! Hicks
and McQuade, of Hamilton, are tied for first place at five feet
eight
inches! McQuade has failed three times at five-ten! Hicks' third
and last
trial! Height of bar—five feet ten inches!"
This time, however, it was not big Tug Cardiff, imitating a
Ballyhoo
Bill, and inciting the Bannister youths to hilarity at the
expense of the
sunny-souled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; it was the Official
Announcer at the
Annual State Intercollegiate Field and Track Championships, on
Bannister
Field, and his announcement aroused a tumult of excitement in the
Bannister
section of the stands, as well as among the Gold and Green
cinder-path
stars.
"Come on, Hicks, old man!" urged Butch Brewster, who, with a
dozen fully
as excited comrades of the cheery Hicks, surrounded that
splinter-athlete.
"It's positively your last chance to win your track B, or your
letter in
any sport, and please your Dad! If they lower the bar, and you
two jump off
the tie, McQuade's endurance will bring him out the winner."
"You can clear five-ten!" encouraged Bunch Bingham.
"You did it once,
when you believed Caesar Napoleon was after you. Just summon up
that much
energy now, and clear that bar! Once over, the event and your
letter are
won! Oh, if we only had that bulldog here, to sick on you."
Sad to chronicle, the score-board of the Intercollegiates
recorded the
results 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's
second place would easily give old Ham. the Championship. Hence,
knowing
that victory was not booked for an appearance on the Gold and
Green
banners, the Bannister youths, wild for the lovable, popular
Hicks to win
his Bs vociferously pulled for him:
"Come on, Hicks—up and over, old man—it's easy!"
"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 he
believed was the last athletic event of his campus career, stood
gazing at
the cross-bar. One superhuman effort, a great explosion of all
his energy,
such as he had executed when he cleared the gate, thinking Caesar
Napoleon
was after him, and the event was won! He had cleared that
height, it was
within 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
his
superior strength and endurance, must inevitably win, but as he
had just
missed on his third trial at five-ten, if Hicks cleared that
height on
his final chance, the first place was his.
"And my B!" murmured Hicks, tensing his muscles. "Oh, won't my
Dad be
happy? It will help him to realize some of his ambition, when I
show him my
track letter! It is positively my last chance, and I must
clear it."
With a vast wave of determined confidence inundating his very
being, Hicks
started for the bar; after those first, peculiar, creeping steps,
he had
just started his gallop, when he heard Tug Cardiff's
basso, magnified by
a megaphone, roared:
"All together, fellows—let 'er go—"
Then, just as Hicks dug his spikes into the earth, in that
short, mad
sprint 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
that
frightened him, tensed as he was:
"Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Woof! Woof! Look out, Hicks,
Caesar Napoleon
is after you!"
Psychology Is inexplicable. Ever afterward, Hicks' comrades of
that
cross-country run averred strenuously that their roaring
through
megaphones, in concert, imitating Caesar Napoleon's savage bark
at the
psychological moment, flung the mosquito-like youth clear of the
cross-bar
and won him the event and his B. Hicks, however, as fervidly
denied this
statement, declaring that he would have won, anyhow, because he
had
summoned up the determination to do it! So it can not be stated
just what
bearing on his jump the plot of Butch Brewster really had. In
truth, that
behemoth had entertained a wild idea of actually hiring old
Bildad and
Caesar 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 the
riotous Bannister students, delirious with joy at the victory of
the
beloved youth, the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade, capturing
the
grass-hopper Senior, gave him a shock second only to that which
he had
experienced when first he believed Caesar Napoleon was on his
trail.
"Perhaps our barking didn't make you jump it!" said Beef
McNaughton, when
Hicks indignantly denied that he had been scared over the
cross-bar, "but
indirectly, old man, we helped you to win! If we had not put up a
hoax on
you—"
"A hoax?" queried the surprised Hicks. "What do you mean—hoax?"
"It was all a frame-up!" grinned Butch Brewster, triumphantly.
"We paid old
Bildad five dollars to play his part, and as an actor, he has
Booth and
Barrymore backed off the stage! We got Coach Brannigan to send
you along
with us on the cross-country jog, and your absurd dread of dogs,
Hicks,
made it easy! Bildad, per instructions, produced Caesar Napoleon,
and
scared you. Then, with a telescope, he watched us, and when I
gave the
signal, he let loose Bob, the harmless St. Bernard pup, on our
trail.
"The pup, as he always does, chased after strangers, ready to
play. We
yelled for you to run, and you were so scared, you insect,
you didn't
wait to see the dog. Even when you looked back, in your alarm,
you didn't
know it was not Caesar Napoleon, for his grim visage was seared
on your
brain—I mean, where your brain ought to be! And even had
you seen it
wasn't the bulldog, you would have been frightened, all the same.
But I
confess, Hicks, when you sailed over that high gate, it was one
on us."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drew a deep breath, and then a
Cheshire cat grin
came to his cherubic countenance. So, after all, it had been a
hoax; there
had not been any peril. No wonder these behemoths had so
courageously taken
the cherries! But, beyond a doubt, the joke had helped him
to win his
B. It had shown him he could clear five feet, ten inches, for he
had done
it—and, in the meet, when the crucial moment came, the
knowledge that he
had jumped that high, and, therefore, could do it,
helped—where the
thought that he never had cleared it would have dragged him down.
He had at
last 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,
irrepressible
youth, swaggering a trifle, "It was my mighty will-power, my
terrific
determination, that took me over the cross-bar, and
not—not your
imitation of—"
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the
"Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade" in
thunderous chorus. "Sick him—Caesar Napoleon—!"
HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY
"Come on, Butch! Atta boy—some fin, old top! Say, you
Beef—you're asleep
at the switch. What time do you want to be called? More pep
there,
Monty—bust that little old bulb, Roddy! Aw, rotten! Say,
Ballard, your
playing will bring the Board of Health down on you—why
don't you bring
your first team out? Umpire? What—do you call that an
umpire? Why, he's
a highway robber, a bandit. Put a 'Please Help the Blind' sign on
that
hold-up artist!"
Big Butch Brewster, captain of the Bannister College baseball
squad,
navigating down the third-floor corridor of Bannister Hall, the
Senior
dormitory, laden with suitcases, bat-bags, and other impedimenta,
as Mr.
Julius Caesar says, and vastly resembling a bell-hop in action,
paused in
sheer bewilderment on the threshold of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s,
cozy room.
"Hicks!" stormed the bewildered Butch, wrathfully, "what in
the name of Sam
Hill are you doing? Are you crazy, you absolutely insane
lunatic? This
is a study-hour, and even if you don't possess an
intellect, some of the
fellows want to exercise their brains an hour or so! Stop that
ridiculous
action."
The spectacle Butch Brewster beheld was indeed one to paralyze
that
pachydermic 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 at
a tribal dance; he waved his arms wildly, like a signaling
brakeman, or
howled through a big megaphone, and about his toothpick structure
was
strung his beloved banjo, on which the blithesome youth twanged
at times an
accompaniment to his jargon:
"Come on, Skeet, take a lead (plunkety-plunk!) Say,
d'ye wanta marry
first base—divorce yourself from that sack!
(plunk-plunk!) Oh, you
bonehead—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 scruff
of the neck and forcibly hurling him on the davenport. Seeing his
loyal
class-mate's resemblance to a Grand Central Station
baggage-smasher, the
irrepressible Senior forthwith imitated a hotel-clerk:
"Front!" howled the grinning Hicks, to an imaginary bellboy,
"Show this
gentleman to Number 2323! Are you alone, sir, or just by
yourself? I think
you will like the room-it faces on the coal-chute, and has hot
and cold
folding-doors, and running water when the roof leaks! The bed is
made once
a 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, keeping
a safe distance from his behemoth comrade, "tomorrow-your
baseball
aggregation plays Ballard College, at that knowledge-factory, for
the
Championship of the State. Because nature hath endowed me with
the
Herculean structure of a Jersey mosquito, I am developing a
56-lung-power
voice, and I need practice, as I am to be the only student-rooter
at the
game tomorrow! Q.E.D.! And as for any Bannister student, except
perhaps
Theophilus Opperdyke and Thor, desiring to investigate the
interiors of
their lexicons tonight, I prithee, just periscope the
campus."
"I guess you are right, Hicks!" grinned Butch Brewster, as he
looked from
the window, down on an indescribably noisy scene. "For once, your
riotous
tumult went unheard. Say, get your traveling-bag ready, and leave
that
pestersome banjo behind, if you want to go with the nine!"
Several members of the Gold and Green nine, embryo American
and National
League stars, roosted on the Senior Fence between the Gymnasium
and the
Administration Building, with, suitcases and bat-bags on the
grass. In a
few minutes old Dan Flannagan's celebrated jitney-bus would
appear in the
offing, coming to transport the Bannister athletes downtown to
the station,
for the 9 P.M. express to Philadelphia. Incited by Cheer-Leaders
Skeezicks
McCracken and Snake Fisher, several hundred youths encouraged the
nine,
since, because of approaching final exams., they were barred by
Faculty
order from accompanying the team to Ballard. In thunderous chorus
they
chanted:
"One more Job for the undertaker!
More work for the tombstone maker!
In the local cemetery, they are
very—very—very
Busy on a brand-new grave for—Ballard!"
As the lovable Hicks expressed it, "'Coming events cast their
shadows
before.' Commencement overshadows our joyous campus existence!"
However, no
Bannister acquaintance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., could detect
wherein the
swiftly approaching final separation from his Alma Mater had
affected in
the 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 golden
campus years, using as weapons his torturesome saengerfests, his
Beefsteak
Busts down at Jerry's, and various other pastimes, to the vast
indignation
of his good friend and class-mate, Butch Brewster, who tried
futilely to
lecture him into the proper serious mood with which Seniors must
sail
through Commencement!
"You are a Senior, Hicks, a Senior!" Butch would explain
wrathfully. "You
are popularly supposed to be dignified, and here you persist in
acting like
a comedian in a vaudeville show! I suppose you intend to appear
on the
stage, and, when handed your sheepskin, respond by twanging your
banjo and
roaring 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.,
overjoyed
at his son's achievement, had sent him a generous check, which
the youth
much needed, and had promised to be present at the annual
Athletic
Association Meeting, at Commencement, when the B's were
awarded
deserving 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,
his
social duties at the Junior Prom., and multifarious other
details
coincident to graduation, the heedless Hicks had not found time
to be
sorrowful at the knowledge that it soon would end, forever, that
he must
say "Farewell, Alma Mater," and leave the campus and corridors of
old
Bannister; yet soon even Hicks' ebullient spirits must fail,
for
Commencement 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 it
penetrate that shrapnel-proof concrete dome of yours that the
Ballard game
tomorrow is the final athletic contest of my, and likewise your,
campus
career at old Bannister?"
"Similar thoughts has smote my colossal intellect, Butch!"
responded the
bean-pole Hicks, gladsomely. "But—why seek to overshadow
this joyous scene
with somber reflections? You-should-worry. You have annexed
sufficient B's,
were they different, to make up an alphabet. You've won your
letter on
gridiron, track, and baseball field, and you've been team-captain
of
everything twice! Why, therefore, sheddest thou them crocodile
tears?"
"Not for myself, thou sunny-souled idler!" announced Butch,
generously,
"But for thee! I prithee, since you pritheed me a few
moments hence, let
that so-called colossal intellect of yours stride back along the
corridors
of Time, until it reaches a certain day toward the close of our
Freshman
year. Remember, you had made a hilarious failure of every
athletic event
you tried-football, basketball, track, and baseball; you had just
made a
tremendous farce of the Freshman-Sophomore track meet, and to me,
your
loyal comrade, you uttered these rash words, 'Before I graduate
from old
Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!'
"I reiterate and repeat, tomorrow's game with Ballard is the
last chance
you will have. There is no possibility that you, with your
well-known lack
of baseball ability, will get in the game, and—your track
B, won in the
high-jump, is the only B you have won! Now, do you still maintain
that you
will make good that rash vow?"
"'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.'
'While there's
life, 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 as
fail,'"
quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. "As long as there
is an
infinitesimal 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 in
the high-jump, thanks to your grass-hopper build, and we rejoice
at your
reward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be
sensible, and
cease this ridiculous talk of winning your B in three
sports, when you
can see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely
impossible—"
It was not that Butch. Brewster did not want his sunny
classmate to win
his 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 of
possibility, Butch, big-hearted and loyal, would have been as
happy as
Hicks, or his Dad. But what the behemoth athlete became wrathful
at was the
obviously lunatical way in which the cheery Hicks, now that his
college
years were almost ended, parrot-like repeated, "Oh, just leave it
to
Hicks!" 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
rash
vow of his Freshman year, had no purpose but to arouse his
comrade's
indignation; but Butch, serious of nature, believed there really
lurked in
Hicks' system some germs of hope.
"We never know, old top!" chuckled Hicks, though he was
sure he could
never fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of
a season
on both the football and the baseball teams, "Something may show
up at the
last minute, and—"
At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus
below, for
the enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the
"Honk!
Honk!" of a Claxon was heard, "Here he comes! All together,
fellows—the
Bannister 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 it
had done on that night in September, when it transported to the
campus
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. Amid
salvos of
applause from the Bannister youths, and blasts of the Claxon, old
Dan
brought "The Dove" to a stop before the Senior Fence, and bowed
to the
nine, grinning genially the while.
"The car waits at the door, sir!" spoke T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., touching
his 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
Skeet
Wigglesworth'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 his
baggage and followed the mosquito-like Hicks from the room,
downstairs, and
out on the campus. Here the assembled youths, with yells, cheers,
and songs
sandwiched between humorous remarks to Dan Flannagan, watched the
thrilling
spectacle of the Gold and Green nine, with the Team Manager and
five
substitutes, fifteen in all, squeeze into and atop of Dan
Flannagan's
jitney-Ford.
"Let me check you fellows off," said Hicks, importantly,
peering into the
jitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling
expenses.
"Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch
Brewster, Skeet
Wigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane,
Don
Carterson; 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 with
exceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he
saluted in
military 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,
nine in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for
Philadelphia, and stay
there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street
Station for
Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. Now I have a lot of unused
mileage on
the C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement.
So, heed: you
want to go via Baltimore, to see your parents. You take
the 9.20 P. M.
express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the
morning, to
Eastminster, on the C. N, & Q.—it's the only road. And
take the five subs
with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy
bomb-proof
dome?"
"Sure; you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!"
grinned
Skeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the
A.M., for
Eastminster?"
"Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books
to the
shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable.
"Oh, yes—you
leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at
Eastminster at
noon; 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 Dan
Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus
concentrated
their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning à la
Cheshire cat,
climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much
trouble to
start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late
Lord
Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a
Louisville
Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks
at the
irrepressible youth:
"Home-run Hicks—he made a home-run—on a
strike-out!"—"Put Hicks in
the game, Captain Butch—he will win it."—"Watch
Hicks—he'll pull
some bonehead play!"—"Bring home the Championship,
but—lose Hicks
somewhere!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit.
yielded to
old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the
yelling
students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously
believed
was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a
lull in the
tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd:
"Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the
Championship, for my
Alma Mater, and—I'll do it by my headwork!"
T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK
"Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you afraid to 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-picture
director would express it, "registering wrathful dismay,"
lumbered toward
the Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green
players
had entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard
cohorts
vociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable
delay.
"We have got to play," he raged, striding up and down
before the bench.
"The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And
here we
have only eight 'Varsity players, and no one to make the
ninth—not even
a 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 on
the bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed to
miss that train
from Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. & Q.
train, and there
isn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a
German
war-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!"
Gloom, as thick and abysmal as a London fog, hovered over the
Bannister
dug-out. On the concrete bench, the seven Gold and Green
athletes, Beef,
Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, with Team Manager
T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., stared silently at Captain Butch Brewster, who seemed
in
imminent peril of exploding. Something probably never before
heard of in
the annals of athletic history had happened. Bannister College,
about to
play Ballard the big game for the State Championship, had lost a
short-stop
and five substitutes, in some unfathomable manner, and it was
impossible
to round up one other member of the Gold and Green baseball
squad. True, a
hundred loyal alumni were in the stands, but only bona
fide students, of
course, were eligible to play the game, and—the Faculty
ruling had kept
them 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
a
telegram. Do you suppose Skeet actually had brains enough
to wire an
explanation?"
"Telegram for Captain Brewster!" announced the Ballard
collegian, giving
the message to that surprised behemoth. "It was sent in my
care—collect,
and the sender, name of Wigglesworth, fired one to me personally,
telling
me to deliver this one to Captain Butch Brewster, and collect
from Team
Manager Hicks—he surely didn't bother to save money! I've
been out of
town, and just got back to the campus; of course, the telegrams
could not
be delivered to anyone but me, hence the delay."
Big Butch, thanking the Ballard Team Manager, and assuring him
that the
charges he had paid would be advanced to him after the game,
ripped open
the yellow envelope, and drew out the message. Like a
thunder-storm
gathering on the horizon, a dark expression came to good
Butch's
countenance, and when he had perused the lengthy telegram, he
transfixed
the startled and bewildered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with an angry
glare:
"Bonehead!" he raged, apparently controlling himself with a
superhuman
effort. "Oh, you lunatic, you wretch,
villain—you—you—"
To the supreme amazement and dismay of the puzzled Hicks,
Beef, next in
line, after he had scanned Skeet's telegram, followed
Butch's example,
for he glowered at the perturbed youth, and heaped
condemnations on his
devoted head. And so on down the line on the bench, until Monty,
Roddy,
Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, reading the message, joined in
gazing
indignantly at their gladsome Team Manager, who, as the eight
arose en
masse and advanced on him, sought to flee the wrath to
come.
"Safety first!" quoth T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. "'Mine not to
reason why, mine
but to haste and fly,' or—be crushed! Ouch! Beef,
Monty—have a heart!"
Captured by Beef and Monty Merriweather, as he frantically
scrambled up
the steps of the concrete dug-out, the grinning Hicks was held in
the firm
grasp of that behemoth, Butch Brewster, aided by the skyscraper
Ichabod,
while Cherub Challoner thrust the telegram before his eyes. In
words of
fire that burned themselves into his brain—something his
colleagues
denied he possessed—T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the
explanation of Skeet
Wigglesworth's missing the train from Baltimore that A. M. Dazed,
the sunny
youth 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 an
old one—schedule revised two weeks ago! Train now leaves
Balto. at 6.55
A.M.! When we got to station at 7.05 A.M. she had went! No train
to Ballard
till night! I and subs, had to wire Bannister for money to get
back on!
You mis-manager—the head-work you boasted of is
boneheadwork! Pay the
charges on this, you brainless insect! I'll send it to Butch, for
you'd
never show it to him if I sent it to you! Indignantly—
"SKEET."
"Mis-manager is right!" seethed Captain Butch, for once
in his campus
career 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 drag
him 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
responding
thunderously to their cheer-leaders' megaphoned requests, roared,
"Play
ball! Play ball! Play ball!" Gay pennants and banners fluttered
in the
glorious sunshine of the June day. It was a bright scene, but its
glory
awakened no happiness in the heart of the Bannister leader, as
his gaze
wandered to the somewhat flabbergasted expression on the cheery
Hicks'
face. That inevitably sunny youth, however, managed to conjure up
a faint
resemblance of his Cheshire cat grin, and following his usual
habit of
letting nothing daunt his gladsome spirit, he croaked feebly:
"Oh, just
leave it to Hicks! I will—"
"Play the game!" thundered Butch, inspired. "Beef, see the
umpire and say
we'll be ready as soon as we get Hicks into togs-show him the
telegram, and
explain our delay! I'll shift Monty from the outfield to Skeet's
job at
short, and put this diluted imitation of something human in the
field, to
do his worst. Come to the field-house, you poor fish—"
"Oh, Butch, I can't—I just can't!" protested the
alarmed Hicks,
helpless, as the big athlete towed him from the trench,
"I—I can't play
ball, and I don't want to be shown up before all that mob! It's
all right
at Bannister, in class-games, but—Oh, can't you play the
game with eight
fellows?"
"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 believe
we have a full nine! Cheer up, Hicks—'In the bright lexicon
of youth
there ain't no such word as fail,' you say! As for your making a
fool of
yourself, you haven't brains enough to be classed as one!
Now—you'll pay
dearly for your bonehead play."
Ten minutes later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as agitated as a
prima donna
making her début with the Metropolitan: Opera Company,
decorated the
Bannister bench, arrayed in one of the substitutes' baseball
suits. It
was 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 big
game of baseball, for his college. He had vividly imagined a
ninth inning
crisis, three of the enemy on base, two out, and a long fly, good
for a
home-run, soaring over his head. How he had
sprinted—back—back—and at
the 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 to
bat in the final frame, with two out, one on base, and Bannister
a run
behind. With the vast crowd silent and breathless, he had
walloped the
ball, over the left-field fence, and jogged around the bases,
thrilling to
the thunderous cheers of his comrades. But now—
"Oooo!" shivered Hicks, as though he had just stepped beneath
an icy
shower-bath. "I wish I could run away. I just know they'll
knock every
ball to me, and I couldn't catch one with a sheriff and
posse!"
However, since, despite the blithesome Hicks' lack of
confidence, it was
that sunny Senior, after all, whom fate—or fortune,
accordingly as
each nine viewed it—destined to be the hero of the
Bannister-Ballard
Championship baseball contest, the game itself is shoved into
such
insignificance that it can be briefly chronicled by recording the
events
that led up to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, self-prophesied
"head-work."
Without Skeet Wigglesworth at shortstop, with the futile Hicks
in
right-field, and the confidence of the nine shaken, Captain Butch
Brewster
and the Gold and Green players went into the big game, unable to
shake off
the feeling that they would be defeated. And when Pitcher Don
Carterson,
in his half of the frame, passed the first two Ballard batters,
the belief
deepened to conviction. However, a fast double play and a long
fly ended
the inning without damage, and Bannister, likewise, had failed to
make an
impression on the score-board. In the second, Don promptly showed
that he
was striving to rival the late Cy Morgan, of the Athletics, for
he promptly
hit two batters and passed the third, whereupon, as
sporting-writers
express it, he was "derricked" by Captain Butch.
Placing the deposed twirler in left field, Captain Brewster,
as a last
resort, believing the game hopelessly lost, with his star pitcher
having
failed, and his relief slabmen, thanks to Hicks, mislaid en
route, sent
out to the box one Ichabod Crane, brought in from the position
given to
Don 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
Bucks
County," but his baseball pitching was rather uncertain; like the
girl in
the nursery jingle, Ichabod, as a twirler, "When he was good, he
was very,
very good, and when he was wild, he was horrid!" Like
Christy Mathewson,
after he had pitched a few balls, he knew whether or not he was
in
shape for the game, and so did the spectators. With terrific
speed and
bewildering curves, Ichabod would have made a star, but his
wildness
prevented, and only on very rare days could he control the
ball.
Luckily for old Bannister's chances of victory and the
Championship, this
was one of the elongated Ichabod's rare days. He ambled into the
box, with
the 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's
régime drove out a long fly to center-field. Thus the game
settled to one
of the most memorable contests that Ballard Field had ever
witnessed, a
pitchers' battle between the awkward, bean-pole youth from
"Bedwell Center,
Pa.," and Bob Forsythe, the crack Ballard twirler. It was a fight
long
to be remembered, with hits as scarce as auks' eggs, and runs out
of the
reckoning, for six innings.
At the start of the seventh, with the Ballard rooters standing
and
thundering, "The lucky seventh! Ballard—win the game in the
lucky
seventh!" the score was 0-0. Only two hits had been made off
Forsythe, of
Ballard, whose change of pace had the Bannister nine at his
mercy, and
but three off Ichabod, who had superb control of his dazzling
speed. T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., cavorting in right field, had made the only
error of
the contest, dropping an easy fly that fell into his hands after
he had run
bewilderedly in circles, when any good fielder could have stood
still and
captured it; however, since he got the ball to second in time to
hold the
runner at third, no harm resulted.
"Hold 'em, Bannister, hold 'em!" entreated Butch
Brewster, as they went
to the field at their end of the lucky seventh, not having
scored. "Do your
best, Hicks, old man—never mind their Jokes. If you can't
catch
the 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 hard
chance, for Roddy Perkins, at third, placed a runner on first.
Ichabod
struck out a hitter, and the runner stole second, aided somewhat
by the
umpire. The next player flew out, sacrificing the runner to
third; then—an
easy fly traveled toward the paralyzed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
one that
anybody 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 absolutely no baseball talent,
though he made
a desperate try, succeeded in doing an European juggling act for
five
heartbreaking seconds, after which he let the law of gravity act
on the
sphere, so that it descended to terra firma. Hence, the "Lucky
Seventh"
ended with the score: Ballard, 1; Bannister, 0; and the Ballard
cohorts in
a state bordering on lunacy!
"Oh, I've done it now—I've lost the game and the
Championship!" groaned
the crushed Hicks, as he stumbled toward the Bannister bench.
"First I made
that bonehead play, giving Skeet an old time-table I had on hand,
and not
telling him to get one at the station. How was I to know the old
railroad
would change the schedule, within two weeks of this game? And
now—I've
made the error that gives Ballard the Championship. If I hadn't
pulled that
boner, Skeet would be here, and the regular right-fielder would
have had
that fly. What a glorious climax to my athletic career at old
Bannister!"
Hicks' comrades were too generous, or heartbroken, to condemn
the sorrowful
youth, as he trailed to the dug-out, but the Ballard rooters had
absolutely
no mercy, and they panned him in regulation style. In fact, all
through
the game, Hicks expressed himself as being butchered by the fans
to make a
Ballard holiday, for he struck out with unfailing regularity at
bat, and
dropped everything in the field, so that the rooters jeered him,
whenever
he stepped to the plate, and—it was quite different from
the good-natured
ridicule of his comrades, back at old Bannister.
"Never mind, Hicks," said good Butch Brewster, brokenly,
seeing how
sorrow-stricken his sunny classmate was, "We'll beat
'em—yet! We bat this
inning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for
us, and
tie the score."
The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green.
Monty
Merriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and
advanced to
third on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to
knock a
home-run, struck out-à la "Cactus" Cravath in the World's
Series; but the
lanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over
second,
and the score was tied, though the sky-scraper twirler was caught
off base
a moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of
the eighth,
Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by
the
strike-out route, while the third popped out to first.
"The ninth Inning!" breathed Beef McNaughton, picking
up his Louisville
Slugger, as he strode to the plate. "Come on, boys—we will
win the
Championship right now. Get one run, and Ichabod will hold
Ballard one
more time!"
Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim attitude unnerved the
wonderful Bob
Forsythe, for he passed that elephantine youth. However, he
regained his
splendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three
pitched balls.
After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman
drop the
ball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been
thrown
out with ease—with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins
made a sharp
single, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the
sacks
filled, and with only one out—
"It's all over!" mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back
and forth on
the bench. "Hicks—is—at—bat!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting
in a similar
fashion, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered
toward the
plate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up
from the
stands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet.
"Three pitched balls, Bob!" was the cry. "Strike him out! It's
all over but
the shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe—he can't hit a
barn-door
with a scatter-gun! One—two—three—out! Here's
where Ballard wins the
Championship."
Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding
speed—twice the
extremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble
Chautauqua salute
at the ball he never even saw! Then—trying to "cut the
inside corner" with
a 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 man
about 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't make a hit—get hit!"
If he got hit—it meant a run forced in, as the bases
were full! That, in
all probability, would give old Bannister the Championship, for
Ichabod was
invincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all
this out, and
weighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed.
The truth
is, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and
that before
he could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his
noble brow
with 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 roar
from the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters
in the
stands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved
later to be
the 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 was
midnight, found every student on the grass before the Senior
Fence! Over
three hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band,
and every
known noise-making device, hailed "The Dove," as that unseaworthy
craft
halted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top.
However, the
terrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the
refrain
from 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 megaphone
the sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed
the final
score, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his
classic
forehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of "The Dove,"
leaning
against Butch Brewster.
"Fellows," shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to
his feet on the
roof of the "jit."—"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the
game and the
Championship! Listen—"
The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound,
as Captain
Butch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the
game—Don Carterson's
failure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors,
and—the wonderful
manner in which the futile youth had won the Championship! As
little Skeet
Wigglesworth and the five substitutes, who had returned that
afternoon, had
spread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had
turned out to
ridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they
learned that
Hicks 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 the
knowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great
speed, and
had suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them.
"What's the matter with Hicks?" thundered Thor, he who at one
time would
have called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine
had just
chanted 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 over
those of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about
this
performance!
"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" came the shout, and the band fanfared,
while the
exultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an
indescribable
tumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the
ear-splitting
din continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth,
and then
it stilled so suddenly that the result was startling,
for—T. Haviland
Hicks, 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, the
irrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, assumed a
Home-Run Baker
batting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting
comrades:
"Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the
Championship for
my Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score
a tie, the
Ballard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the
run that
won for old Ballard—now, if that wasn't
headwork—"
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
Pittsburgh
millionaire "Steel King," stood at the window of Thomas Haviland
Hicks,
Jr.'s, room, his arm across the shoulders of that sunny-souled
Senior, his
only son and heir. Father and son stood, gazing down at the
campus. On the
Gym steps was a group of Seniors, singing songs of old Bannister,
songs
tinged with sadness. Up to Hicks' windows, on the warm June:
night, drifted
the 1916 Class Ode, to the beautiful tune, "A Perfect Day." Over
before the
Science Hall, a crowd of joyous alumni laughed over narratives of
their
campus escapades. Happy undergraduates, skylarking on the
campus,
celebrated the end of study, and gazed with some awe at the
Seniors, in cap
and gown, suddenly transformed into strange beings, instead of
old comrades
and 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 a
few days, Thomas, comes the final parting from old
Bannister—I know it
will be hard, for I had to leave the dear old college, and also
Yale. But
you have made a splendid record in your studies, you have been
one of
the most popular fellows here, and—you have vastly pleased
your Dad, by
winning 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
flying
colors; and to the whole-souled delight of the lovable youth, he
and little
Theophilus Opperdyke, the Human Encyclopedia, had, as Hicks
chastely
phrased it, "run a dead heat for the Valedictory!" So close had
their
final averages been that the Faculty, after much consideration,
decided to
announce at the Commencement exercises that the two Seniors had
tied for
the highest collegiate honors, and everyone was satisfied with
the verdict.
So, now it was all ended; the four years of study, athletics,
campus
escapades, dormitory skylarking—the golden years of college
life, were
about to end for 1919. Commencement would officially start on the
morrow,
but tonight, in the Auditorium, would be held the annual
Athletic
Association meeting, when those happy athletes who had won their
B during
the year would have it presented, before the assembled
collegians, by
one-time gridiron, track, and diamond heroes of old
Bannister.
And—the ecstatic Hicks would have his track B, his white
letter, won in
the high-jump, thanks to Caesar Napoleon's assistance, awarded
him by his
beloved Dad, the greatest all-round athlete that ever wore the
Gold and
Green! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., en route to New
Haven and Yale in
his private car, "Vulcan," had reached town that day, together
with other
members of Bannister College, Class of '92. They, as did all the
old
grads., promptly renewed past memories and associations by riding
up to
College Hill in Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus—a youthful,
hilarious crowd of
alumni. Former students, alumni, parents of graduating Seniors,
friends,
sweethearts—every train would bring its quota. The campus
would again
throb and pulsate with that perennial
quickening—Commencement. Three days
of reunions, Class Day exercises, banquets, and other events,
then the
final 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 thy
love more strong; To love that well which thou must leave ere
long.' Now
that I soon shall leave old Bannister, I—I wish I had
studied more, had
done 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 another
letter—still; hello, what's Butch hollering—?"
Big Butch Brewster, his pachydermic frame draped in his gown,
and his
mortar-board cap on his head, for the Seniors were required to
wear their
regalia during Commencement week, was bellowing through a
megaphone, as he
stood 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
surprise
party—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
secret
from me—they whisper and plot, and when I approach, loudly
talk of
athletics, 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 the
megaphone, "or you don't get your letter! Say, Hicks, one sweetly
solemn
thought attacks me—old Bannister is puzzling you
with a mystery, instead
of vice versa, as is usually the case."
"Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a
humorous, kindly
smile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr.,
that
greeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if
any of
my old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the
Athletic
Association meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I
can't imagine
what this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm
us. It will
surely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the
athletic letter
you worked so hard to win."
When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm
stride
echoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible
collegian, whom
old Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth,
stood
again by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first
time, he
fully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really
is—to
those who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With
almost the
force of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt
to leave
the well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from
those comrades
of 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 his
classmates 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 him
the greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the
care-free
campus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and
developed
together, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a
love for
their Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now
soon they
must sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and
corridors, as
Jack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done
before
them.
Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be
alumni
banquets 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
of
college 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 his
beloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some
time he
had been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must
maintain my
blithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with
my musical
ability. Here goes."
Assuming a striking pose, à la troubadour, at the open
window, T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his
splinter-structure
enshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia
symbolic
of dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a
ragtime
accompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the
campus, as
well 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 by
this rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the
unbounded
delight 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 megaphone
that it was nearly eight o'clock, and loudly suggested that they
forcibly
terminate Hicks' saengerfest, and spare the town police force a
riot call
to 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, followed
by a yelling, surging crowd of Seniors and underclassmen. They
invaded the
graceless youth's room, much to the pretended alarm of that
torturesome
collegian, who believed that the entire student-body of old
Bannister had
foregathered to wreak vengeance on his devoted head.
"Mercy! Have a heart, fellows!" plead T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
helpless in
the clutches of Butch, Beef, and Pudge, "I won't never do it no
more, no
time! 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-youth
was borne aloft, on his broad shoulders, assisted by Beef
McNaughton. They
transported the grinning Hicks down the corridor, while fifty
noisy youths,
howling, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" tramped after them.
Downstairs
and across the campus the hilarious procession marched, and into
the
Auditorium, where the students and alumni were gathering for the
awarding
of 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
that
happy-go-lucky youth, puzzled, nevertheless. "Well, time will
tell, so all
I can do is to possess my soul with impatience; old Bannister has
a mystery
for 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 of
one-time famous Bannister gridiron, track, basketball, and
diamond stars.
Each youth was to receive his monogram from some ex-athlete who
once wore
the Gold and Green, and Hicks' beloved Dad—Bannister's
greatest hero—was
to present his son with the letter.
There were speeches; the Athletic Association's President
explained the
annual meeting, former Bannister students and athletic idols told
of past
triumphs on Bannister Field; the football Championship banner,
and the
baseball pennant were flaunted proudly, and each team-captain of
the year
was called upon to talk. Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., a great
favorite
on the campus, delivered a ringing speech, an appeal to the
undergraduates
for clean living, and honorable sportsmanship, and then:
"We now come to the awarding of the athletic B," stated the
President. "The
Secretary will call first the name of the athlete, and then the
alumnus who
will present him with the letter. In the name of the Athletic
Association
of old Bannister, I congratulate those fellows who are now to be
rewarded
for their loyalty to their Alma Mater!"
Thrilled, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., watched his comrades, as
they responded
to their names, and had the greatest glory, the B, placed in
their hands by
past Bannister athletic heroes. Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty,
Ichabod, Biff,
Hefty, Tug, Buster, Deacon Radford, Cherub, Don, Skeet, Thor, who
had
won the hammer-throw. These, and many others, having earned the
award by
playing in three-fourths of a season's games on the eleven or the
nine, or
by winning a first place in some track event, stepped forward,
and were
rewarded. Some, as good Butch, had gained their B many times, but
the fact
that this was their last letter, made the occasion a sad one.
Every name
was called but that of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and that perturbed
youth
wondered 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 have
prepared a surprise party for our lovable comrade, and I beg your
patience
awhile, as I explain."
Graphically, Dad Pendleton described the wonderful all-round
athletic
record made by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., while at old
Bannister, and
sketched briefly but vividly his phenomenal record at Yale; he
told of
Mr. Hicks' great ambition, for his only son, Thomas, to follow in
his
footsteps—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 how
that cheery youth, grinning good-humoredly at his comrades'
jeers, had been
in earnest, striving to realize his father's ambition. As the
spellbound
collegians 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 contest
that brought the Championship to old Bannister. The youths and
alumni heard
how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., made a great sacrifice, for the
greater goal;
how, after training faithfully in secret for a year, hoping
sometime to win
a game for his Alma Mater, he cheerfully sacrificed his chance to
tie the
score by a drop-kick, and became the pivotal part of a fake-kick
play that
won for the Gold and Green.
"I have left Hicks' name until last," said Dad, with a smile,
"because
tonight we have a surprise party for our sunny comrade, and for
his Dad. In
the past, the eligibility rule, as regards the football and
baseball B, has
been—an athlete must play on the 'Varsity in three-fourths
of the season's
games. But, just before the Hamilton game, last fall, the
Advisory Board of
the Athletic Association amended this rule.
"We decided to submit to the required two-thirds majority vote
of the
students this plan, inasmuch as many athletes, toiling and
sacrificing all
season for their college, never get to win their letter, yet
deserve
that reward for their loyalty, we suggested that Bannister
imitate the
universities. Anyone sent into the Yale-Harvard game, you know,
wins his
H or Y. If one team is safely ahead, a lot of scrubs are run into
the
scrimmage, to give them their letter. Therefore, we—the
Advisory
Board—made this rule: 'Any athlete taking part, for any
period of time
whatsoever, in the Ballard football or baseball game as a regular
member of
the first team shall be eligible for his Gold or Green B. This
rule, upon
approval of the students, to be effective from September 25!'
"Now," continued the Athletic Association President, "we
decided to keep
this new ruling a secret until the present, for this reason: Many
good
football and baseball players, not making the first teams, lack
the loyalty
to stick on the scrubs, and others, not as brilliant, but with
more
college spirit, give their best until the season's end. We knew
that if we
announced this rule last fall, several slackers, who had quit the
squad,
would come out again, just on the hope of getting sent into the
Ballard
game, for their B. This would not be fair to those who loyally
stuck to the
scrubs. So we did not announce the rule until the year closed,
and then a
practically unanimous vote of the students made the rule
effective from
September 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
baseball
game this spring."
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., gasped. Slowly, the glorious truth
dawned on the
happy-go-lucky Senior—he had been sent into the
Bannister-Ballard football
game; the crucial and deciding play had turned on him, hence he
had won his
gold letter! And thanks to his brilliant "mismanaging" of the
nine, losing
shortstop Skeet Wigglesworth and the substitutes, he had played
the entire
nine innings of the Ballard-Bannister baseball contest, and,
therefore,
was eligible for his green B. In a dazed condition, he heard Dad
Pendleton
saying:
"You remember how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was sent into the
Ballard
game, and how the fake-play fooled Ballard, who believed he would
try
a drop-kick? Well, knowing Hicks to be eligible for his football
B, we
planned 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-thirds
majority made it effective from last September—we managed
to have Hicks
absent from the voting, and the fellows helped us with our
surprise! So
instead of Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., presenting his son
with one
B, that for track work, we are glad to hand him three
letters, one for
football, one for baseball, and one for track, to give our own T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr. And, let me add, he can accept them with a clear
conscience, for
when the rule was made by the Advisory Board, we had no idea that
Hicks
would ever be eligible in football or baseball."
A moment of silence, and then undergraduates and alumni,
thrilled at Dad
Pendleton's announcement, arose in a body, and howled for T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad. Mr. Hicks, unable to speak,
silently
placed the three monograms, gold, green, and white, in his son's
hands, and
placed his own on the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, who
for once
in his heedless career could not say a word!
"What's the matter with Hicks?" Big Butch Brewster roared, and
a terrific
response sounded:
"He's all right! Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!"
For ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Then, regardless of the
fact that, in
order to surprise Mr. Hicks and his son, other athletes, eligible
under the
new rule, had yet to be presented with their B, the howling
youths swarmed
on the stage, hoisted the grinning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and
his happy
Dad to their shoulders, and started a wild parade around the
campus and the
Quadrangle, singing:
"Here's to our own Hicks—drink it down! Drink it down!
Here's to our own
Hicks—drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own
Hicks—When he
starts 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
campus
comrades was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize that
he had
actually, by the Athletic Association ruling, won his three B's!
How glad
his beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this bewildering
happiness.
He had been so joyous, when his sort earned the track letter, but
to
have him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports—it
was almost
unbelievable! And, as Dad had said—there had been no
thought of Hicks when
the Advisory Board made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to
suppose it was
done 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
torment
Butch Brewster, "Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall
have won
my B in three branches of sport!" Never, not even for a moment,
had the
happy-go-lucky youth believed that his wild prophecy would be
fulfilled,
though he had pretended to be confident to tease his loyal
comrades; but
now, at the very end of his campus days, just before he
graduated, his
prediction had come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years
before had
made his rash vow, saw its realization, and suddenly thrilled
with the
knowledge that he had a golden opportunity to make Butch
indignant.
"Oh, I say, Butch," he drawled, nonchalantly, leaning down to
talk in
Butch'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 to
old 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-loving
soul. After waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth
realized an
ambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled.
"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth he, gladsomely. "I told
you I'd win
my three B's, Butch, old top, and—ow!—unhand
me, you villain, you
hurt!"
"VALE, ALMA MATER!"
"Oh, it was 'Ave, Alma Mater—'
We sang as Freshmen gay;
But it's 'Vale, Alma Mater' now
As 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 old
Bannister—roosted atop of good old Dan Flannagan's famous
jitney-bus
before Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for the 9.30 A. M.
express, but
the "peace-ship" had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking,
wheezing,
and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked,
together with
the 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, and
relatives of the Seniors, the Class of 1919 had received its
sheepskins,
and the "Go forth, my children, and live!" of its Alma Mater. T,
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered
the
Valedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the
lengthy
Ichabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his
voice
tremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time.
The Class
Ode had been sung, the Class Shield unveiled, and
then—Hicks and his
comrades of '19 were alumni!
It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There
had been
scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to
come; after
the memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,
and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party"
by the
collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had
"sprinted with
spiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed
event in
bewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had
been fêted
and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were
filled with
visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad
reunions
of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual
baseball
game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond
stars, Class
Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and
the last
Class Supper; and, Commencement had come.
It was all ended now—the four happy, golden years of
campus life, of glad
fellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T.
Haviland
Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final
parting. The
sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's
Commencement.
Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed
farewells
with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that
awakened
Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the
few
Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final
Beefsteak
Bust downtown at Jerry's.
The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices
echoed in the
dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths
who were
leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and
little
Theophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with
tears. Three
times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was
forever, as
collegians!
"I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop
Sawyer, as the
jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of
Dan's
cranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now—'We have
come to the end
of our college days-golden campus years are at an end—!'
Say, Hicks, old
man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?"
"Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a
fountain pen
behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City
Editor, "In me
you 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, I
shall 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's
the same old story—your father wants you to learn how to
own steel and
iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince
Mr. Thomas
Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than
Steel King!"
"Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of
old
Bannister, as the perspiring Dan Flannagan cranked away
futilely. "My Dad
has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it
over last
night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a
work that
appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to
follow in his
footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is
trying to
get me started—read this:"
The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the
heading: "THE
BALTIMORE 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't
leave the wheel of this ship, the Chronicle, for even a day. Give
my
regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man.
"As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The Chronicle
usually takes
on a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off
on
vacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or
three
summers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old
time's
sake, 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 any
favor or special help from me. Were he the son of our
nation's
President, 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 all
I can, and if he has the ability, the Chronicle long-room is the
place
for him.
"Yours for old Yale,
"'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96,
"City Editor—THE CHRONICLE."
"Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch
finished the
letter. "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 aid
from anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen
reports that
I've made good enough to be retained as a regular,
then—Yours truly for
the 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 the
shadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for
I am
going to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want
to become
an expert stenographer, and we'll be together."
"It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his
huge bulk
atop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the
world, to
make good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet.
We may
accept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for
President
of 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" consented
to hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to
transport
Hicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled,
"All
aboard!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene.
"We're off!" shrieked Skeet Wigglesworth, stowed away below,
as the
jitney-bus moved down the driveway. "Farewell, dear old
Bannister! Run
slow, 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 and
under the Memorial Arch, old Dan, sympathizing with them, and
finding he
could make the express by a safe margin, allowing the jitney to
flutter
along at reduced speed. From its top, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his
vision
blurred with tears, gazed back with his class-mates. He saw the
campus, its
grass green, with stately old elms bordering the walks, and the
golden
June sunshine bathing everything in a soft radiance. He beheld
the college
buildings—the Gym., the Science Hall, the Administration
Building,
Recitation Hall, the ivy-covered Library; the white Chapel, and
the four
dorms., Creighton, Smithson, Nordyke, Bannister. One year he had
spent in
each, and every year had been one of happiness, of glad
comradeship.
He could see Bannister Field, the scene of his many hilarious
athletic
fiascos.
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, and
hard struggles; ended were the golden campus days, the gay
skylarking
in the dorms. Gone forever were the joyous nights of entertaining
his
comrades, of Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's. Silenced was his
beloved
banjo, and no more would his saengerfests bother old
Bannister.
A turn in the street, and the campus could not be seen. As the
last vision
of their Alma Mater vanished, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., smiling
sunnily
through his tear-blurred eyes, gazed at his comrades of old
'19—
"Say, fellows—" he grinned, though his voice was shaky,
"let's—let's
start in next September, and—do it all over again!"
End of Project Gutenberg's T. Haviland Hicks Senior, by J. Raymond Elderdice
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR ***
***** This file should be named 8550-h.htm or 8550-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8550/
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you
are located before using this ebook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that
* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation."
* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
works.
* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.