summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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<pre>

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Title: T. Haviland Hicks Senior

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</pre>

<h1>T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR</h1>

<br>
<h2>BY J. RAYMOND ELDERDICE</h2>

<br>
<br>
<h3><br>
TO MASTER LLOYD ELDERDICE</h3>

<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<h2><br>
CONTENTS</h2>

<pre>
    I. HICKS&mdash;WILD WEST BAD MAN<br>
   II. "LEAVE IT TO HICKS"<br>
  III. HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY<br>
   IV. QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER<br>
    V. HICKS MAKES A DECISION<br>
   VI. HICKS MAKES A SPEECH<br>
  VII. HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY<br>
 VIII. COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN<br>
   IX. THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK<br>
    X. THOR'S AWAKENING<br>
   XI. "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"<br>
  XII. THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS<br>
 XIII. HICKS&mdash;CLASS KID&mdash;YALE '96<br>
  XIV. THE GREATER GOAL<br>
   XV. HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"<br>
  XVI. THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON<br>
 XVII. HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY<br>
XVIII. T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.'S HEADWORK<br>
  XIX. BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY<br>
   XX. "VALE, ALMA MATER!"
</pre>

<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<h1><br>
T. HAVILAND HICKS, SENIOR</h1>

<br>
<br>
<br>
<p>CHAPTER I</p>

<p>HICKS&mdash;WILD WEST BAD MAN</p>

<p>  "Oh, a bold, bad man was Chuckwalla Bill&mdash;<br>
  An' he lived in a shanty on Tom-cat Hill;<br>
  Ten notches on the six-gun he toted on his hip&mdash;<br>
  For he'd sent ten buckos on the One-way Trip!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, captain and full-back of the Bannister
College football<br>
squad, his behemoth bulk swathed in heavy blankets and crowded
into a<br>
narrow bunk, shifted his vast tonnage restlessly. He was dreaming
of the<br>
wild and woolly West, and like a six-reel Western drama thrown on
the<br>
screen in a moving-picture show, he visioned in his slumbers a
vivid and<br>
spectacular panorama.</p>

<p>The first lurid scene was the Deserted Limited held up at a
tank station in<br>
the great Mojave Desert by a lone, masked bandit who winged the
dreaming<br>
Butch in the shoulder, the latter being an express guard who
resisted.<br>
After the desperado, Two-Gun Steve, had forced the engineer to
run the<br>
train back to a siding, he had ordered Butch to vamoose. Quite
naturally,<br>
then, the collegian next found himself staggering across the arid
expanse,<br>
until at last, half dead from a burning thirst, seeking vainly
for a<br>
water-hole, the vast stretch of sandy, sagebrush-studded wastes
shimmered<br>
into a gorgeous ocean of sparkling blue waters. Then, as he
collapsed on<br>
the scorching-hot sand, helpless, the cool water so near,
suddenly the<br>
scene shifted.</p>

<p>In quick and vivid succession, Butch Brewster beheld a burning
stockade<br>
besieged by howling Indians, and a frontier town shot up by
recklessly<br>
riding cowboys on a jamboree. Then he became a tenderfoot,
badgered by<br>
yelling, shooting roisterers, and later a sheriff, bravely
leading his<br>
posse to a sensational battle with that same Two-Gun Steve and
his gang,<br>
entrenched in a rock-bound mountain defile.</p>

<p>Finally, he stood with hands above his head in company with
other<br>
passengers of the Sagebrush Stagecoach, while a huge, red-shirted
Westerner<br>
with a fierce black mustache and a six-shooter in each hand
belching<br>
bullets at Butch's dancing feet, roared out huskily:
"Oh&mdash;I'm a ring-tailed<br>
roarer (<i>bang-bang</i>)! I'm a rip-snortin', high-falutin',
loop-the-loopin'<br>
<i>bad</i> man (<i>bang-bang</i>)! I'm wild an' woolly, an' full
o' fleas, an' hard<br>
to curry below the knees&mdash;I'm a roarin' wild-cat, an' it's
my night to howl<br>
(<i>bang-bang</i>)! Yip-yip-yip-<i>yeee</i>!"</p>

<p>Big Butch, opening his eyes and starting up, gazed about him
in sheer<br>
surprise; for an instant, in that state of bewilderment that
comes with<br>
sudden awakening, he almost believed himself in a Western ranch
bunkhouse,<br>
and that some happy cowboy outside roared a grotesque ballad. He
gazed at<br>
the interior of a rough shack built of pine boards, with bunks
constructed<br>
in tiers on both sides. There were figures in them&mdash;Western
cowboys,<br>
perhaps. Then it seemed, somehow, that the voice drifting from
the outside<br>
was strangely familiar. Back at Bannister College, where he
remembered he<br>
had gone in the dim and dusty past, he had often heard that same
fog-horn<br>
voice, roaring songs of a less blood-curdling character, and
accompanied by<br>
that same banjo twanging, which tortured the campus, and bothered
would-be<br>
studious youths!</p>

<p>"I'm not in a moving-picture show," Butch informed himself, as
he donned<br>
khaki trousers, football sweater, and heavy shoes. "I'm not on a
Western<br>
ranch, either. I'm in the sleep-shack of Camp Bannister, the
football<br>
training-camp of the Bannister College squad! Those fellows in
the bunks<br>
are not cowboys, Indians, and bandits&mdash;they are my
teammates! I did dream<br>
stuff that would shame a Wild West scenario, but I understand it
all<br>
now&mdash;my dreams were influenced by T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.!"</p>

<p>At that dramatic moment, to substantiate his statement, the
raucous voice,<br>
accompanied by resounding chords strummed on a banjo, sounded
again. The<br>
vocal and instrumental chaos was frequently punctured by revolver
reports,<br>
as the torturesome Caruso outside roared:</p>

<p>  "Oh, Chuckwalla Bill thought life was sweet&mdash;<br>
  Till he met up with Sure-shot Pete;<br>
  A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw&mdash;<br>
  But Sure-shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!"</p>

<p>The pachydermic Butch, fully dressed&mdash;and awake, raging
in his wrath like<br>
an active volcano, glanced at his watch, and discovered that it
was exactly<br>
five A.M.! Intensely pacified by this knowledge, he lumbered
toward the<br>
bunkhouse door and flung it open, determined to crush the
pestersome youth<br>
who thus unfeelingly disturbed the quietude of Camp Bannister at
such an<br>
unearthly hour! However, his grim purpose was temporarily
thwarted&mdash;before<br>
him spread a beautiful panorama, a vast canvas painted in rich
hues and<br>
colors, that indescribably charming masterpiece of nature,
entitled dawn.</p>

<p>Butch, gazing from the bunkhouse doorway toward the pebbly
shore of the<br>
placid lake stretching out for two miles before him, beheld Old
Sol,<br>
blood-red, peeping above the wooded hills on the far-off,
opposite strand<br>
of Lake Conowingo; the luminous orb laid a flaming pathway across
the<br>
shimmering waters, and golden bars of light, like gleaming
fingers<br>
outstretched, fell athwart the tall pines that towered on the
high bluff<br>
back of the camp. The glorious sunshine, succeeding a flood of
rosy color,<br>
inundated the scene; it bathed in a gorgeous radiance the early
autumn<br>
woods, it illumined the bunkhouse, and another rude shanty known
to the<br>
squad as the grub-shack, it poured down on old Hinky-Dink, the
ancient<br>
negro cookee, setting the breakfast tables just outside the
canvas<br>
cook-tent.</p>

<p>"Deed, cross mah heart, Mistah Butch," grinned old Hinky-Dink,
seeing, as<br>
a motion picture director would express it, "Wrath registered on
the<br>
countenance" of Butch Brewster, "Ah done tole dat young Hicks dat
a bird<br>
what cain't sing an' will sing mus' be made <i>not</i> to sing!
Ah done info'med<br>
him dat yo'-all was layin' fo' him, cause he done bus' up yo'
sleep!"</p>

<p>A jay bird, a flashing bit of vivid blue, shot from a tall
pine, jeering<br>
shrilly at Butch; out on the lake, a trout leaped above the water
for an<br>
infinitesimal second, its shining scales gleaming in the
sunshine. From the<br>
cook-tent, where old Hinky-Dink grumbled at the frying pan, the
appetizing<br>
odor of frying fish assailed the football captain, softening his
wrath.</p>

<p>High above the shanties, on a tall flagpole made from a
straight young<br>
pine, floated a big gold and green banner, its bright colors
gleaming in<br>
the sunshine; it bore the words:</p>

<p>    CAMP BANNISTER<br>
    TRAINING CAMP<br>
    THE FOOTBALL SQUAD<br>
    BANNISTER COLLEGE</p>

<p>Head Coach Corridan, smashing the precedent that had made
former Gold and<br>
Green squads have their training camp at Bannister College, had
brought<br>
the Varsity and second-string stars to this camp on the shore of
Lake<br>
Conowingo, in the Pennsylvania mountains. For two weeks, one of
which had<br>
passed, they were to train at Camp Bannister, until college
officially<br>
opened; swimming, hunting, cross-country runs, and a healthful
outdoor<br>
existence would give the athletes superb condition, and daily
scrimmages on<br>
the level field back of the bluff rounded out an eleven that
promised to be<br>
the strongest in Bannister history.</p>

<p>As big, good-natured Butch Brewster stood in the bunkhouse
doorway, his<br>
wrath at the pestiferous Hicks forgotten, in his rapture at the
glorious<br>
dawn, he saw something that showed why his dreams had been of the
wild<br>
West! The expression of indignation, however, yielded to one of
humorous<br>
affection, as he gazed toward the shore.</p>

<p>"I can't be angry with Hicks!" breathed Butch, beholding a
spectacle more<br>
impressive than dawn. "So, the irrepressible wretch has Coach
Corridan's<br>
revolvers, used in starting our training sprints, and a lot of
blank<br>
cartridges! He is giving an imitation of a Western bad man. No
wonder<br>
I dreamed of Indians, cowboys, and hold-ups; I'll have revenge on
the<br>
heartless villain, routing me out at five!"</p>

<p>He saw a massive rock, rising thirty feet in air, its sheer
walls scaled<br>
only by a rope-ladder the collegians had rigged up on one side.
Atop of<br>
"Lookout There!" as the campers humorously designated the rock,
roosted<br>
a youth who possessed the colossal structure of a splinter, and
whose<br>
cherubic countenance was decorated with a Cheshire cat grin.
Quite unaware<br>
that his riotous efforts had brought out the wrathful Butch
Brewster,<br>
the youthful narrator of Chuckwalla Bill's stormy career
continued his<br>
excessively noisy s&eacute;ance.</p>

<p>His costume was strictly in character with his song. He wore a
sombrero,<br>
picked up on his Exposition trip the past vacation, a lurid
red<br>
outing-shirt, and he had wrapped a blanket around each locomotive
limb to<br>
imitate a cowboy's chaps. Two revolvers suspended from a loosened
belt, &agrave;<br>
la wild West, and as Butch stared, the embryo Western bad man
twanged a<br>
banjo noisily, and roared the concluding stanza of his desperado
hero's<br>
history:</p>

<p>  "Said Chuckwalla Bill, 'Oh, boys, plant me<br>
  With my boots on&mdash;on the wide prair-eee'&mdash;<br>
  Where the coyotes howl, they planted Bill&mdash;<br>
  An' so far as I know, he's sleepin' there still!"</p>

<p>"Here they come," grinned Butch, hearing a tumult in the
bunkhouse, and<br>
a confused Babel of voices. "Hicks has awakened the camp. Now
watch the<br>
fellows wreak summary vengeance on his toothpick frame!"</p>

<p>From the sleep-shack, aroused at that weird hour by the clamor
of the<br>
irrepressible youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., tumbled others of
the squad,<br>
in varying stages of <i>d&eacute;shabille</i>; big Beef
McNaughton, right half-back,<br>
Roddy Perkins, the Titian-haired right-end, Pudge Langdon, a
ponderous<br>
tackle, and Monty Merriweather, a clean-cut, aggressive candidate
for left<br>
end. From within, other wrathy youths howled vociferous protests
at their<br>
tormentor:</p>

<p>"Stop that noise; put your muzzle on again,
Hicks!"&mdash;"Where's the fire?<br>
Say, Hicks, muffle your exhaust!"&mdash;"Say, Coach, must we
endure this day and<br>
night?"</p>

<p>The bunkhouse fairly erupted angry collegians, boiling out
like bees<br>
swarming from a disturbed hive; Hefty Hollingsworth, the
Herculean<br>
center-rush. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, Bunch Bingham, Tug
Cardiff,<br>
and Buster Brown, three huge last-year substitutes; second-string
players,<br>
Don Carterson, Cherub Challoner, Skeet Wigglesworth, and Scoop
Sawyer. A<br>
dozen others, from sheer laziness, hugged their bunks devotedly,
despite<br>
the terrific turmoil outside.</p>

<p>"It's a disgrace, a <i>howling</i> shame!" exploded Beef, his
elephantine frame<br>
swathed in blankets to conceal a lack of vestiture, "Last night,
until<br>
midnight, that graceless wretch roosted on 'Lookout There' and
because the<br>
glorious moonlight made him sentimental and slushy, he twanged
his banjo<br>
and warbled such mushy stuff as 'My Love is young and fair. My
Love has<br>
golden hair!' When does he expect us to sleep?"</p>

<p>"He doesn't!" explained Monty Merriweather, with succinct
lucidity,<br>
grinning at his comrades. "Say, fellows, you know how Hicks
dreads a cold<br>
shower-bath; well, some of you rage at him from the other side of
the rock,<br>
while I climb up the rope-ladder and close with him! Then some of
you<br>
prehistoric pachyderms ascend, and we'll chuck that pestersome
insect into<br>
the cold, cold lake&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Done!" chuckled Butch Brewster, delightedly. So, while he,
Beef<br>
McNaughton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and others beguiled the jeering
Hicks,<br>
expressing in dynamic, red-hot sentences their exact opinions of
his<br>
perfidy, the athletic Monty imitated a mountain-scaling Italian
soldier.<br>
He climbed stealthily up the swaying rope-ladder; nearer and
nearer to the<br>
unsuspecting youth he crept, while the cherubic Hicks, to
tantalize the<br>
group below, again burst forth:</p>

<p>"Whoop-eee! I'm a bold, <i>bad</i> man (<i>bang-bang</i>)! I
got ten notches on my<br>
ole six-gun&mdash;I'm a <i>killer</i>. I wings a man before
breakfast every day! I<br>
got a private burying-ground, where I plants my victims
(<i>bang-bang</i>)!<br>
Yip-yip-yip-<i>yee</i>! Oh, I'm a&mdash;Ouch, Monty&mdash;leggo
me&mdash;Oh, I'll be<br>
good&mdash;why didn't I pull that rope-ladder up here? Don't bust
my banjo<br>
&mdash;don't let Butch get me&mdash;"</p>

<p>Monty Merriweather, reaching the flat top of the rock, had
courageously<br>
flung himself, without regard for the Bad Man's desperate record,
on the<br>
startled Hicks, whose first thought was for his beloved banjo.
While he<br>
held the blithesome tormentor helpless, Butch, Beef, and Roddy
Perkins<br>
climbed the rope-ladder, and the grinning youth was soon in their
clutches,<br>
while the collegians below, like a Roman, mob aroused by the
oratory of Mr.<br>
Mark Antony, howled for revenge:</p>

<p>"Bust the old banjo over his head, Butch!"&mdash;"Sing to him,
Beef&mdash;that's<br>
an <i>awful</i> revenge on Hicks!"&mdash;"Tie him to the
rock&mdash;make him miss his<br>
breakfast!"</p>

<p>"Hicks," growled Butch, eyeing his sunny comrade ominously,
"you ought to<br>
be tarred and feathered, and shot at sunrise! When Bannister
opens, you<br>
will be a Senior, and you'll disgrace '19's dignity! This is a
sample of<br>
what we have endured at college for three years, and the worst is
yet to<br>
come! You have committed the awful atrocity of awakening Camp
Bannister<br>
at five A. M. with your ridiculous imitation, of a Western
desperado. To<br>
dampen your ardor, we will chuck you into the cold
lake&mdash;just as you are!"</p>

<p>"Help! Assistance! Aid! Succor!" shouted the happy-go-lucky
Hicks, as the<br>
behemoth Butch and Beef seized him, swinging him aloft with
ludicrous ease,<br>
"Police! Fire! Murder! Take care of my banjo, Monty. Tell all the
fellows<br>
at old Bannister I died game, and plant Hair-Trigger Bill with
his boots<br>
on! Oooo, Beef, Butch, <i>have a heart</i>, that water is
<i>cold</i>!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., relieved of banjo and revolvers, but
his<br>
shadow-like structure still clad in shoes, trousers, with
imitation "chaps"<br>
and flamboyant red shirt, with his classic head still adorned
by<br>
the sombrero, was swung back and forth by the two bulky
football<br>
stars&mdash;once&mdash;twice&mdash;</p>

<p>"Three&mdash;Let him go!" shouted Butch Brewster, and like a
falling meteor,<br>
the splinter-like youth, who had already fallen from grace, shot
from the<br>
rock, head-first, disappearing with a spectacular splash in the
icy waters<br>
of Lake Conowingo. Knowing Hicks to be as much at home in the
water as a<br>
fish in an aquarium, the hilarious squad on shore prepared to
jeer his<br>
reappearance above the water; however, their program was
interrupted by<br>
old Hinky-Dink, who stood in the cook-tent doorway, belaboring a
dishpan<br>
lustily with a soup-ladle, and shouting:</p>

<p>"Breakfus' am served; fus' an' las' call fo' breakfus; all dem
what am late<br>
don't git no breakfus!"</p>

<p>"Breakfast!" exclaimed Monty Merriweather, who, with Roddy,
Butch, and<br>
Beef, remained on the rock, despite the summons of the Cookee.
"Hurry up,<br>
Hicks, I'm ravenous. Say, Butch, suppose all that Western regalia
makes him<br>
water-logged; he's a terribly long while down there! Didn't he
look like<br>
the hero in a moving-picture feature? We've given him the
water-cure, but<br>
he will do that same stunt over again. That sunny-souled Hicks is
simply<br>
Incorrigible!"</p>

<p>A second later, the grinning, cheery countenance of T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., shot above the water, and simultaneously with his
appearance, just as<br>
though he had been chanting below the surface, for the
entertainment of the<br>
finny denizens of Lake Conowingo, the irrepressible youth
roared:</p>

<p>  "A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw&mdash;<br>
  But Sure-Shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER II</p>

<p>"LEAVE IT TO HICKS"</p>

<p>Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, known to toil-tortured Gold
and Green<br>
football squads from time immemorial as "the Slave-Driver,"
Captain Butch<br>
Brewster, and serious Deacon Radford, the star Bannister
quarter-back,<br>
foregathered around a table in the Camp Bannister grub-shack.</p>

<p>It was ten-thirty of the morning whose dawn T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., had<br>
blithesomely hailed with an impromptu musicale and saengerfest on
"Lookout<br>
There!" rock, and the football triumvirate were in togs. The
squad, over in<br>
the bunkhouse, noisily donned gridiron armor for the morning
practice, and<br>
the pestiferous Hicks was maintaining a mysterious silence,
somewhere.</p>

<p>This football trio, on whom rested the responsibility of
rounding out a<br>
winning Bannister eleven, vastly resembled a coterie of German
generals,<br>
back of the trenches, studying a war-map. Before them was spread
what<br>
seemed to be a large checker-board. It was a miniature gridiron,
with the<br>
chalk-marks painted in white; there were thumb-tacks stuck here
and there,<br>
some with flat tops painted green and gold, others, representing
the enemy,<br>
were solid red. The former had names printed on them, Butch,
Roddy,<br>
Beef, and so on. By sticking these on the board, the three
directors of<br>
Bannister's football destiny could work out new plays, and
originate<br>
possible winning lineups.</p>

<p>"We've just got to win the State Championship this season,
Coach!" declared<br>
Butch, banging the table emphatically, as he stated a
self-evident fact.<br>
"It's my last year for Old Bannister, and so with Beef and Pudge.
I'll give<br>
every ounce of strength I possess In every game, to make that
pennant float<br>
over Bannister Field!"</p>

<p>"Bannister <i>will</i> win it!" vowed the behemoth Beef, his
good-natured<br>
countenance grim, and his jaw set. "Not for five years has a Gold
and Green<br>
team won the Championship&mdash;not since the year before Butch
and I were<br>
Freshmen! We've got a splendid bunch of material to build a team
with,<br>
and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Our biggest problem is this," spoke Coach Corridan, as with a
phenomenal<br>
display of strength he took Beef McNaughton between thumb and
forefinger<br>
and placed him on the field. "We must strengthen both line and
backfield,<br>
for we lost by graduation Babe McCabe, Heavy Hughes, and Jack
Merritt. Now,<br>
to replace that lost power&mdash;"</p>

<p>Just then, from directly beneath the open window by which they
had<br>
gathered, like the midnight serenade of a romantic lover,
sounded<br>
the well-known foghorn voice of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as to
the<br>
plunkety-plunk of a banjo accompaniment, he warbled
melodiously:</p>

<p>  "Gone are the days&mdash;I used to spend with
Car-o-li-nah!<br>
  She had the sunshine in her laughter
(<i>plunkety-plunk</i>)<br>
  Just like that state they named her after&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks!" announced Butch, stealthily approaching the window,
and<br>
beckoning his companions. "Easy&mdash;look at him, Deke, there he
is, Hicks,<br>
the irrepressible! We might as well attempt to stab a rhinocerous
to death<br>
with a humming-bird's feather, as to try and reform
<i>him</i>!"</p>

<p>Arrayed like a lily of the field, a model of sartorial
splendor, Hicks<br>
occupied a chair beneath the window, tilted back gracefully
against the<br>
side of the grub-shack. He had decked his splinter-structure with
a<br>
dazzling Palm Beach suit, and a glorious pink silk shirt, off-set
by a<br>
lurid scarf. A Panama hat decorated his head, white Oxfords and
flamboyant<br>
hosiery adorned his feet, while the inevitable Cheshire cat grin
beautified<br>
his cherubic countenance. A latest "best seller" was propped on
his knees,<br>
and as he perused its thrilling pages, he carelessly strummed his
beloved<br>
banjo, and in stentorian tones chanted a sentimental ballad:</p>

<p>  "Gone are the days&mdash;the golden days I'm dreaming
of,<br>
  I think I hear her softly calling (plunkety-plunk)<br>
  'Will you be back? Will you be back? (plunk-plunk)<br>
  Back to the Car-o-li-nah you love?'"(plunkety-plunk),</p>

<p>For three golden campus years T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had
gayly pursued the<br>
even tenor (or <i>basso</i>, since he possessed a foghorn,
subterranean voice)<br>
of his Bannister career. He absolutely refused to take life
seriously, and<br>
he was forever arousing the wrath&mdash;mostly pretended, for no
one could be<br>
really angry with the genial youth&mdash;of his comrades, by
twanging his banjo<br>
and roaring out rollicking ballads at all hours. He was never so
happy<br>
as when entertaining a crowd of happy students in his cozy
quarters,<br>
or escorting a Hicks' Personally Conducted expedition downtown
for a<br>
Beef-Steak Bust, at his expense, at Jerry's, the rendezvous of
hungry<br>
collegians.</p>

<p>However, despite his butterfly existence, Hicks, possessed of
a<br>
scintillating mind, always set the scholastic pace for 1919, by
means of<br>
occasional study-sprints, as he characteristically called them.
But when it<br>
came to helping his beloved Dad realize a long-cherished ambition
to behold<br>
his only son and heir shatter Hicks, Sr.'s, celebrated athletic
records, it<br>
was a different story. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ever since he
committed<br>
the farcical <i>faux pas</i> of running the wrong way with the
pigskin in<br>
the Freshman-Sophomore football contest of his first year, had
been a<br>
super-colossal athletic joke at old Bannister.</p>

<p>His record to date, beside that reverse touchdown that won for
the<br>
Sophomores, consisted of scoring a home-run with the bases
congested, on a<br>
strike-out; of smashing hurdles and cross-bars on the track;
endangering<br>
his heedless career with the shot and hammer; and making a
ridiculous farce<br>
of every event he entered, to the vast hilarity of the students,
who, with<br>
the exception of Butch Brewster, had no idea his ridiculous
efforts were in<br>
earnest. In the high-jump, however, Hicks had given considerable
promise,<br>
which to date the grasshopper collegian had failed to keep.</p>

<p>Hicks, the lovable, impulsive, and irrepressible, with his
invariable sunny<br>
disposition, his generous nature, and his democratic, loyal
comradeship<br>
for everybody, was loved by old Bannister. The students forgave
him his<br>
pestersome ways, his frequent torturing of them with
banjo-twanging and<br>
rollicking ballads. His classmates idolized him, Juniors and
Sophomores<br>
were his true friends, and entering Freshmen always regarded
this<br>
happy-go-lucky youth as a demigod of the campus.</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, who was forever futilely lecturing the
heedless Hicks,<br>
thrust his head from the grub-shack window, fought down a grin,
and sternly<br>
arraigned his graceless comrade:</p>

<p>"Hicks, you frivolous, campus-cluttering, infinitesimal atom
of nothing,<br>
you labor under the insane delusion that college life is a
continuous<br>
vaudeville show. You absolutely refuse to take your Bannister
years<br>
seriously, you banjo-thumping, pillow-punishing,
campus-torturing<br>
nonentity. You will never grasp the splendid opportunities within
your<br>
reach! You have no ambition but to strum that banjo, roar
ridiculous songs,<br>
fuss up like a tailor's dummy, and pester your comrades, or drag
them down<br>
to Jerry's for the eats! You won't be earnest, you Human Cipher,
Before you<br>
entered Bannister, you formed your ideas and ideals of campus
life from<br>
colored posters, moving-pictures, magazine stories, and stage
dramas like<br>
'Brown of Harvard"; you have surely lived up, or down, to those
ideals,<br>
you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Them's harsh words, Butch!" joyously responded the grinning
Hicks,<br>
unchastened, for he knew good Butch Brewster would not, for a
fortune, have<br>
him forsake his care-free nature. "Thou loyal comrade of my happy
campus<br>
years, what wouldst thou of me?&mdash;have me don sack-cloth and
ashes, strike<br>
'The Funeral March' on my golden lyre, and cry out in anguish,
'ai! ai!<br>
'Nay, nay, a couple of nays; college years are all too brief;
hence I<br>
shall, by my own original process, extract from them all the
sunshine and<br>
happiness possible, and by my wonderful musical and vocal powers,
bring joy<br>
to my colleagues, who&mdash;Ouch, Butch&mdash;look out for that
nail, you inhuman<br>
elephant&mdash;"</p>

<p>Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had
effectively terminated<br>
it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting comrade
by the<br>
scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the window-ledge, into
the<br>
grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan and Deacon
Radford.<br>
Strenuous objection was registered, both by the futilely
struggling Hicks,<br>
and a nail projecting from the sill, which caught in the Palm
Beach<br>
trousers and ripped a long rent in them; fortunately, Hicks'
anatomy<br>
escaped a similar fate.</p>

<p>"A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like
a<br>
contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello,
what have we<br>
here?&mdash;the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the
Prophet! I<br>
bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No,
that's a<br>
mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up
yon hill to<br>
thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock of
aeroplanes and<br>
Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is shooting Russian
caviare<br>
at&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's
indignation,<br>
"you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by your
marvelous<br>
'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating searchlight of
your<br>
colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister must solve,
to produce<br>
a championship eleven!"</p>

<p>It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a
baffling<br>
situation, or what the French call an "<i>impasse</i>" presented
itself, to<br>
state with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!"
On<br>
most occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a
swaggering<br>
braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster
wrathful, the<br>
happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the
problem<br>
was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then
trusted to his<br>
needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the Bannister
campus<br>
well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing question by
an<br>
inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of a
satisfactory<br>
solution seemed dead.</p>

<p>For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader,
James<br>
Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a
bulwark at<br>
right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and
organized a<br>
Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister football by
refusing<br>
to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless their demands
were<br>
granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote him, smashed
the<br>
Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy, Futilely racking
his brain<br>
for a counter-attack, having blithely told the troubled campus,
"Just leave<br>
it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and then the inspiration
had come, By<br>
The Big Brotherhood of Bannister giving the upper-classmen full
government<br>
over Freshmen, a scheme successfully carried through, the peril
had been<br>
thwarted.</p>

<p>"I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat
irrelevantly,<br>
considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said&mdash;"</p>

<p>"'&mdash;Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon
Radford,<br>
humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my
steel<br>
mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.'
Say, Hicks,<br>
seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan
should<br>
do."</p>

<p>While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the
paralyzed<br>
oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny youth
knew<br>
football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team
worked out<br>
with success, and his suggestions were always weighed carefully
by the<br>
football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid scarf at
the<br>
correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the
sunshiny<br>
Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and
gave heed to<br>
the Coach.</p>

<br><br><br><br>
<img alt="aw.jpg (100K)" src="aw.jpg" height="839" width="549">
<br><br><br><br>

<p>"Here's the problem, Hicks," said the Slave-Driver, indicating
the<br>
Bannister eleven, represented by the gold and green topped
thumb-tacks.<br>
"From the line we lost Babe, a tackle, Heavy, a guard, and Jack
Merritt, a<br>
star end. Now, Monty Merriweather will hold down Jack's place O.
K.&mdash;l can<br>
shift Beef from right half to guard, and put Butch at right-half,
while<br>
Bunch Bingham can take care of Babe's old berth at tackle. But I
have no<br>
one to shoot in at full-back, when I shift Butch; you see, Hicks,
my plan<br>
is to build an eleven that can execute old-time, line-smashing
football,<br>
and up-to-date open play as well; I want fast ends and halves,
with a<br>
snappy quarter, and I have them; also, the backfield is heavy
enough for<br>
line-bucking, if I get my beefy full-back. I must have a big,
heavy, fast<br>
player, a giant who simply can't be stopped when he hits the
line. With<br>
Butch and Biff at halves, Deke at quarter. Roddy and Monty ends,
and my<br>
heavy line&mdash;why, a ponderous, irresistible Hercules at
full-back will&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Say!" grinned the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan
warmed up to<br>
his vision, "you don't want <i>much</i>, Coach! Why don't you ask
Ted Coy, the<br>
famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the
position for<br>
you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a <i>fair</i> sort
of dropkicker,<br>
to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old Bannister!
I get<br>
you, Coach&mdash;you want a fellow about the size of the
Lusitania, made of<br>
structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who will guarantee to
advance<br>
the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money refunded!</p>

<p>"Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a
chap who will<br>
play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field,
while the<br>
rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while
imbibing pink<br>
tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals
that<br>
instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange
with other<br>
teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the
scores<br>
shall be."</p>

<p>"I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular
youth. "We<br>
should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not
one within<br>
his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of
talking<br>
seriously about it Now&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Now&mdash;" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach,
you just hand me<br>
the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules,
and I'll<br>
try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never
hesitate to<br>
consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to cast
aside my<br>
own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my mental
assistance,<br>
or&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks, are you <i>crazy</i>?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved
to excitement,<br>
despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like
that do<br>
not grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was Ole Skjarsen,
in<br>
George Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely
fictitious. We<br>
know you have accomplished some great things by your
'inspirations,' but as<br>
for this&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth,
swaggering toward<br>
the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that aroused
Butch to<br>
wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit a human
juggernaut<br>
like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to round up, but, I'll
have an<br>
inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old eleven, your problem
will be<br>
solved, and you will have a team that can play fifty-seven
varieties of<br>
football. Raw revolver, my comrades."</p>

<p>When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered
gracefully out of<br>
the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with
suppressed wrath,<br>
stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon Radford a full
minute;<br>
then he grinned,</p>

<p>"That&mdash;Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire
to laugh. "What a<br>
ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means
the problem<br>
goes unsolved, for though I confess he <i>is</i> brilliant, and
his so-called<br>
'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to
rushing out and<br>
lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back&mdash;<i>bah</i>!"</p>

<p>Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green
squad climbed<br>
the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning signal
drill,<br>
their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in
radiant<br>
vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse&mdash;the
chords of the banjo,<br>
and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm September
air:</p>

<p>  "Oh, father and mother pay all the bills
(<i>plunk-plunk</i>)<br>
  And we have all the fun (<i>plunkety-plunk</i>)<br>
  With the money that we spend in college life!"</p>

<p>Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled
down the bluff,<br>
and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious
silence,<br>
like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp Bannister
seemed<br>
deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as cheerily
as ever,<br>
but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable
loneliness, a sense<br>
of tremendous loss.</p>

<p>"Hicks!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering
the<br>
stillness. "Hicks&mdash;ahoy! I say, Hicks&mdash;"</p>

<p>Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the
cook-tent toward<br>
them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning
deprecatingly<br>
at the squad:</p>

<p>"Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib
me fo' bits<br>
to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo'
Philadelphy!<br>
Heah am a letter what he lef'&mdash;"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, to whom the <i>billet-doux</i> was
addressed in T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and while
the squad<br>
listened, he read aloud the message left by that sunny-souled
youth;</p>

<p>"DEAR BUTCH:</p>

<p>"Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on!
I'm called<br>
away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow
it in the<br>
room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next
century.<br>
Give my <i>adieux</i> to Coach Corridan and the squad.</p>

<p>"Yours truthfully,</p>

<p>"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.</p>

<p>"P.S.: Tell Coach Corridan he should worry&mdash;<i>not</i>!
I'm hot on the trail of<br>
a fullback that will make Ted Coy at his coyest look like the
paralyzed<br>
inmate of an old man's home. Just leave it to Hicks!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER III</p>

<p>HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY</p>

<p>  "Has anybody here seen our Hicks?<br>
  H-i-c-k-s!<br>
  Has anybody here seen our Hicks?<br>
  If you've seen him, answer, 'Yes!'<br>
  He's tall and slim, and he wears a grin,<br>
  And his banjo-thumping is a sin.<br>
  Has <i>anybody</i> here seen our Hicks&mdash;<br>
  Hicks&mdash;and his old banjo?"</p>

<p>Captain Butch Brewster, big Beef McNaughton, the Phillyloo
Bird&mdash;that<br>
flamingo-like Senior&mdash;and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the
timorous boner<br>
whom Bannister College called the "Human Encyclopedia," roosted
on the<br>
sacred Senior Fence, between the Gymnasium and the Administration
Building.<br>
A gloomy silence, like a somber mantle, enshrouded the four
members of '19,<br>
as they listened to a rollicking parody on, "Has Anybody Here
Seen Kelly?"<br>
chanted by some Juniors in Nordyke, with T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
as the<br>
object of solicitude. Nor did the melancholy youths respond to
the queries<br>
hurled down at them from the dormitories' windows:</p>

<p>"Say, Butch Brewster, where is that crazy Hicks?"</p>

<p>"Beef, ain't our Hicks a-comin' back here no more?"</p>

<p>"Hello, Phillyloo, any word from our Hicks yet?"</p>

<p>"Ahoy there, Theophilus, where is Hicks, the Missing?"</p>

<p>The seven-thirty study-hour bell was ringing, its mellow
chimes sounding<br>
from the Administration Building tower. From the windows of the
dormitories<br>
gleams of light shot athwart the darkness. Over in Creighton
Hall, the<br>
abode of Freshmen, a silence reigned, but in Smithson, where the
Sophomores<br>
roomed, Nordyke, home of the Juniors, and Bannister, haunt of the
solemn<br>
Seniors, pandemonium obtained. In these dorm. rooms and corridors
that<br>
night, just as in the class-rooms, or on the campus, and
Bannister Field<br>
that day, there was but one topic. Whenever two students met,
came the<br>
query inevitable:</p>

<p>"Where is Hicks? Isn't Hicks coming back this year?"</p>

<p>The Freshmen, bewildered, quite naturally, at the furore made
over<br>
one missing student, asked, "Who is Hicks?" Seeking information
from<br>
upper-classmen they received innumerable tales, in the nature of
Iliad<br>
and Odyssey, concerning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; they heard of his
campus<br>
exploits, such as his originating The Big Brotherhood of
Bannister, and<br>
they laughed, at recitals of his athletic fiascos. They were told
of his<br>
inevitably sunny nature, his loyal comradeship, his generous
disposition,<br>
and as a result, the Freshmen, too, became intensely interested
in the<br>
all-important campus problem: "Where is T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.?"</p>

<p>Little Theophilus Opperdyke, whose big-rimmed spectacles, high
forehead,<br>
and bushy hair gave him an intensely owlish appearance,
sighed<br>
tremendously, stared solemnly at his class-mates, and became the
author of<br>
a most astounding statement: "I&mdash;I can't study," quavered
the "boner,"<br>
he whose tender devotion to his books was a campus tradition, and
whose<br>
loyalty to his firm friend, the blithesome Hicks, was as that of
Damon<br>
to Pythias, "I just <i>can't</i> care about my studies, without
Hicks here!<br>
Somehow, it&mdash;it doesn't seem like old times, on the
campus."</p>

<p>"I should say not!" ejaculated the Phillyloo Bird,
sepulchrally, his<br>
string-bean length draped with extreme decorative effect on the
Senior<br>
Fence, "Life at old Bannister without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is
about as<br>
interesting as 'The Annual Report of the Department of
Agriculture!'<br>
Prexy thought he started the college on its Marathon three days
ago, but<br>
Bannister will not be officially opened until Hicks stands by his
window<br>
some study-hour, twangs that old banjo, and shatters the campus
quietude<br>
with a ballad roared in his fog-horn voice!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, enshrouded in melancholy, instinctively
gazed up at the<br>
windows of the room T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had reserved on the
third floor<br>
of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., as if he fully expected to
behold<br>
the missing youth materialize. There, in lonely grandeur, waited
the<br>
sunny-souled Senior's vast aggregation of trunks, crates, and
packing<br>
boxes, together with Hicks' baggage brought down from Camp
Bannister. The<br>
bothersome banjo had disappeared at the same time the youthful
Caruso<br>
imitated the Arabs, folding his figurative tent, and stealing
away.</p>

<p>"It's a strange paradox," boomed Butch Brewster, finding that
no Hicks<br>
appeared at the window, "but for three years Bannister has
stormed at Hicks<br>
for bothering us during study-hour, or at midnight, with his
saengerfest,<br>
and now I'd give anything to see him up there, and to hear that
banjo, and<br>
his songs! It is just as if the sun doesn't shine on the campus,
when T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., is away!"</p>

<p>Bannister College had been running for three days "on one
cylinder," as<br>
the Phillyloo Bird quaintly phrased it, on account of the
gladsome Hicks'<br>
mysterious absence. Not a word had the Head Coach, Captain
Brewster, the<br>
football squad, or any of the collegians received from the
blithesome<br>
youth, since the <i>billet-doux</i> he left with old Hinky-Dink
at Camp<br>
Bannister. Old students, returning to the campus for another
golden year,<br>
invaded Hicks' room in Bannister, ready to enjoy the cozy den of
that<br>
jolly Senior, but they encountered silence and desolation. No one
had the<br>
slightest knowledge of where the cheery Hicks could be; they
missed his<br>
singing and banjo strumming, his pestersome ways, his cheerful
good nature,<br>
his cozy quarters always open house to all, and his Hicks'
Personally<br>
Conducted tours downtown to Jerry's for those celebrated
Beefsteak Busts.</p>

<p>A telegram to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in Pittsburgh,
sent by the<br>
worried Butch Brewster, had brought this concise response:</p>

<p>No knowledge of Thomas' whereabouts. He should be at
Bannister.</p>

<p>"Queer," reflected Beef McNaughton, shifting his bulk on the
protesting<br>
fence. "We know Hicks will be back, for all his luggage is stowed
away<br>
in his room, and we are sure he is giving us all this mystery
just for a<br>
joke&mdash;he dearly loves to arrange a sensational and dramatic
climax&mdash;but<br>
we just can't get used to his not being on the campus. When
Theophilus<br>
Opperdyke can't study, it's high time the S.O.S. signal was sent
to T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr."</p>

<p>"That is not the worst of it," growled Captain Butch Brewster,
his arm<br>
across little Theophilus' shoulders. "The football squad misses
Hicks,<br>
Beef. For the past two seasons he has sat at the training-table,
his<br>
invariable good-humor, his Cheshire cat grin, and his sunny ways
have kept<br>
the fellows in fine mental trim so they haven't worried over the
game. But<br>
now, just as soon as he left Camp Bannister, the barometer of
their spirits<br>
went down to zero and every meal at training-table is a funeral.
Coach<br>
Corridan can't inject any pep into the scrimmages, and he says if
Hicks<br>
doesn't return soon, Bannister's chances of the Championship are
gone."</p>

<p>"As Theophilus says," responded the gloomy Beef, "we just
can't get used<br>
to his not being here. We miss his good-nature, his sunny smile,
the jolly<br>
crowds in his cozy quarters&mdash;why, the campus is talking of
nothing but<br>
Hicks&mdash;and I don't know what Bannister will do after Hicks
graduates&mdash;shut<br>
down, I suppose!"</p>

<p>"Well, you know," grinned the Phillyloo Bird, his cadaverous
structure<br>
humped over like a turkey on the roost, "our Hicks hath sallied
forth on<br>
the trail of a full-back, a Hercules who will smash the other
elevens to<br>
infinitesimal smithereens! He told the squad to just leave it to
Hicks,<br>
so don't be surprised if he is making flying trips to Yale,
Harvard, and<br>
Princeton, striving to corral some embryo Ted Coy. Remember how
Hicks often<br>
fulfills his rash prophecies!"</p>

<p>"A Herculean full-back&mdash;Bah!" fleered Butch, for all the
campus knew of<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, extremely rash vow to unearth a
"phenom." "The<br>
truth of it is, fellows. Hicks has failed to locate such a wonder
as Coach<br>
Corridac outlined, for there ain't no such animal! He doesn't
like to<br>
come back to Bannister without having made good his promise,
without that<br>
Gargantuan giant he vowed to round up for the Gold and
Green."</p>

<p>Just then, as if to substantiate Butch's jeering statement, a
youth wearing<br>
the uniform and cap of The Western Union Telegraph Company
and<br>
advancing across the campus at that terrific speed always
exhibited by<br>
messenger-boys, appeared in the offing. Periscoping the four
Seniors on the<br>
fence, he navigated his course accordingly and pulling a yellow
envelope<br>
from his cap, he queried, in charmingly chaste English:</p>

<p>"Say, kin youse tell me where to find a feller name o'
Brewster, wot's<br>
cap'n o' de football bunch?"</p>

<p>"Right here, Little Nemo," advised the Phillyloo Bird,
solemnly. "Hast thou<br>
any messages from New York for me? John D. Rockefeller promised
to wire me<br>
whether or not to purchase war-stocks."</p>

<p>The Phillyloo Bird, at this stage of his monologue, was
interrupted by a<br>
yell that would have caused a full-blooded Choctaw Indian to turn
pale.<br>
This came from good Butch Brewster, who, having signed for the
message,<br>
and imagined all manner of catastrophes, from world-wars,
earthquakes,<br>
pestilence and loss of wealth, down to bad news from Hicks, after
the<br>
fashion of those receiving telegrams but seldom, had scanned the
yellow<br>
slip. Never before, or afterward, not even when the luckless
Butch fell in<br>
love, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., assisted Cupid, did the
pachydermic Butch<br>
act so insanely as on this occasion.</p>

<p>"Whoop-<i>eee! Yee-ow! Wow-wow-wow</i>!" howled the supposedly
solemn Senior,<br>
tumbling from the Senior fence and rolling on the campus like a
decapitated<br>
rooster. "Hip-hip-<i>hooray</i>! Ring the bell, Beef, get the
fellows out, have<br>
the Band ready, Oh, where is Coach Corridan? Read it, Beef,
Theophilus,<br>
Phillyloo. Oh, Hicks is <i>coming</i> and he's got&mdash;"</p>

<p>It is possible that little Theophilus, who firmly believed
that big Butch<br>
Brewster had gone emotionally insane, would have fled for help,
but at that<br>
juncture members of the Gold and Green football squad, with Head
Coach<br>
Patrick Henry Corridan, appeared, marching funereally toward the
Gym.,<br>
where a signal quiz was booked for seven forty-five. Beholding
the<br>
paralyzing spectacle of their captain apparently in paroxysms on
the grass,<br>
Hefty Hollingsworth, Biff Pemberton, Monty Merriweather and Pudge
Langdon<br>
hurled themselves on his tonnage, while Roddy Perkins sat on his
head, and<br>
wrested the telegram from his grasp,</p>

<p>"Call up Matteawan," shouted Roddy, unfolding the slip, "Butch
is getting<br>
barmy in the dome, he&mdash;Oh, Coach, fellows&mdash;<i>great
joy</i>! Just heed."</p>

<p>James Roderick Perkins, as excited as a Senator about to make
his first<br>
speech, read aloud the telegram, on which the heedless Hicks had
triple<br>
rates:</p>

<p>"BUTCH:</p>

<p>"Coming 8.30 P. M. express today. Discharge entire
eleven&mdash;got whole team<br>
in one. Knock out partitions between five rooms. Make space for
Thor, the<br>
Prodigious Prodigy! Leave it to Hicks!</p>

<p>"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR."</p>

<p>"Hicks is coming!" shrieked the Phillyloo Bird, soaring down
from the<br>
Senior Fence like a condor. "He will be here in less than an
hour; he sent<br>
this wire just before his train left Philadelphia. Money is no
object, when<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wants to mystify old Bannister."</p>

<p>"'Discharge entire eleven,'" quoth Butch Brewster, having
somewhat subdued<br>
his frenzy. "'Got whole team in one&mdash;knock out partitions
between <i>five</i><br>
rooms&mdash;make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy!' Now,
what in the world<br>
has that lunatical Hicks done? Who can Thor be?"</p>

<p>Tug Cardiff, Buster Brown, Bunch Bingham, Scoop Sawyer, little
Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth, Don Carterson, and Cherub Challoner, not having
given their<br>
brawn to the subduing of Butch, now kindly donated their brain,
in all<br>
manner of weird suggestions. According to their various surmises,
T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., had lured the Strong Man away from Barnum
and Bailey's<br>
Circus, had in some way reincarnated the mythical Norse god,
Thor, had<br>
hired some Greco-Roman wrestler, or by other devices too numerous
and<br>
ridiculous to mention, had produced a full-back according to
Coach<br>
Corridan's blue-prints and specifications.</p>

<p>Big Beef McNaughton, seized with an inspiration that
supplied<br>
locomotive-power to his huge frame, lumbered into the Gym., and
soon<br>
appeared with monster megaphones, used in "rooting" for Gold and
Green<br>
teams, which he handed out to his comrades. Then the riotous
squad, at his<br>
suggestion, sprinted for the Quad., that inner quadrangle or
court around<br>
which the four class dormitories, forming the sides of a square,
were<br>
built; anyone desiring an audience could be sure of it here,
since the<br>
collegians in all four dorms. could rush to the Quadrangle side
and look<br>
down from the windows. In the Quadrangle, under the brilliant
arc-lights,<br>
the exuberant youths paused,</p>

<p>"One&mdash;two&mdash;three&mdash;let 'er go!" boomed Beef, and
the football squad, in<br>
<i>basso profundo</i>, aided by the Phillyloo Bird's uncertain
tenor, and<br>
Theophilus' quavery treble, roared in a tremendous vocal
explosion that<br>
shook the dormitories:</p>

<p>"Hicks is coming! Hicks is coming! Everybody out on the
campus! Get ready<br>
to welcome our T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! Hicks is bringing
Bannister's<br>
full-back&mdash;a Prodigious Prodigy!"</p>

<p>Windows rattled up, heads were thrust out, a fusillade of
questions<br>
bombarded the squad in the Quadrangle below; from the three
upper-class<br>
dormitories erupted hordes of howling, shouting youths, and soon
the Quad.<br>
was filled with a singing, yelling, madly happy crowd. The
Bannister Band,<br>
that famous campus musical organization, following a time-honored
habit of<br>
playing on every possible occasion, gladsomely tuned up and soon
the<br>
noise was deafening, while study-hour, as prescribed by the
Faculty, was<br>
forgotten.</p>

<p>"Everybody on the campus, at once!" Butch Brewster,
Master-of-Ceremonies,<br>
boomed through his megaphone, having aroused excitement to the
highest<br>
pitch by reading Hicks' telegram. "Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus
will soon<br>
heave into sight. Let the Band blare, make a <i>big noise</i>.
Let's show Hicks<br>
how glad we are to have him back to old Bannister."</p>

<p>It is historically certain that Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte
returning from Jena<br>
and Austerlitz, Mr. Julius Caesar, home at Rome from his
Conquests, or Mr.<br>
Alexander the Great (Conqueror, not National League pitcher)
never received<br>
such a welcome as did T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., from his Bannister
comrades<br>
that night. To the excited students, massed on the campus before
the Gym.<br>
awaiting his arrival, every second seemed a century; everybody
talked at<br>
once until the hubbub rivaled that of a Woman's Suffrage
Convention. Thomas<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., was actually returning to old Bannister; and
he was<br>
bringing "The Prodigious Prodigy," whatever that was, with him.
Knowing the<br>
cheery Senior's intense love of doing the dramatic and his great
ambition<br>
to startle his Alma Mater with some sensational stunt, they could
hardly<br>
wait for old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus to roll up the
driveway,</p>

<p>"Here he comes!" shrieked, little Skeet Wigglesworth, an
excitable Senior,<br>
who had climbed a tree to keep watch. "Here comes our Hicks!"</p>

<p>"Honk&mdash;Honk!" To the incessant blaring of a raucous horn,
old Dan<br>
Flannagan's jitney-bus moved up the driveway. The genial Irish
Jehu, who<br>
for over twenty years had transported Bannister collegians and
alumni<br>
to and from College Hill in a ramshackle hack drawn by Lord
Nelson, an<br>
antiquated, somnambulistic horse, had yielded to modern invention
at<br>
last. Lord Nelson having become defunct during vacation, Old Dan,
with<br>
a collection taken up by several alumni at Commencement, had
bought a<br>
battered Ford, and constructed therewith a jitney-bus. This
conveyance was<br>
fully as rattle-trap in appearance as the traditional hack had
been, but<br>
the returning collegians hailed it with glee.</p>

<p>"All hail Hicks!" howled Butch Brewster, beside himself with
joy,<br>
"Altogether&mdash;the Bannister yell for&mdash;Hicks!"</p>

<p>With half the collegians giving the yell, a number
shouting<br>
indiscriminately, the Bannister Band blaring furiously, "Behold,
The<br>
Conquering Hero Comes," with the youths a yelling, howling,
shrieking,<br>
dancing mass, old Dan Flannagan, adding his quota of noises with
the<br>
Claxon, brought his bus to a stop. This was a hilarious spectacle
in<br>
itself, for on its sides the Bannister students had painted:</p>

<p>HENRY FORD'S "PIECE-OF-A-SHIP," THE DOVE!<br>
ALL RIDING IN THIS JIT DO<br>
SO AT THEIR OWN RISK! TEN CENTS<br>
FOR A JOY-RIDE TO COLLEG HILL! YES,<br>
IT'S A FORD! WHAT DO YOU CARE? GET ABOARD!</p>

<p>On the roof of "The Dove," or "The Crab," as the collegians
called it when<br>
it skidded sideways, perched precariously that well-known,
beloved youth,<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. He clutched his pestersome banjo and was
vigorously<br>
strumming the strings and apparently howling a ballad, lost in
the<br>
unearthly turmoil. As the jitney-bus stopped, the grinning Hicks
arose, and<br>
from his lofty, position made a profound bow.</p>

<p>"Speech! Speech! Speech!" A mighty shout arose, and Hicks
raised his hand<br>
for silence, which was immediately delivered to him.</p>

<p>"Fellows, one and all," he shouted, a mist before his eyes,
for his<br>
impulsive soul was touched by the ovation, "I&mdash;I am
<i>glad</i> to be back!<br>
Say&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;well, I'm glad to be back&mdash;that's
all!"</p>

<p>At this masterly oration, which, despite its brevity,
contained volumes of<br>
feeling, the Bannister students went wild&mdash;for a longer
period than any<br>
political convention ever cheered a nominated candidate, they
cheered T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr.
"Roar&mdash;roar&mdash;roar&mdash;<i>roar</i>!" in deafening
sound-waves,<br>
the noise swept across the campus; never had football idol,
baseball hero,<br>
or any athletic demigod, in all Bannister's history, been
accorded such a<br>
tremendous ovation.</p>

<p>"Fellows," called T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., climbing down from
his precarious<br>
perch, "stand back; I have brought to Bannister the 'Prodigious
Prodigy.'<br>
I have rounded up a full-back who will beat Ballard all by
himself. Behold<br>
the new Gold and Green football eleven, 'Thor'!"</p>

<p>From the grinning Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, like a Russian
bear charging<br>
from its den, lumbered a being whose enormous bulk fairly
astounded the<br>
speechless youths; Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Tug Cardiff,
Bunch<br>
Bingham, Buster Brown, and Pudge Langdon were popularly regarded
as the<br>
last word in behemoths, but this "Thor" dwarfed them, towered
above them<br>
like a Colossus over Lilliputians. He was a youth, and yet a
veritable<br>
Hercules. Over six feet he stood, with a massive head, covered
with tousled<br>
white hair, a powerful neck, broad shoulders, a vast chest. To a
judge of<br>
athletes, he would tip the scales at a hundred and ninety pounds,
all solid<br>
muscle, for that superb physique held not an ounce of superfluous
flesh.</p>

<p>"Hicks," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, gazing at the
mountain of<br>
muscle, "if <i>size</i> means anything, you have brought old
Bannister an entire<br>
football squad! What splendid material to train for the Big
Games, why&mdash;he<br>
will be irresistible!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER IV</p>

<p>QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER</p>

<p>  "I didn't raise my Ford to be a <i>jitney</i>&mdash;<br>
  To run the streets, and stay out late at night!<br>
  Who dares to put a jitney sign, upon it&mdash;<br>
  And send my <i>peace-ship</i> out for fares to fight?"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., standing by his open window at 3 P. M.
one<br>
afternoon a week after his sensational return to Bannister
College, with<br>
the "Prodigious Prodigy" in tow, indulged in the soul-satisfying
pastime of<br>
twanging his banjo, and roaring, in his subterranean voice, a
parody on "I<br>
Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier." It was actually the first
Caruso-like<br>
outburst of the pestersome youth that year, but his saengerfest
brought<br>
vociferous howls of protest from campus and dormitories:</p>

<p>"Bow-wow-wow! The Grand Opery season is starting!"</p>

<p>"Sing some records for a talking-machine company, Hicks!"</p>

<p>"Kill that tom-cat! Listen to the back-fence musicale!"</p>

<p>"Say, Hicks&mdash;we'll take your word for that noise!"</p>

<p>On the Gym. steps, loafing a few moments before jogging out to
Bannister<br>
Field for a strenuous scrimmage under the personal supervision
of<br>
Slave-Driver Corridan, the Gold and Green football squad had
gathered. It<br>
was from these stalwart gridiron gladiators that the caustic
criticism of<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, vocal atrocities emanated, and the
imitation of a<br>
mournful hound by "Ichabod," the skyscraping Senior, was indeed
phenomenal.<br>
Added to the howls, whistles, jeers, and shouts of the squad,
were like<br>
condemnations from other collegians, sky-larking on the campus,
or in the<br>
dorms.</p>

<p>"At that," grinned Captain Butch Brewster happily, "it surely
makes me feel<br>
jubilant to hear Hicks' foghorn voice shattering the echoes, with
his<br>
banjo strumming disturbing the peace&mdash;for which offense it
shall soon be<br>
arrested. We can truly say that old Bannister is now officially
opened for<br>
another year, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., has performed his
annual rite&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Right&mdash;!" scoffed big Pudge Langdon, indignantly, as he
gazed up at the<br>
happy-go-lucky youth, at the window of his room on the
third-floor, campus<br>
side, of Bannister Hall, "Hicks ought to be tarred and feathered;
there is<br>
<i>nothing right</i> in the way he has acted since his return to
college! He<br>
struts around like Herman, the Master-Magician, and all the
fellows fully<br>
expect to see him produce white rabbits from his cap, or make
varicolored<br>
flags out of his handkerchief."</p>

<p>"We ought to toss him in a blanket," stormed Beef McNaughton,
in ludicrous<br>
rage. "Ever since he mystified Bannister by going out and
corralling a<br>
Hercules who is an entire eleven in himself, Hicks has maintained
that<br>
sphinx-like silence as to how he achieved the feat, and he
swaggers around,<br>
enshrouded in <i>mystery</i>! All we know is that 'Thor' is John
Thorwald, of<br>
Norwegian descent. If we ask <i>him</i> for information, that
wretch Hicks has<br>
him trained to say, 'Ask the little fellow, Hicks!'"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in truth, had acted in a most
reprehensible manner<br>
since that memorable night when he brought "Thor, the Prodigious
Prodigy,"<br>
to the campus. Not that he ceased to be the same sunny-souled,
popular and<br>
friendly youth. The collegians, happy at finding his room
open-house again,<br>
flocked to his cozy quarters, Freshmen <i>fell</i> under the
spell of his<br>
generous nature, his Beef-Steak Busts, down at Jerry's were
nightly<br>
occurrences, and he was the same Hicks as of old. But, after the
dramatic<br>
manner in which Hicks had mysteriously made good the rash vow
uttered at<br>
Camp Bannister and had brought to Coach Corridan a blond-haired
giant who<br>
seemed destined to perform prodigies at full-back, the sunny
Senior had<br>
evidently labored under the delusion that he was "Kellar, The
Great<br>
Magician."</p>

<p>Instead of relieving the tortured curiosity of the students,
wild to know<br>
how and where Hicks had unearthed this physical Hercules, who in
every way<br>
filled the details of Head Coach Corridan's "blue-prints," T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., enjoying to the full this novel method of torturing
his<br>
comrades, made a baffling mystery of the affair, much to the
indignation of<br>
his friends.</p>

<p>"Just leave it to Hicks," he would say, when the Bannister
youths<br>
cajoled, implored, threatened, or argued. "Thor is eligible to
play four<br>
years of football at old Bannister. I call him Thor, after the
great Norse<br>
god, Thor; he is of Norwegian descent. That is all of the
Billion-Dollar<br>
Mystery I can disclose; ten thousand dollars offered for the
correct<br>
solution."</p>

<p>"Here comes Scoop Sawyer," said Monty Merriweather, as that
Senior, waving<br>
his arms in air, catapulted from Bannister Hall, and strode
toward the<br>
squad on the Gym. steps; his appearance registered wrath, in
photo-play<br>
parlance, and on reaching his comrades he immediately acquainted
them with<br>
its cause.</p>

<p>"Listen to that Hicks!" he exploded, gesticulating with a
sheaf of papers.<br>
"Hicks, the mocking-bird! He is mocking <i>us</i>&mdash;with his
'Billion-Dollar<br>
Mystery!' Say&mdash;here I am writing to Jack Merritt; he played
football four<br>
years for old Bannister; he was captain of the Gold and Green
eleven; last<br>
Commencement he graduated, and the last thing he said to me was,
'Scoop,<br>
old pal, write to me next fall, tell me everything about the
football<br>
season; keep me posted as to new material!' Everything&mdash;keep
him posted<br>
as to new material&mdash;Bah! If I write that Hicks has brought a
fellow he<br>
calls 'Thor,' who spreads the regulars over the field, Jack will
want<br>
to know the details, and&mdash;that villainous Hicks won't
divulge his dread<br>
secret!"</p>

<p>At this moment, Scoop Sawyer, so-called because he was
ambitious to be a<br>
newspaper reporter, after graduation, and for his humorous
articles in the<br>
Bannister Weekly, had his intense wrath soothed by that which
has<br>
"power to soothe the savage breast"; T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
displaying a<br>
wonderful originality by composing, then chanting, his parody,
concluded<br>
the chorus roaring lustily, to a rollicking banjo
accompaniment:</p>

<p>  "If street car companies gave seats to all patrons<br>
  The strap-hangers in jitneys would not ride.<br>
  There'd be no jits. today<br>
  If Ford owners would say,<br>
  I didn't raise my Ford to be a&mdash;jitney!"</p>

<p>"That is too much!" raged Captain Butch Brewster, facing his
excited<br>
colleagues. "Come on, fellows, we'll invade Hicks' room, read him
Scoop's<br>
letter to Jack Merritt, and <i>make</i> him solve the Mystery!
We're done with<br>
diplomacy; now, we'll deliver the ultimatum; when the squad
returns from<br>
scrimmage, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will tell us all about Thor,
or be<br>
tossed in a blanket! Are you with me?"</p>

<p>"We are <i>ahead</i> of you!" howled Roddy Perkins, leading a
wild charge for<br>
the entrance to Bannister Hall. Following him up the two flights
of stairs<br>
with thunderous tread came Butch, Beef, Monty, Biff, Hefty,
Pudge, Tug,<br>
Ichabod, Bunch, Buster, Bus Norton, and several second-team
players,<br>
Cherub, Chub Chalmers, Don, Skeet, and Scoop Sawyer with his
letter. With<br>
a terrific, blood-chilling clatter, and hideous howls, the
Hicks-quelling<br>
Expedition roared down the third corridor of Bannister, and
surged into the<br>
room of that tantalizing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!</p>

<p>"Safety first!" shrieked that cheery collegian, stowing his
banjo in the<br>
closet and making a strenuous but futile effort to dive
head-first beneath<br>
the bed, being forcibly restrained by Beef, who clung to his left
ankle.<br>
"Say, to what am I indebted for the honor of this call? Why, when
I got<br>
back to Bannister, you fellows gushed, 'Oh, we're <i>so</i> glad
you're back,<br>
Hicks, old top; we missed even your saengerfests,' and when I
start one&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks," pronounced Butch Brewster grimly, holding the genial
offender<br>
by the scruff of the neck, "you tantalizing, aggravating,
irritating,<br>
lunatical, conscienceless degenerate! You assassin of Father
Time, you<br>
disturber of the peace, <i>heed</i>! Scoop Sawyer is writing to
Jack Merritt, to<br>
tell about the football team, and Bannister's chances of the
Championship;<br>
he wants to tell Jack all about this Thor! Now, you have acted
like<br>
Herman-Kellar-Thurston long enough, and hear our final word. Read
Scoop's<br>
letter, and if when you finish its perusal you fail to give us
full<br>
information, and answer all questions about Thor&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The football team will toss you in a blanket until you do!"
finished Monty<br>
Merriweather, "We intended to wait until after the scrimmage, but
Butch<br>
evidently believes we should end your bothersome mystery as once,
and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"'Curiosity killed the cat!'" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.;
then seeing<br>
the avenues and boulevards of escape were closed, but fighting
for time,<br>
"let me peruse said missive indited by our literarily
overbalanced Scoop. I<br>
am reluctant to dispel the clouds of mystery, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>Scoop Sawyer thrust the typewritten pages of the
letter&mdash;composed on<br>
the battered old typewriter in the editorial sanctum of the
Bannister<br>
Weekly&mdash;into Hicks' grasp and with a grin, that blithesome
youth read:</p>

<p>Bannister College, Sept, 27.</p>

<p>DEAR OLD JACK:</p>

<p>There is so <i>much</i> to tell you, old pal, that I scarcely
know where to<br>
start, but you want to know about the football eleven, so I'll
write about<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery,' as he
calls it;<br>
about Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. You well know what a
scatter-brained<br>
wretch Hicks is, and how he dearly loves to plot dramatic
climaxes&mdash;to<br>
mystify old Bannister. Just now Hicks has the campus as wrathful
as it is<br>
possible to be with that lovable youth; he has originated a great
mystery,<br>
and achieved a seemingly impossible feat, and instead of
explaining it, he<br>
swaggers around like a Hindoo mystic enshrouded in mystery and
the fellows<br>
are wild enough to tar and feather the incorrigible villain!</p>

<p>To get off to a sprint-start, up in Camp Bannister, before
college opened,<br>
when the squad was in training camp, Butch Brewster says that
Coach<br>
Corridan one day, before Hicks, expressed a fervid ambition to
find a huge,<br>
irresistible fullback&mdash;</p>

<p>Here the chronicle must hang fire, while T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., grinning<br>
at the wrath his mysterious behavior aroused, peruses those
sections of<br>
Scoop Sawyer's epistle telling of two scenes already described;
first,<br>
the one in the Camp Bannister grub-shack, where Head Coach
Corridan<br>
blue-printed the Gargantuan athlete he desired, and the
blithesome Hicks<br>
confidently requested that the Herculean task be left to him;
second, the<br>
scene of intense excitement on the campus the night that the
missing Hicks<br>
returned personally conducting that mountain of muscle, the
blond-haired<br>
Thor.</p>

<p>Having grinned at these descriptions, the pestiferous Hicks
scanned a<br>
picturesque description by Scoop of the events that transpired
between that<br>
memorable night and the present invasion of the sunny Senior's
room by the<br>
indignant squad.</p>

<p>&mdash;Naturally, Jack, old Bannister was intensely curious to
know who this<br>
"Thor" could be, and how Hicks unearthed such a giant. But,
instead of<br>
swaggering a trifle, as he inevitably does, and saying, 'Oh, I
told you<br>
just to leave it to Hicks!' then telling all about it, after
accomplishing<br>
what everyone believed a ridiculously impossible quest, he
maintains that<br>
provokingly mysterious silence, and John Thorwald (we know his
name,<br>
anyway) stolidly refers us to Hicks. So where Thor originated or
how under<br>
the sun Hicks got on his trail, after making his rash vow to
corral a<br>
mighty fullback, is a deep, dark mystery.</p>

<p>Now for Thor himself. Words cannot describe that Prodigious
Prodigy; he<br>
must be seen to be believed! We do know that he is John Thorwald,
and of<br>
distinctly Norwegian descent, so that calling him after the
mythic Norse<br>
god is extremely appropriate. And he is reminiscent of the great
Thor, with<br>
his vast strength and prowess. Thanks to T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.'s, love of<br>
mystery, and of tantalizing old Bannister, we know nothing of
Thorwald's<br>
past, but we are sure he has lived and toiled among <i>men</i>,
to possess<br>
that powerful build. I can't describe him, old man, without
resorting to<br>
exaggeration, for ordinary words and phrases are utterly
inadequate with<br>
Thor! Conjure up a vision of Gulliver among the Lilliputians and
you can<br>
picture him towering over us. He is a Viking of old, with his
fair features<br>
and blond hair. Probably twenty-five years old, he has a powerful
frame and<br>
prodigious strength, he dwarfs such behemoths as Butch and Beef,
and makes<br>
such insignificant mortals as little Theophilus and myself seem
like<br>
insects!</p>

<p>Thor is so <i>big</i>, Jack, that when he gets in a room, he
crowds everyone<br>
into the corridor, and fills it alone. No wonder Hicks
telegraphed to knock<br>
out the partitions between five rooms to make space for Thor!
When he<br>
stands on the campus he blots out several sections of scenery,
and the<br>
college disappears, giving the impression he has swallowed it.
Thor is a<br>
slow-minded being, but possessed of a grim determination. To get
an idea<br>
into his mind requires a blackboard and Chautauqua lecturer, but
once he<br>
masters it, he never lets go; so it will be with football
signals, once let<br>
him grasp a play, he will never be confused. He is simply a huge,
stolid<br>
giant. He has a bulldog purpose to get an education, and nothing
else<br>
matters. As for college spirit, the glad comradeship of the
campus, he has<br>
no time for it; he pays no attention to the fellows at all, only
to Hicks.</p>

<p>His devotion to that wretch is pathetic! He follows Hicks
around like a<br>
huge mastiff after a terrier, or an ocean leviathan towed by a
tug-boat; he<br>
seems absolutely helpless without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and so
we have<br>
a daily Hicks' personally conducted tour of Thor to interest us.
Briefly,<br>
Jack, John Thorwald is a slow-moving, slow-minded, grimly bulldog
giant,<br>
who has come to Bannister to study, and as for any other phase of
campus<br>
existence, he has never awakened to it!</p>

<p>Now for the football story: Well, the day after Hicks'
sensational arrival,<br>
which I described, Coach Corridan, Captain Butch Brewster, Beef,
Buster,<br>
Pudge, Monty, and Roddy with yours truly, went to Thor's room in
Creighton<br>
just before football practice. We found that Colossus, who had
matriculated<br>
as a Freshman, aided by Hicks, patiently masticating mental food
as served<br>
by Ovid. Coach Corridan said, 'Come on, Thorwald, over to the
Gym.; we'll<br>
fix you out with togs, if we can get two suits big enough to make
one for<br>
your bulk! Ever play the game?' 'I play some,' rumbled Thor
stolidly, never<br>
raising his eyes from his Latin. 'Don't bother me, I want to
<i>study.</i><br>
I have not time for such foolishness. I am here to study, to get
an<br>
education!' 'But,' urged the coach earnestly, 'you <i>must</i>
play football for<br>
your Alma Mater, for old Bannister. Why, you&mdash;you
<i>must</i>, that's all!' Thor<br>
gazed at Hicks questioningly&mdash;I forgot to add that insect's
name&mdash;and<br>
asked, 'Is it so, Hicks? I <i>got</i> to play for the college?'
And when Hicks<br>
grinned, 'Sure, Thor, it must be did. Bannister expects you to
smear the<br>
other teams over the landscape,' that blond Norwegian Viking
said, 'Well,<br>
then, I play.'</p>

<p>All Bannister turned out to behold the "Prodigious Prodigy" on
the football<br>
field. Somewhere&mdash;Hicks won't divulge where&mdash;Thor has
learned the rudiments<br>
of the game. With that bulldog tenacity of his, he has learned
them well.<br>
Hence he was ready for the scrubs, and in the practice game it
was a<br>
veritable slaughter of the innocents. The 'Varsity could not stop
Thor.<br>
Remember 'Ole' Skjarsen, the big Swede of George Fitch's 'Siwash
College'<br>
tales? Thor, after the ten minutes required to teach him a play,
would take<br>
the ball and just wade through the regulars for big gains. The
only way to<br>
stop him was for the entire eleven to cling affectionately to his
bulk,<br>
and then he transported them several yards. He is a phenom, a
veritable<br>
Prodigious Prodigy, and maybe old Bannister isn't <i>wild</i>
with enthusiasm.<br>
His development will be slow but sure, and by the time the big
games for<br>
the championship come, he will be a whole team in himself. Right
now he<br>
goes through daily scrimmage as solemnly as if performing a
sacred rite. He<br>
doesn't thrill with college spirit, but as for
football&mdash;</p>

<p>Leaving Hicks to read the rest of Scoop Sawyer's long missive,
terminating<br>
with indignant condemnation of the sunny youth's love of mystery,
the<br>
terrific enthusiasm roused at old Bannister by the daily
appearance on<br>
Bannister Field of Thor, and his irresistible marches through the
'Varsity,<br>
must be chronicled and explained.</p>

<p>Not for five seasons, not since the year before Hicks, Pudge,
Butch, Beef<br>
and the others of 1919 were Freshmen, had the Gold and Green
corraled that<br>
greatest glory, The State Intercollegiate Football Championship!
In Captain<br>
Butch's Sophomore year, he had flung his bulk into the fray,
training,<br>
sacrificing, fighting like a Trojan, only to see the pennant lost
by a<br>
scant three inches, as Jack Merritt's forty-yard drop-kick for
the goal<br>
that would have won the Championship struck the cross-bar and
bounded back<br>
into the field. And the past season-old Bannister could still
vision that<br>
tragic scene of the biggest game.</p>

<p>The students could picture Captain Brewster, with the
Bannister eleven a<br>
few yards from Ballard's goal-line, and the touchdown that would
give the<br>
Gold and Green that supreme glory. One minute to play; Deacon
Radford had<br>
given Butch the pigskin, and like a berserker, he fought entirely
through<br>
the scrimmage. But a kick on the head had blinded him, in the
<i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i>&mdash;free<br>
of tacklers, with the goal-line, victory, and the Championship so
near, he<br>
staggered, reeled blindly, crashed into an upright, and toppled
backward,<br>
senseless on the field, while the Referee's whistle announced the
end of<br>
the game, and glory to Ballard. Even then, after the first
terrible shock<br>
of the loss, of the cruel blow fate dealt the Gold and Green
two<br>
successive seasons, the slogan was: "Next year&mdash;Bannister
will win the<br>
Championship&mdash;<i>next year</i>!"</p>

<p>It was now "next year!" Losing only Jack Merritt, Babe McCabe
and Heavy<br>
Hughes from the line-up, and having Monty Merrlweather and Bunch
Bingham,<br>
fully as good, Coach Corridan's Gold and Green eleven, before the
season<br>
started, seemed a better fighting machine than even the one of
the year<br>
before. But when the irrepressible T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in
some<br>
mysterious fashion making good his rash vow to produce a smashing
full-back<br>
that can't be stopped, towed that stolid, blond Colossus, Thor,
to old<br>
Bannister, enthusiasm broke all limits!</p>

<p>Mass-meetings were held every night. Speeches by Coaches,
Captain, players,<br>
Faculty, and students, aroused the campus to the highest pitch;
every day,<br>
the entire student-body, with The Bannister Band, turned out on
Bannister<br>
Field to cheer the eleven, and to watch the Prodigious Prodigy
perform<br>
valorous deeds, like the god Thor. "Bannister College&mdash;State
Championship!"<br>
was the cry, and with the giant Thor to present an irresistible
catapulting<br>
that could not be stopped, the Gold and Green exultantly awaited
the big<br>
games with Hamilton and Ballard.</p>

<p>And yet, the stolid, unemotional, unawakened Thor, on whom
every hope of<br>
the Championship was based, whom all Bannister came out to watch
every day,<br>
practiced as he studied, doggedly, silently. It was evident to
all that<br>
he hated the grind, that he wanted to quit, that his heart was
not in the<br>
game, but for some cause, he drove his Herculean body ahead, and
could not<br>
be stopped!</p>

<p>"Now, you abandoned wretch," said Butch Brewster grimly, as
the<br>
happy-go-lucky Hicks finished Scoop's letter, and glanced about
him wildly<br>
seeking a way of escape, "in one minute you will tell us all
about John<br>
Thorwald, alias 'Thor,' or be tossed sky-high in a blanket by the
football<br>
squad, and please believe me, you'll break all altitude
records!"</p>

<p>"Spare me, you banditti!" pleaded Hicks, reluctant to cease
torturing<br>
Bannister with his Billion-Dollar Mystery, yet equally unwilling
to aviate<br>
from a blanket heaved by the husky athletes. "Why seek ye to
question the<br>
ways of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.? You have your Prodigious
Prodigy&mdash;your<br>
smashing full-back is distributing the 'Varsity over the scenery
with<br>
charming nonchalance that promises dire catastrophe for other
teams, once<br>
he makes the regulars, so&mdash;"</p>

<p>At that dramatic moment, just as Butch Brewster glanced at
Hicks'<br>
alarm-clock, to start the minute of grace, a startling
interruption saved<br>
the gladsome youth from having to make a decision. A heavy,
creaking tread<br>
shook the corridor, and the squad beheld, looming up in the
doorway, Thor.<br>
He was not in football togs, and as he started to speak his fair
face as<br>
stolid and expressionless as that of a sphinx, Captain Butch
Brewster<br>
stepped toward him.</p>

<p>"Thor!" he exclaimed, seizing the blond Colossus by the arm,
"You aren't<br>
ready for the scrimmage; hustle over to the Gym. and get on your
suit."</p>

<p>But John Thorwald, as passive of feature as though he
announced something<br>
of the most infinitesimal importance, and were not hurling a
bomb-shell<br>
whose explosion, was to shake old Bannister terrifically, spoke
in a<br>
matter-of-fact manner: "I shall not play football&mdash;any
more,"</p>

<p>"What!" Every collegian in Hicks' room, including that dazed
producer<br>
of the Prodigious Prodigy, chorused the exclamation; to them it
was as<br>
stunning a shock as the nation would suffer if its President
calmly<br>
announced, "I'm tired of being President of the United States. I
shall not<br>
report for work tomorrow." Bannister College, ever since the
night that<br>
Thor arrived on the campus, had talked or thought of nothing but
how this<br>
huge, blond-haired Hercules would bring the Championship to the
Gold and<br>
Green; his prodigies on the gridiron, his ever-increasing
prowess, had<br>
aroused enthusiasm to fever heat, and now&mdash;</p>

<p>"I was told wrong," said Thor, shifting his vast tonnage
awkwardly from one<br>
foot to the other, and evidently bewildered at the consternation
caused by<br>
what he believed a trifling announcement, "I understood that I
<i>had</i> to<br>
play football, that the Faculty required it of me, and the
students let me<br>
think so. I have just learned from Doctor Alford that such is not
true,<br>
that I do not have to play unless I choose, hence, I quit. I came
to<br>
college to study, to gain an education. I have toiled long and
hard for<br>
the opportunity, and now I have it, I shall not waste my time on
such<br>
foolishness."</p>

<p>Then, utterly unconscious that he had spoken sentences which
would create<br>
a mighty sensation at old Bannister, that might doom the Gold and
Green<br>
to defeat, lose his Alma Mater the Championship, and bring on
himself the<br>
cruel ostracism and bitter censure of his fellows, John Thorwald
lumbered<br>
down the corridor. A moment of tense silence followed and then
Captain<br>
Butch Brewster groaned.</p>

<p>"It's all over, it's all over, fellows!" he said brokenly,
"Bannister loses<br>
the Championship! We know it is impossible to move Thor on the
football<br>
field, and now that he has said 'No!' to playing football,
dynamite can not<br>
move him from his decision."</p>

<p>Then, crushed and disconsolate, the football squad filed
silently from the<br>
room, to break the glad news to Coach Corridan, and to spread the
joyous<br>
tidings to old Bannister. When they had gone, T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.,<br>
staring at the figurative black cloud that lowered over his Alma
Mater,<br>
strove to find its silver lining, and at last he partially
succeeded.</p>

<p>"Anyway," said Hicks, with a lugubrious effort to grin,
"Thor's<br>
announcement shocked the squad so much that I was not forced to
explain my<br>
Billion-Dollar Mystery!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER V</p>

<p>HICKS MAKES A DECISION</p>

<p>"In the famous words of Mr. Somebody-Or-Other," quoth T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., "something has <i>got</i> to be did, and immediately to
once!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster nodded assent. So did Head Coach Patrick
Henry Corridan,<br>
Beef McNaughton, Team Manager Socks Fitzpatrick, Monty
Merriweather, Dad<br>
Pendleton, President of the Athletic Association, and Deacon
Radford,<br>
quarter-back, also Shad Fishpaw, who, being Freshman
Class-Chairman,<br>
maintained a discreet silence. Instead of the usual sky-larking,
care-free<br>
crowd that infested the cozy quarters of the happy-go-lucky
Hicks, every<br>
collegian present, except the ever-cheerful youth, seemed to have
lost his<br>
best friend and his last dollar at one fell swoop!</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, something has got to be did!" fleered Beef
McNaughton, the<br>
davenport creaking under the combined tonnage of himself and
Butch<br>
Brewster, "But who will do it? Where's all that
Oh-just-leave-it-to-Hicks<br>
stuff you have pulled for the past three years, you pestiferous
insect?<br>
Bah! You did a lot; you dragged a Prodigious Prodigy to old
Bannister,<br>
enshrouded him in darkest mystery, and now, when he pushed the
'Varsity off<br>
the field and promised to corral the Championship, single-handed,
he puts<br>
his foot down, and says, 'No&mdash;I will not play football!' Get
busy, Little<br>
Mr. Fix-It."</p>

<p>"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" accommodated that blithesome
Senior, with a<br>
cheeriness he was far from feeling. "You all do know why Thor
won't<br>
play football; it is not like last season, when Deke Radford, a
star<br>
quarter-back, refused either to play, or to explain his refusal.
Let me<br>
get an inspiration, and then Thor will once again gently but
firmly thrust<br>
entire football elevens down the field before him!"</p>

<p>As evidence of how intensely serious was the situation, let it
be<br>
chronicled that, for the first time in his scatter-brained campus
career,<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., did not dare strum his banjo and roar out
ballads<br>
to torture his long-suffering colleagues. Popular and beloved as
he was,<br>
the gladsome youth hesitated to shatter the quietude of the
campus with<br>
his saengerfest, knowing as he did what a terrible blow Thor's
utterly<br>
astounding announcement had been to the college.</p>

<p>It was nine o'clock, one night two weeks after the day when
John Thorwald,<br>
better known as Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, so mysteriously
produced by<br>
Hicks, had stolidly paralyzed old Bannister by unemotionally
stating his<br>
decision to play no more football. Since then, to quote the
Phillyloo Bird,<br>
"Bannister has staggered around the ring like a prizefighter with
the<br>
Referee counting off ten seconds and trying to fight again before
he takes<br>
the count." In truth, the students had made a fatal mistake in
building<br>
all their hopes of victory on that blond giant, Thor; seeing his
wonderful<br>
prowess, and beholding how, in the first week of the season, the
Norwegian<br>
Colossus had ripped to shreds the Varsity line which even the
heavy Ballard<br>
eleven of the year before could not batter, it was but natural
that the<br>
enthusiastic youths should think of the Championship chances in
terms of<br>
Thor. For one week, enthusiasm and excitement soared higher and
higher,<br>
and then, to use a phrase of fiction, everything fell with a
dull,<br>
sickening thud!</p>

<p>In vain did Coach Corridan, the staff of Assistant Coaches,
Captain Butch<br>
Brewster, and others strive to resuscitate football spirit;
nightly<br>
mass-meetings were held, and enough perfervid oratory hurled to
move a<br>
Russian fortress, but to no avail. It was useless to argue that,
without<br>
Thor, Bannister had an eleven better than that of last year,
which so<br>
nearly missed the Championship. The campus had seen the massive
Thor's<br>
prodigies; they knew he could not be stopped, and to attempt to
arouse the<br>
college to concert pitch over the eleven, with that mountain of
muscle<br>
blotting out vast sections of scenery, but not in football togs,
was not<br>
possible.</p>

<p>"One thing is sure," spoke Dad Pendleton seriously, gazing
gloomily from<br>
the window, "unless we get Thor in the line-up for the Big Games,
our last<br>
hope of the Championship is dead and interred! And I feel sorry
for the big<br>
fellow, for already the boys like him just about as much as a
German<br>
loves an Englishman; yet, arguments, threats, pleadings, and
logic have<br>
absolutely no effect on him. He has said 'No,' and that ends
it!"</p>

<p>"He doesn't understand things, fellows," defended T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
with surprising earnestness. "Remember how bewildered he seemed
at our<br>
appeal to his college spirit, and his love for his Alma Mater. We
might as<br>
well have talked Choctaw to him!"</p>

<p>Butch Brewster, Socks Fitzpatrick, Dad Pendleton, Beef
McNaughton, Deacon<br>
Radford, Monty Merriweather, and Shad Fishpaw well remembered
that night<br>
after Thor's tragic decision, when they&mdash;part of a Committee
formed of the<br>
best athletes from all teams, and the most representative
collegians of old<br>
Bannister, had invaded Thor's room in Creighton Hall, to wrestle
with the<br>
recalcitrant Hercules. Even as Hicks spoke, they visioned it
again.</p>

<p>A cold, cheerless room, bare of carpet or pictures, with just
the<br>
study-table, bed, and two chairs. At the study-table, his huge
bulk<br>
sprawling on, and overflowing, a frail chair, they had found the
massive<br>
John Thorwald laboriously reading aloud the Latin he had
translated,<br>
literally by the sweat of his brow. The blond Colossus, impatient
at the<br>
interruption, had shaken his powerful frame angrily, and with no
regard for<br>
campus tradition, had addressed the upperclassmen in a growl:
"Well, what<br>
do you want? Hurry up, I've got to study."</p>

<p>And then, to state it briefly, they had worked with (and on)
the stolid<br>
Thorwald for two hours. They explained how his decision to play
no more<br>
football would practically kill old Bannister's hopes of the
Championship,<br>
would assassinate football spirit on the campus, and cause the
youths to<br>
condemn Thor, and to ostracise him. Waxing eloquent, Butch
Brewster had<br>
delivered a wonderful speech, pleading with John Thorwald to play
the<br>
game. He tried to show that obviously uninterested mammoth that,
like the<br>
Hercules he so resembled, he stood at the parting of the
ways.</p>

<p>"You are on the threshold of your college career, old man!" he
thundered<br>
impressively, though he might as well have tried to shoot holes
in a<br>
battleship with a pop-gun, "What you do now will make or break
you. Do you<br>
want the fellows as friends or as enemies; do you want
comradeship, or<br>
loneliness and ostracism? You have it in your power to do two
<i>big</i> things,<br>
to win the Championship for your Alma Mater, and to win to
yourself the<br>
entire student-body, as friends; will you do that, and build a
firm<br>
foundation for your college years, or betray your Alma Mater, and
gain the<br>
enmity of old Bannister!"</p>

<p>Followed more fervid periods, with such phrases as, "For your
Alma Mater,"<br>
"Because of your college spirit," "For dear old Bannister," and
"For<br>
the Gold and Green!" predominating; all of which terms, to the
stolid,<br>
unimaginative Thorwald being fully as intelligible as Hindustani.
They<br>
appealed to him not to betray his Alma Mater; they implored him,
for his<br>
love of old Bannister; they besought him, because of his college
spirit;<br>
and all the time, for all that the Prodigious Prodigy understood,
they<br>
might as well have remained silent.</p>

<p>"I will tell you something," spoke Thor, at last, with an air
of impatient<br>
resignation, "and don't bother me again, please! I have come to
Bannister<br>
College to get an education, and I have the right to do so,
without being<br>
pestered. I pay my bills, and I am entitled to all the knowledge
I can<br>
purchase. I look from my window, and I see boys, whose fathers
are toiling,<br>
sacrificing, to send them here. Instead of studying, to show
their<br>
gratitude, they loaf around the campus, or in their rooms,
twanging banjos<br>
and guitars, singing silly songs, and sky-larking. I don't know
what all<br>
this rot is you are talking of; 'college spirit,' 'my Alma
Mater,' and so<br>
on. I do not want to play football; I do not like the game; I
need the time<br>
for my study, so I will not play. Both my father and myself have
labored<br>
and sacrificed to send me to college. The past five years, with
one great<br>
ambition to go to college and learn, I have toiled like a
galley-slave.</p>

<p>"And now, when opportunity is mine, do you ask me to
<i>play</i>? You want me to<br>
loaf around, wasting precious time better spent in my studies.
What do I<br>
care whether the boys like me, or hate me? Bah! I can take any
two of you,<br>
and knock your heads together! Their friendship or enmity won't
move me. I<br>
shall study, learn. I will not waste time in senseless
foolishness, and I<br>
<i>won't</i> play football again."</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. was silent as he stood by the window of
his room,<br>
gazing down at the campus where the collegians were gathering
before<br>
marching to the Auditorium for the nightly mass-meeting that
would vainly<br>
strive to arouse a fighting spirit in the football "rooters."
That<br>
blithesome, heedless, happy-go-lucky youth was capable of far
more serious<br>
thought than old Bannister knew; and more, he possessed the rare
ability<br>
to read character; in the case of Thor, he saw vastly deeper than
his<br>
indignant comrades, who beheld only the surface of the affair.
They knew<br>
only that John Thorwald, a veritable Colossus, had exhibited
football<br>
prowess that practically promised the State Championship to old
Bannister,<br>
and then&mdash;he had quit the game. They understood only that
Thor refused to<br>
play simply because he did not want to, and as to why their
appeals to his<br>
college spirit and his love for his Alma Mater were unheeded they
were<br>
puzzled.</p>

<p>But the gladsome Hicks, always serious beneath his cheerful
exterior, when<br>
old Bannister's interests were at stake, or when a collegian's
career<br>
might be blighted, when the tragedy could be averted, fully
understood. Of<br>
course, as originator of the Billion-Dollar Mystery, and producer
of the<br>
Prodigious Prodigy, he knew more about the strange John Thorwald
than did<br>
his mystified comrades. He knew that Thor, as he named him, was
just a vast<br>
hulk of humanity, stolid, unimaginative of mind, slow-thinking, a
dull,<br>
unresponsive mass, as yet unstirred by that strange, subtle,
mighty thing<br>
called college spirit. He realized that Thor had never had a
chance to<br>
understand the real meaning of campus life, to grasp the glad
fellowship of<br>
the students, to thrill with a great love for his Alma Mater. All
that must<br>
come in time. The blond giant had toiled all his life, had
labored among<br>
men where everything was practical and grim. Small wonder, then,
that he<br>
failed utterly to see why the youths "loafed on the campus, or in
their<br>
rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and
skylarking."</p>

<p>"I must save him," murmured Hicks softly, for the others in
his room were<br>
talking of Thor. "Oh, imagine that powerful body, imbued with a
vast love<br>
for old Bannister, think of Thor, thrilling with college spirit.
Why,<br>
Yale's and Harvard's elevens combined could not stop his rushes,
then. I<br>
must save him from himself, from the condemnation of the fellows,
who just<br>
don't understand. I must, some way, awaken him to a complete
understanding<br>
of college life in its entirety, but how? He is so different from
Roddy<br>
Perkins, or Deke Radford."</p>

<p>It seemed that the lovable Hicks was destined to save, every
year of his<br>
campus career, some entering collegian who incurred the wrath,
deserved or<br>
otherwise, of the students. In his Freshman first term, T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., indignant at the way little Theophilus Opperdyke, the
timorous,<br>
nervous "grind," had been alarmed at the idea of being hazed, had
by a<br>
sensational escape from a room locked, guarded, and filled with
Sophomores,<br>
gained immunity for himself and the boner for all time, thus
winning the<br>
loyal, pathetic devotion of the Human Encyclopedia. As a
Sophomore, by<br>
crushing James Roderick Perkins' Napoleonic ambition to upset
tradition,<br>
and make Freshmen equal with upperclassmen, Hicks had turned
that<br>
aggressive youth's tremendous energy in the right channels, and
made him a<br>
power for good on the campus.</p>

<p>And, a Junior, he had saved good Deacon Radford. When that
serious youth, a<br>
famous prep. quarter, entered old Bannister, the students were
wild at the<br>
thought of having him to run the Gold and Green team, but to
their dismay,<br>
he refused either to report for practice or to explain his
decision. Hicks,<br>
promising blithely, as usual, to solve the mystery and get Deke
to play,<br>
discovered that the youth's mother, called "Mother Peg" by the
collegians,<br>
was head-waitress downtown at Jerry's and that she made her son
promise<br>
not to own the relationship, and that while she worked to get him
through<br>
college, Deacon would not play football. The inspired Hicks had
gotten<br>
Mother Peg to start College Inn, and board Freshmen unable to get
rooms<br>
in the dormitories, and Deacon had played wonderful football. For
this<br>
achievement, the original youth failed to get glory, for he
sacrificed it,<br>
and swore all concerned to secrecy.</p>

<p>"But Roddy and Deke were different," reflected Hicks,
pondering seriously.<br>
"Both had been to Prep. School, and they understood college life
and campus<br>
spirit. It was Roddy's tremendous ambition that had to be curbed,
and Deke<br>
was the victim of circumstances. But Thorwald&mdash;it is just a
problem of how<br>
to awaken in him an understanding of college spirit. The fellows
don't<br>
understand him, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>A sudden thought, one of his inspirations, assailed the
blithesome Hicks.<br>
Why not make the fellows understand Thor? Surely, if he explained
the<br>
"Billion-Dollar Mystery," as he humorously called it, and told
why<br>
Thorwald, as yet, had no conception of college life, in its true
meaning,<br>
they would not feel bitter against him; perhaps, instead, though
regretful<br>
at his decision not to play the game, they would all strive to
awaken the<br>
stolid Colossus, to stir his soul to an understanding of
campus<br>
tradition and existence. But that would mean&mdash;"I surely hate
to lose my<br>
Billion-Dollar Mystery!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
remembering<br>
the intense indignation of his comrades at his
Herman-Kellar-Thurston<br>
atmosphere of mystery, "It is more fun than, my 'Sheerluck
Holmes'<br>
detective pose or my saengerfests. Still, for old Bannister, and
for Thor."</p>

<p>It would seem only a trifle for the heedless Hicks to give up
his mystery,<br>
and tell Bannister all about Thor; yet, had the Hercules
reconsidered, and<br>
played football, the torturesome youth would have bewildered his
colleagues<br>
as long as possible, or until they made him divulge the truth. He
dearly<br>
loved to torment his comrades, and this had been such an
opportunity for<br>
him to promise nonchalantly to produce a Herculean full-back,
then, to<br>
return to the campus with the Prodigious Prodigy in tow, and for
him to<br>
perform wonders on Bannister Field, naturally aroused the
interest of the<br>
youths, and he had enjoyed hugely their puzzlement, but
now&mdash;</p>

<p>"Say, fellows," he interrupted an excited conversation of a
would-be<br>
Committee of Ways and Means to make Thor play football, "I have
an<br>
announcement to make."</p>

<p>"Don't pester us, Hicks!" warned Captain Butch Brewster,
grimly. "We love<br>
you like a brother, but we'll crush you if you start any
foolishness,<br>
and&mdash;"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with the study-table between himself
and his<br>
comrades, assumed the attitude of a Chautauqua lecturer, one hand
resting<br>
on the table and the other thrust into the breast of his coat,
and<br>
dramatically announced:</p>

<p>"In the Auditorium&mdash;at the regular mass-meeting
tonight&mdash;T. Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., will give the correct explanation of Thor, the Prodigious
Prodigy, and<br>
will solve the Billion-Dollar Mystery!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER VI</p>

<p>HICKS MAKES A SPEECH</p>

<p>The announcement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had practically
the same<br>
effect on Head Coach Corridan and the cheery Senior's comrades as
a German<br>
gas-bomb would have on the inmates of an Allied trench. For
several seconds<br>
they stared at the blithesome youth, in a manner scarcely to be
called<br>
aimless, since their looks were aimed with deadly accuracy at
him, but in<br>
general, with the exception of Hicks, those in the room resembled
vastly<br>
some of the celebrated Madame Tussaud's wax-works in London.</p>

<p>"Oh," breathed Monty Merriweather, with the appearance of
dawning<br>
intelligence, "that's so, Coach, Hicks never has disclosed the
details of<br>
his achievement; we were about to extort a confession from him,
when Thor<br>
broke up the league with his announcement, and since then,
Bannister has<br>
been too worried over Thorwald to trifle with Hicks!"</p>

<p>"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Coach Corridan, who had been
remarkably<br>
silent, for him, pondering the football crisis, "Hicks can make
his<br>
explanation at the regular mass-meeting tonight, in the
Auditorium. I'll<br>
post an announcement of his purpose, and you fellows spread the
news among<br>
the students, stating that Hicks will tell how he rounded up
Thor. Some<br>
have shirked these meetings since Thorwald quit the game, and
this will<br>
bring them out, so maybe we can arouse the fighting spirit
again!"</p>

<p>So well did Butch, Beef, Socks, Monty, Dad, Deacon, and Shad
tell the news,<br>
that when the bell in the Administration Hall tower rang at ten
o'clock it<br>
was ascertained by score-keepers that every youth at Bannister,
Freshmen<br>
included, except that Hercules, Thor, had assembled in the
Auditorium. That<br>
stolid behemoth, who regarded the football mass-meeting as
foolishness, was<br>
reported as boning in his cheerless room, fulfilling the mission
for which<br>
he came to college, namely, to get his money's worth of
knowledge, which he<br>
evidently regarded as some commodity for which Bannister served
merely as a<br>
market.</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, on the stage of the Auditorium, the big
assembly-hall<br>
of the college, along with Coach Corridan, several of the Gold
and Green<br>
eleven, two members of the Faculty, several Assistant Coaches,
and T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., stepped forward and stilled the tumult of
the excited<br>
youths with upraised hand.</p>

<p>"We have with us tonight," he spoke, after the fashion of
introducing<br>
after-dinner speakers, "Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the
celebrated<br>
Magician and Mystifier, who will present for your approval his
world-famous<br>
Billion-Dollar Mystery, and give the correct solution to Thor,
the problem<br>
no one has been able to solve. I take great pleasure in
introducing to you<br>
this evening, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr."</p>

<p>The collegians, firmly believing it was another of the
pestiferous Hicks'<br>
jokes, and wholly unaware of the deep purpose of the
sunny-souled,<br>
irrepressible youth's speech, went into paroxysms of glee, as
the<br>
shadow-like Hicks stepped forward. For several minutes, the hall
echoed<br>
with jeers, shouts, groans, whistles, and sarcastic comments:</p>

<p>"Hire a hall, Hicks; tell it to Sweeney!"&mdash;"Bryan better
look out. Hicks,<br>
the Chau-talker;"&mdash;"Spill the speech, old man; spread the
oratory!"&mdash;"Oh,<br>
where are my smelling-salts? I know I shall faint!"&mdash;"You'd
better play a<br>
banjo-accompaniment to it, Hicks!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his campus career,
fervidly wished he<br>
had not been such a happy-go-lucky, care-free collegian, for now,
when he<br>
was serious, his comrades refused to believe him to be in such a
state.<br>
However, quiet was obtained at last, thanks to the fact that the
youths<br>
possessed all the curiosity of the proverbial cat who died
thereby, and the<br>
sunny Senior plunged earnestly into his famous speech, that was
destined,<br>
at old Bannister, to rank with that of Demosthenes "On The
Crown," or any<br>
of W. J, Bryan's masterpieces.</p>

<p>"Fellows," began Hicks, without preface, "I know I've built
myself the<br>
reputation of being a scatterbrained, heedless nonentity, and
it's too late<br>
to change now. But tonight, please believe me to be thoroughly in
earnest.<br>
Bannister faces more than one crisis, more than one tragedy. It
is true<br>
that the football eleven is crippled by the defection of Thor,
that we<br>
fellows have somewhat unreasonably allowed his quitting the game
to shake<br>
our spirit, but there is more at stake than football victories,
than even<br>
the State Intercollegiate Football Championship! The future of a
student,<br>
of a present Freshman, his hopes of becoming a loyal, solid,
representative<br>
college man, a tremendous power for good, at old Bannister, hang
in the<br>
balance at this moment! I speak of John Thorwald. You students
have it in<br>
your power to make or break him, to ruin his college years and
make him a<br>
recluse, a misanthrope, or to gradually bring him to a full
realization of<br>
what college life and campus tradition really mean."</p>

<p>"I have made a great mystery of Thor, just for a lark, but the
enmity and<br>
condemnation of the campus for him because he quit football
suddenly, shows<br>
me that the time for skylarking is past. For his sake, I must
plead. He is<br>
not to blame, altogether, for quitting. Myself, and you fellows,
gave him<br>
the impression that it was a Faculty requirement for him to play
football,<br>
for we feared he would not play, otherwise; when he learned that
it was not<br>
a Faculty rule, he simply quit."</p>

<p>Here T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., seeing that at last he had
convinced the<br>
collegians of his earnestness, though they seemed fairly
paralyzed at the<br>
phenomenon, paused, and produced a bundle of papers before
resuming.</p>

<p>"Now, I'll try to explain the 'mystery' as briefly and as
clearly as<br>
possible. Up at Camp Bannister, before college opened, Coach
Corridan, as<br>
you know, outlined to Butch, Deke, and myself, his dream of a
Herculean,<br>
irresistible full-back; I said, 'Just leave It to Hicks!' and
they believed<br>
that I, as usual, just made that remark to torment them. But such
was not<br>
the case. When I joined them, I remarked that I had a letter from
my Dad;<br>
Deke made some humorous remarks, and I forgot to read it aloud,
as I<br>
intended. Then, after Coach Corridan blue-printed his giant
full-back, I<br>
kept silent as to Dad's letter, for reasons you'll understand.
But, after<br>
all, there was no mystery about my leaving Camp Bannister, after
making a<br>
seemingly rash vow, and returning to college with a 'Prodigious
Prodigy'<br>
who filled specifications, In fact, before I left Camp Bannister,
at the<br>
moment I made my rash promise&mdash;I had Thor already lined
up!"</p>

<p>"I shall now read a dipping or two, and a letter or two from
my Dad. The<br>
clippings came in Dad's letter to me at Camp Bannister, the
letter I<br>
intended to read to Coach Corridan, Deke, and Butch, but which I
decided to<br>
keep silent about, after the Coach told of the full-back he
wanted, for<br>
I knew I had him already! First, a clipping from the San
Francisco<br>
Examiner, of August 25:</p>

<p>MAROONED SAILOR RESCUED&mdash;TEN YEARS<br>
ON SOUTH SEA ISLAND!SOLE SURVIVOR OF<br>
ILL-FATED CRUISE OF THE ZEPHYR</p>

<p>"The trading-schooner Southern Cross, Captain Martin Bascomb,
skipper,<br>
put into San Francisco yesterday with a cargo of copra from the
South Sea<br>
Islands. On board was John Thorwald, Sr., who for the past ten
years<br>
has been marooned on an uninhabited coral isle of the Southern
Pacific,<br>
together with 'Long Tom' Watts, who, however, died several months
ago.<br>
Thorwald's story reads like a thrilling bit of fiction. He was
first mate<br>
of the ill-fated yacht Zephyr, which cleared from San Francisco
ten years<br>
ago with Henry B. Kingsley, the Oil-King, and a pleasure party,
for a<br>
cruise under the southern star. A terrific tornado wrecked the
yacht, and<br>
only Thorwald and 'Long Tom' escaped, being cast upon the coral
island,<br>
where for ten years they existed, unable to attract the attention
of the<br>
few craft that passed, as the isle was out of the regular lanes.
Only when<br>
Captain Martin Bascomb, in the trading-schooner Southern Cross,
touched<br>
at the island, hoping to find natives with whom to trade supplies
for<br>
copra, were they found, and 'Long Tom' had been dead some
months."</p>

<p>"Despite the harrowing experiences of his exile, Thorwald, a
vast hulk of a<br>
stolid, unimaginative Norwegian, who reminds one of the Norse
god, 'Thor,'<br>
intends to ship as first mate on the New York-Christiania
Steamship Line.<br>
It is said that Thorwald has a son, at this time about
twenty-five years of<br>
age, somewhere In this country, whom he will seek,
and&mdash;"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., at this juncture, terminated the
newspaper story,<br>
and finding that his explanation held his comrades spellbound, he
produced<br>
a letter, and drew out the message, after stating the youths
could read the<br>
entire news-story of John Thorwald, Sr., later.</p>

<p>"This is the letter I received from my Dad," he explained to
the intensely<br>
interested Bannister youths, who were giving a concentrated
attention that<br>
members of the Faculty would have rejoiced to receive from them.
"Up at<br>
Camp Bannister&mdash;I was just about to read it to Coach
Corridan, Butch, and<br>
Deke Radford, when Deke chaffed me, and then the Coach outlined
the mammoth<br>
full-back he desired, so I kept quiet. I'll now read it to
you:</p>

<p>"Pittsburgh, Pa., Sept, 17.</p>

<p>"DEAR SON THOMAS:</p>

<p>"Read the inclosed clipping from the San Francisco Examiner of
August 25,<br>
and then pay close attention to the following facts: At the time
of this<br>
news-story I was in 'Frisco on business, as you will recall, and
for<br>
reasons to be outlined, when I read of the Southern Cross finding
the<br>
marooned John Thorwald, and bringing him to that city, I was
particularly<br>
interested, so much so that I at once looked up the one-time
first mate of<br>
the ill-starred Zephyr and brought him to Pittsburgh in my
private car.<br>
My reason was this; in my employ, in the International Steel
Combine's<br>
mill, was John Thorwald's son, John Thorwald, Jr.</p>

<p>"To state facts as briefly as possible, almost a year ago, as
I took some<br>
friends through the steel rolling mill, I chanced to step
directly beneath<br>
a traveling crane, lowering a steel beam; seeing my peril, I was
about to<br>
step aside when I caught my foot and fell. Just then a veritable
giant,<br>
black and grimy, leaped forward, and with a prodigious display of
strength,<br>
placed his powerful back under the descending weight, staving it
off until<br>
I rolled over to safety!</p>

<p>"Well, of course, I had the fellow report to my office, and
instinctively<br>
feeling that I wanted to show my gratitude, without being
patronizing, he<br>
responded to my question as to what I could do to reward him, by
asking<br>
simply that I get him some job that would allow him to attend
night school.<br>
He stated that, owing to the fact that he worked alternate weeks
at night<br>
shift he was unable to do so. Questioning him further, I learned
the<br>
following facts:</p>

<p>"He was John Thorwald, Jr., only son of John Thorwald, Sr., a
Norwegian;<br>
his mother was also a Norwegian, but he is a natural born
American.<br>
Realizing the opportunities for an educated young man in our
land,<br>
Thorwald's parents determined that he should gain knowledge, and
until he<br>
was fifteen years old, he attended school in San Francisco. When
he was<br>
fifteen, his father signed as first mate on the yacht Zephyr,
going with<br>
the oil-king, Henry B. Kingsley, on a pleasure cruise in the
Southern<br>
Pacific; Thorwald, Sr.'s, story you read in the paper. Soon after
the news<br>
of the Zephyr's wreck, with all on board lost, as was then
supposed,<br>
Thorwald's mother died. Her dying words (so young Thorwald told
me, and I<br>
was moved by his simple, straightforward tale) were an appeal to
her<br>
boy. She made him promise, for her sake, to study, study, study
to gain<br>
knowledge, and to rise in the world! Thorwald promised. Then,
believing<br>
both his parents dead, the young Norwegian, a youth of fifteen
without<br>
money, had to shift for himself.</p>

<p>"Thomas, Jack London could weave his adventures into a
gripping<br>
masterpiece. Starting in as cabin-boy on a freighter to Alaska,
young<br>
Thorwald, in the past ten years, has simply crowded his life
with<br>
adventure, thrill, and experience, though thrills mean nothing to
him. He<br>
was in the Klondike gold-fields, in the salmon canneries, a
prospector, a<br>
lumber-jack in the Canadian Northwest, a cowboy, a sailor, a
worker in the<br>
Panama Canal Zone, on the Big Ditch, and too many other things to
remember.<br>
Finally, he drifted to Pittsburgh, where his prodigious strength
served him<br>
in the steel-mills, and, let me add, served <i>me</i>, as I
stated.</p>

<p>"And ever, no matter where he wandered, or what was his toil,
whenever<br>
possible, Thorwald studied. His promise to his mother was always
his goal,<br>
and in the cities he studied, or in the wilds he read all the
books he<br>
could find. The past year, finding he had a good-pay job in
Pittsburgh, he<br>
settled to determined effort, and by sheer resolution, by his
wonderful<br>
power to grasp facts and ideas for good once he gets them, he
made great<br>
progress in night school, until he was shifted, a week before he
saved my<br>
life, to work that required him to toil nightly, alternate weeks.
So, for a<br>
year, Thor has had every possible advantage, some, unknown to
him, I paid<br>
for myself; I got him clerical work, with shorter hours, he went
to night<br>
school, and I employed the very best tutor obtainable, letting
Thorwald<br>
pay him, as he thought, though his payments wouldn't keep the
tutor in<br>
neckties. The gratitude of the blond giant is pathetic, and
suspecting that<br>
I paid the tutor something, he insisted on paying all he could,
which I<br>
allowed, of course.</p>

<p>"Well, in August, a year after Thorwald rescued me from
serious injury,<br>
perhaps death, I was in 'Frisco, and read of Thorwald, Sr.'s
rescue and<br>
return. Overjoyed, I took the father to Pittsburgh, to the son. I
witnessed<br>
their meeting, with the father practically risen from the dead,
and all<br>
those stolid, unimaginative Norwegians did was to shake hands
gravely!<br>
Young Thorwald told of his mother's last words, and of his
promise, of his<br>
having studied all the years, and of his late progress, so that
he was<br>
ready to enter college. His father, happy, insisted that he enter
this<br>
September, and he would pay for his son's college course, to make
up for<br>
the years the youth struggled for himself&mdash;Kingsley's heirs,
I believe,<br>
gave Thorwald, Sr., five thousand dollars on his return. So,
though<br>
grateful to me for the aid I offered, they would receive no
financial<br>
assistance, for they want to work it out themselves, and help the
youth<br>
make good his promise to his dying mother.</p>

<p>"Much as I love old Bannister, my Alma Mater, I would not have
tried to<br>
send Thorwald there, had I not deemed it a good place for him.
However,<br>
since it is a liberal, not a technical, education he wants, it is
all<br>
right; and that prodigious strength will serve the Gold and Green
on the<br>
football field. Now, Thomas, I want you to meet him in
Philadelphia, and<br>
take him to Bannister, look out for him, get him started O. K.,
and do all<br>
you can for him. Get him to play football, if you can, but don't
condemn<br>
if he refuses. Remember, his life has been grim and
unimaginative; he has<br>
toiled and studied, it is probable he will not understand college
life at<br>
first."</p>

<p>"That's all I need to read of Dad's letter, fellows,"
concluded T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr. "After I got it, and Coach Corridan, Butch, and Beef
heard my<br>
seemingly rash vow to round up a giant full-back, I made a
mystery of it; I<br>
loafed in Philadelphia and Atlantic City until I met Thor, and
brought him<br>
here. You have all the data regarding Thor, 'The Billion-Dollar
Mystery.'"</p>

<p>The students, almost as one, drew a deep breath. They had been
enthralled<br>
by the story, and their feeling toward Thor had undergone a vast
change.<br>
Stirred by hearing of his promise to his dying mother, thrilled
at the way<br>
the stolid, determined Norwegian had ceaselessly studied to make
something<br>
of himself for the sake of his mother's sacred memory, the
Bannister youths<br>
now thought of football, of the Championship, as insignificant,
beside the<br>
goal of Thorwald, Jr. The blond Colossus, whom an hour ago all
Bannister<br>
reviled and condemned for not playing the game, who was a campus
outcast,<br>
was now a hero; thanks to the erstwhile heedless Hicks, whose
intense<br>
earnestness in itself was a revelation to the amazed collegians,
Thor stood<br>
before them in a different light, and the impulsive,
whole-souled, generous<br>
youths were now anxious to make amends.</p>

<p>"Thor! Thor! Thor!" was the thunderous cry, and the Bannister
yell for<br>
the Prodigious Prodigy shattered the echoes. Then T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
ecstatically joyous, again stilled the tumult, and spoke in
behalf of John<br>
Thorwald.</p>

<p>"We all understand Thor now, fellows," he said, beaming on his
comrades.<br>
"We want him to play football, and we'll keep after him to play,
but we<br>
won't condemn him if he refuses. At present, Thor is simply a
stolid,<br>
unimaginative, dull mass of muscle. As you can realize, his
nature, his<br>
life so far have not tended to make him appreciate the gayer,
lighter side<br>
of college life, or to grasp the traditions of the campus. To
him, college<br>
is a market; he pays his money and he takes the knowledge handed
out. We<br>
can not blame him for not understanding college existence in its
entirety,<br>
or that the gaining of knowledge is a small part of the
representative<br>
collegian's purpose.</p>

<p>"Now, boys, here's our job, and let's tackle it together: To
awaken in<br>
Thor a great love for old Bannister, to cause college spirit to
stir his<br>
practical soul. Let every fellow be his friend, let no one speak
against<br>
him, because of football. We must work slowly, carefully,
gradually making<br>
him grasp college traditions, and once he awakens to the real
meaning of<br>
campus life, what a power he will be in the college and on the
athletic<br>
field! Maybe he will not play football this season, but let us
help him to<br>
awaken!"</p>

<p>With wild shouts, the aroused collegians poured from the
Auditorium, an<br>
excited, turbulent mass of youthful humanity, a tide that swept
T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., on the shoulders of several, out on the campus.
Massed beneath<br>
the window of John Thorwald's room, in Creighton Hall, the
Bannister<br>
students, now fully understanding that stolid Hercules, and
stirred to<br>
admiration of him by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, great speech,
cheered the<br>
somewhat mystified Thor again and again; in vast sound waves, the
shouts<br>
rolled up to his open window:</p>

<p>"Rah! Rah! Rah-rah-rah! Thor! Thor! Thor!" Captain Brewster,
through a<br>
big megaphone, roared; "Fellows&mdash;What's the matter with
Thor?"</p>

<p>And in a terrific outburst which, as the Phillyloo Bird
afterward said,<br>
"Like to of busted Bannister's works!" the enthusiastic
collegians<br>
responded:</p>

<p>"He's&mdash;all&mdash;right!"</p>

<p>Then Butch, apparently in quest of information, persisted:</p>

<p>"Who's all right?"</p>

<p>To which the three hundred or more youths, all seemingly
equipped with<br>
lungs of leather, kindly answered:</p>

<p>"Thor! Thor! Thor!"</p>

<p>Still, though the Phillyloo Bird declared that this vocal
explosion caused<br>
the seismographs as Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and in
Salt Lake<br>
City, Utah, to register an earthquake somewhere, it had on the
blond<br>
Freshman a strange effect. The vast mountain of muscle lumbered
heavily<br>
across the room, gazed down at the howling crowd of collegians
without<br>
emotion, then slammed down the window, and returned to study.</p>

<p>"Good night" called Hicks. "The show is over! Let him have
another yell,<br>
boys, to show we aren't insulted; then we'll disband!"</p>

<p>Considering Thorwald's cool reception of their overtures,
which some youth<br>
remarked, "Were as noisy as that of a Grand Opera Orchestra," it
was quite<br>
surprising to the students, in the morning, when what occurred an
hour<br>
after their serenade was revealed to them. As the story was told
by those<br>
who witnessed the scene, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, Beef,
Monty, Pudge,<br>
Roddy, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, and Coach Corridan after the
commotion<br>
subsided, retired to the sunny Hicks' quarters, where the
football<br>
situation was discussed, along with ways and means to awaken
Thor, when<br>
that colossal Freshman himself loomed up in the doorway.</p>

<p>As they afterward learned, several excited Freshmen had dared
to invade<br>
Thor's den, even while he studied, and give him a more or less
correct<br>
account of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s masterly oration in his
defense. Out of<br>
their garbled descriptions, big John Thorwald grasped one salient
point,<br>
and straightway he started for Hicks' room, leaving the indignant
Freshmen<br>
to tell their story to the atmosphere.</p>

<p>"Hicks," said Thor, not bothering with the "Mr." required of
all Freshmen,<br>
as his vast bulk crowded the doorway, "is it true that Mr. Thomas
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Sr., wants me to play football? He has been very kind to
me, and<br>
has helped me, and so have you, here at college. After a year of
study, I<br>
should have had to stop night-school, but for him&mdash;instead,
I got another<br>
year, and prepared for Bannister. I did not know that <i>he</i>
desired me to<br>
play, but if he does, I feel under obligation to show my great
gratitude,<br>
both for myself and for my father,"</p>

<p>A moment of silence, for the glorious news could not be
grasped in a<br>
second; those in the room, knowing Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.'s,
brilliant<br>
athletic record at old Bannister, and understanding his great
love for<br>
his Alma Mater, knew that Hicks, Sr., had sent Thor to Bannister
to play<br>
football for the Gold and Green, though, as he had written his
son, he<br>
would not have done so had he honestly believed that another
college would<br>
suit the ambitious Goliath better.</p>

<p>"Does he?" stammered the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while
the others<br>
echoed the words feebly, "Yes, I should say he <i>does</i>!"</p>

<p>For a second, the ponderous young Colossus hesitated, and
then, as calmly<br>
as though announcing he would add Greek to his list of studies,
and wholly<br>
unaware that his words were to bring joy to old Bannister, he
spoke<br>
stolidly.</p>

<p>"Then I shall play football."</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER VII</p>

<p>HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY.</p>

<p>  "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest&mdash;<br>
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br>
  Drink and the Devil had done for the rest&mdash;<br>
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"</p>

<p>T HAVILAND HICKS, JR., his chair tilted at a perilous angle,
and his feet<br>
thrust gracefully atop of the study-table, in his cozy room, one
Friday<br>
afternoon two weeks after John Thorwald's return to the football
squad, was<br>
fathoms deep in Stevenson's "Treasure Island." As he perused the
thrilling<br>
pages, the irrepressible youth twanged a banjo accompaniment, and
roared<br>
with gusto the piratical chantey of Long John Silver's buccaneer
crew;<br>
Hicks, however, despite his saengerfest, was completely lost in
the<br>
enthralling narrative, so that he seemed to hear the parrot
shrieking,<br>
"Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and the wild refrain:</p>

<p>  "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest&mdash;<br>
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"</p>

<p>He was reading that breathlessly exciting part where the
cabin-boy of the<br>
Hispaniola, and Israel Hands have their terrible fight to the
death, with<br>
the dodging over the dead man rolling in the scuppers, the
climbing up the<br>
mast, and the dirk pinning the boy's shoulder, before Hands is
shot and<br>
goes to join his mate on the bottom; just at the most absorbing
page, as he<br>
twanged his beloved banjo louder, and roared the chantey, there
sounded,<br>
"Tramp&mdash;tramp&mdash;tramp!" in the corridor, the heavy tread
of many feet<br>
sounded, coming nearer. Instinctively realizing that the
pachydermic parade<br>
was headed for <i>his</i> room, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., rushed to
the closet,<br>
murmuring, "Safety first!" as usual, and stowed away his banjo.
He was just<br>
in the nick of time, for a second later there crowded into his
room Captain<br>
Butch, Pudge, Beef, Hefty, Biff, Monty, Roddy, Bunch, Tug,
Buster, Coach<br>
Corridas, and Thor, the latter duo bringing up the rear.</p>

<p>"Hicks, you unjailed public nuisance!" said Butch Brewster,
affectionately.<br>
"We, whom you behold, are going for to enter into that room
across the<br>
corridor from your boudoir, and hold a football signal quiz and
confab. We<br>
should request that you permit a thunderous silence to originate
in your<br>
cozy retreat, for the period of at least a hour! A word to the
<i>wise</i> is<br>
sufficient, so I have spoken several, that even you may
comprehend my<br>
meaning,"</p>

<p>"I gather you, fluently!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
taking up<br>
"Treasure Island" and his graceful pose once more. "Leave me to
peruse the<br>
thrilling pages of this classic blood-and-thunder book, and I'll
cause a<br>
beautiful serenity to obtain hither."</p>

<p>"See that you do, you pestiferous insect!" threatened Beef
McNaughton,<br>
ominously. "Come on, fellows, Hicks can't escape our vengeance,
if<br>
he bursts into what he fatuously believes is song. Just let him
act<br>
hippicanarious, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>When the Gold and Green eleven, half of which, to judge by
size, was<br>
Thor, had gone with Coach Corridan into the room across from that
of the<br>
blithesome Hicks, the sunny-souled Senior tried to resume his
perusal of<br>
"Treasure Island," but somehow the spell had been broken by the
invasion of<br>
his cozy quarters. So, after vainly essaying to take up the
thread of the<br>
story again, Hicks arose and stood by the window, gazing across
the campus<br>
to Bannister Field, deserted, since the football team rested for
the game<br>
of the morrow. As he stood there, the gladsome Hicks reflected
seriously.<br>
He thought of "Thor," and decided sorrowfully that the problem of
awakening<br>
that stolid Colossus to a full understanding of campus life was
as unsolved<br>
as ever.</p>

<p>"But I <i>won't</i> give it up!" declared Hicks, determinedly.
"I have always<br>
been good at math, and I won't let this problem baffle me."</p>

<p>Since the night, two weeks back, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
had made his<br>
memorable speech, explaining to his fellow-students the
"Billon-Dollar<br>
Mystery," and arousing in them a vast admiration for the
slow-minded,<br>
plodding John Thorwald, every collegian had done his best to
befriend the<br>
big Freshman. Upperclassmen helped him with his studies. Despite
his almost<br>
rude refusal to meet any advances, the collegians always had a
cheery<br>
greeting for him, and his class-mates, in fear and trembling,
invaded<br>
his den at times, to show him they were his friends. Yet, despite
these<br>
whole-hearted efforts, only two of old Bannister did the silent
Thor<br>
seem to desire as comrades: the festive Hicks, for reasons
known,<br>
and&mdash;remarkable to chronicle&mdash;little Theophilus
Opperdyke, the timorous,<br>
studious "Human Encyclopedia."</p>

<p>"Colossus and Lilliputian!" the Phillyloo Bird quaintly
observed once when<br>
this strangely assorted duo appeared on the campus. "Say,
fellows&mdash;some<br>
time Thor will accidentally sit on Theophilus, and we'll have
another<br>
mystery, the disappearance of our boner!"</p>

<p>The generous Hicks, longing for Thor's awakening to come, was
not in the<br>
least jealous of his loyal little friend, Theophilus. In fact, he
was<br>
sincerely delighted that the unemotional Hercules desired the
comradeship<br>
of the grind, and he urged the Human Encyclopedia to strive
constantly to<br>
arouse in Thor a realization of college existence, and a true
knowledge of<br>
its meaning. At least one thing, Theophilus reported, had been
achieved by<br>
Hicks' defense of Thorwald, and the subsequent attitude of the
collegians&mdash;<br>
the colossal Freshman was puzzled, quite naturally. When over
three hundred<br>
youths criticized, condemned, and berated him one night, and the
next, even<br>
before he reconsidered his decision about football, came under
his window<br>
and cheered him, no wonder the young Norwegian was
bewildered.</p>

<p>On the football field, with his dogged determination, his
bulldog way of<br>
hanging on to things until he mastered them, big Thor progressed
slowly,<br>
and surely; the past Saturday, against the heavy Alton eleven,
the blond<br>
Freshman had been sent in for the second half, and, to quote an
overjoyed<br>
student, he had "busted things all up!" It seemed simply
impossible to stop<br>
that terrible rush of his huge body. Time after time he plowed
through the<br>
line for yards, and old Bannister, visioning Thor distributing
Hamilton and<br>
Ballard over the field, in the big games, literally hugged
itself.</p>

<p>And yet, despite Thorwald's invincible prowess, despite the
vast joy of<br>
old Bannister at the chances of the Championship, some
intangible<br>
shadow hovered over the campus. It brooded over the
training-table, the<br>
shower-rooms after scrimmage, on Bannister Field during practice;
as yet,<br>
no one had dared to give it form, by voicing his thought, but
though no<br>
youth dared admit it, something was wrong, there was a defective
cog in the<br>
machinery of that marvelous machine, the Gold and Green
eleven.</p>

<p>"'Oh, just leave it to Hicks," quoth that sunny youth, at
length, turning<br>
from the window; "I'll solve the problem, or what is more
probable,<br>
Theophilus may stir that sodden hulk of humanity, after awhile. I
won't<br>
worry about it, for that gets me nothing, and it will all come
out O.K.,<br>
I'm positive!"</p>

<p>At this moment, just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., picked up
"Treasure Island"<br>
again, he heard drifting across the corridor from the room
opposite, in<br>
Butch Brewster's familiar voice:</p>

<p>"&mdash;Yes, I'll win three more Bs'&mdash;one each in
football, baseball and track;<br>
next spring, I'll annex my last B at old Bannister,
fellows&mdash;"</p>

<p>His <i>last</i> B&mdash;The words struck the blithesome Hicks
with sledge-hammer<br>
force. Big Butch Brewster was talking of his last B, when he, T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., had never won his first; with a feeling almost of
alarm, the<br>
sunny youth realized that this was his final year at old
Bannister, his<br>
last chance to win his athletic letter, and to make happy his
beloved Dad,<br>
by helping him to realize part of his life's ambition&mdash;to
behold his son<br>
shattering Hicks, Sr.'s, wonderful record. His final chance, and
outside of<br>
his hopes of winning the track award in the high-jump, Hicks saw
no way to<br>
win his B.</p>

<p>Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., as has been chronicled, the
beloved Dad of the<br>
cheery Senior, a Pittsburgh millionaire Steel King, was a
graduate of old<br>
Bannister, Class of '92. While wearing the Gold and Green, he had
made<br>
an all-round athletic record never before, or afterward, rivaled
on<br>
the campus. At football, basketball, track, and baseball, he was
a<br>
scintillating star, annexing enough letters to start an alphabet,
had they<br>
been different ones. Quite naturally, when the Doctor, speaking
anent<br>
the then infantile Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., said, "Mr. Hicks,
it's a<br>
boy!"&mdash;the one-time Bannister athlete straightway began to
dream of the day<br>
when his only son and heir should follow in his Dad's footsteps,
shattering<br>
the records made at Bannister, and at Yale, by Hicks,
<i>p&egrave;re</i>.</p>

<p>However, to quote a sporting phrase, the son of the Steel King
"upset the<br>
dope!" At the start of his Senior year, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
had not<br>
annexed a single athletic honor, nor did the signs point to any
records<br>
being in peril of getting shattered by his prowess; as Hicks
himself<br>
phrased it, "Dame Nature was <i>some stingy</i> when she handed
out the Hercules<br>
stuff to me!" The happy-go-lucky youth, when he matriculated as a
Freshman<br>
at Bannister College, was builded on the general lines of a
toothpick, and<br>
had he elected to follow a pugilistic career, a division somewhat
lighter<br>
than the tissue paperweight class would have had to be devised
to<br>
accommodate the splinter-student. A generous, sunny-souled,
intensely<br>
democratic collegian, despite his father's wealth, the festive
Hicks, with<br>
his room always open-house to all; his firm friendship for star
athlete<br>
or humble boner, his never-failing sunny nature, together with
his famous<br>
Hicks Personally Conducted Expeditions downtown to the Beef-Steak
Busts he<br>
had originated, in his three years at old Bannister, had made
himself the<br>
most popular and beloved youth on the campus, but, he had not won
his B!</p>

<p>And he had tried. With a full realization, of his Dad's
ambition, his<br>
life-dream to behold his son a great athlete, the blithesome
Hicks had<br>
tried, but with hilariously futile results. Nature had endowed
him, as he<br>
told his loyal comrade, Butch Brewster, with "the Herculean build
of a<br>
Jersey mosquito," and his athletic powers neared zero infinity.
In his<br>
Freshman year, he inaugurated his athletic career by running the
wrong way<br>
in the Sophomore-Freshman football game, scoring a touchdown that
won for<br>
the enemy, and naturally, after that performance, every athletic
effort was<br>
greeted with jeers by the students,</p>

<p>"I <i>have</i> tried!" said Hicks, producing two letters from
the study-table,<br>
"But not like I should have tried. I could never have played on
the eleven,<br>
or on the nine, but I have a chance in the high-jump. I know I've
been<br>
indolent and care-free, and I ought to have trained harder. Well,
I just<br>
must win my track B this spring, but as to keeping the rash
promise I made<br>
to Butch as a Freshman&mdash;not a chance!"</p>

<p>It had been at the close of his Freshman year, after Hicks, in
the<br>
Interclass Track Meet, had smashed hurdles, broken high-jumping
cross-bars,<br>
finished last in several events, and jeopardized his life with
the shot and<br>
hammer, that he made the rash vow to which he now had reference.
Butch,<br>
believing his sunny friend had entered all the events just to
entertain the<br>
crowd, in his fun-loving way, was teasing him about his
ridiculous fiascos,<br>
when Hicks had told him the story&mdash;how his Dad wanted him to
try and be a<br>
famous athlete; he showed Butch a letter, received before the
meet, asking<br>
his son to try every event, and to keep on training, so as to win
his B<br>
before he graduated. Butch, great-hearted, was surprised and
moved by the<br>
revelation that the gladsome youth, even as he was jeered by his
friendly<br>
comrades, who thought he performed for sport, was striving to
have his<br>
Dad's dream come true; he had sympathized with his classmate, and
then his<br>
scatter-brained colleague had aroused his indignation by vowing,
with a<br>
swaggering confidence:</p>

<p>"'Oh, just leave it to Hicks!' Remember this, Butch, before I
graduate from<br>
old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of
sport!"</p>

<p>Butch had snorted incredulously. To win the football or the
baseball B,<br>
the gold letter for the former, and the green one for the latter
sport,<br>
an athlete had to play in three-fourths of the season's games, on
the<br>
"'Varsity"; to gain the white track letter, one had to win a
first place in<br>
some event, in a regularly scheduled track meet with another
team. And now,<br>
Butch's skepticism seemed confirmed, for at the start of his last
year at<br>
college, Hicks had not annexed a single B, though he bade fair to
corral<br>
one in the spring in the high-jump.</p>

<p>"Heigh-ho!" chuckled Hicks, at length. "Here I am threatening
to get gloomy<br>
again! Well I'll sure train hard to win my track letter, and that
seems<br>
all I can do! I'd like to win my three B's, and jeer at Butch,
next June,<br>
but&mdash;<i>it can't be did</i>! I shall now twang my trusty
banjo, and drive dull<br>
care away."</p>

<p>Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the corridor,
and of Butch<br>
Brewster's request for quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out
his<br>
beloved banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared:</p>

<p>  "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest&mdash;<br>
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br>
  Drink and the&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks!" Big Butch Brewster crashed across the corridor, both
doors being<br>
open. "Is this how you maintain a quiet? I'm going to call Thor
over and<br>
make him sit down on you! Why, you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Have mercy!" plead the grinning Hicks. "Honest, Butch, I
didn't go to bust<br>
up the league&mdash;I&mdash;I heard you talk about your B's, and
I got to thinking<br>
that I have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here's
proof&mdash;read<br>
these letters I was perusing&mdash;"</p>

<p>Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in the May of
their<br>
Freshman year; Hicks had received it before the class track meet,
and, as<br>
chronicled, he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it
impelled the<br>
splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister believed him
to enter<br>
them for fun. The letter was post-marked "Pittsburgh, Pa.," and
it read:</p>

<p>DEAR SON THOMAS:</p>

<p>Your last term's report gratified me immensely, and I am proud
of your<br>
class record, and scholastic achievements. Pitch in, and lead
your class,<br>
and make your Dad happy.</p>

<p>But there is something else of which I want to write, Thomas.
As you must<br>
know, it has always been a cause of keen regret to me that you
have never<br>
seemed to care for athletics of any sort; you appear to be too
indolent and<br>
ease-loving to sacrifice, or to endure the hardships of training.
I suppose<br>
it is because of my athletic record both at Bannister and at old
Yale that<br>
I am so eager to see you become a star; in fact, it is my life's
most<br>
cherished ambition to have you become as famous as your Dad.</p>

<p>However, I realize that my fond dream can never come true.
Nature has not<br>
made you naturally strong and athletic, and what athletic success
you may<br>
gain, must come from long and hard training and practice. If you
can only<br>
win your college letter, your B, Thomas, while at Bannister, I
shall be<br>
fully content.</p>

<p>I said nothing when you failed even to try for the teams at
your<br>
Preparatory School, but I did hope that at Bannister, under good
coaches<br>
and trainers, you would at least endeavor to win your letter. I
must admit<br>
that I am disappointed, for you have not even made an earnest
effort to<br>
find your event. Often, by trying everything, especially in a
track meet, a<br>
fellow finds his event, and later stars in it.</p>

<p>I really believe that if you would start in now to develop
yourself by<br>
regular, systematic gymnasium work, and if you would only try, in
a year<br>
or so you could make a Bannister team. Theodore Roosevelt, you
know, was a<br>
puny, weakly boy, but he built himself up, and became an athlete.
If you<br>
want to please me, start now and find your event. Attempt all the
sports,<br>
all the various track and field events, and always build yourself
up by<br>
exercise in the Gym.</p>

<p>And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after
conscientious<br>
effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your
college<br>
and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember,
the fellow<br>
who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good
enough to give<br>
the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first
track squad<br>
a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister.</p>

<p>I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will
make me happy<br>
just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the
scrubs, just to<br>
hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in
that humble<br>
unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you
<i>can</i> win<br>
your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take
until your<br>
Senior year, but once you start, <i>stick</i>.</p>

<p>Your loving</p>

<p>DAD.</p>

<p>"Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a
hail of, "Oh,<br>
you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet
Wigglesworth's<br>
abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness.
Don't wait<br>
for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking
football."</p>

<p>Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that
had known<br>
and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that
his athletic<br>
efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because
of a<br>
great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second
letter,<br>
dated a few days before:</p>

<p>DEAR SON THOMAS:</p>

<p>You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your
final chance<br>
to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if
you win your<br>
letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for
nature<br>
gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up
to you.<br>
Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your
track B,<br>
and I'll rest content!</p>

<p>Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the
top in your<br>
studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak
highly of you.<br>
Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud
of you.<br>
Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those
sons of old<br>
Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win
your gold B<br>
by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get
in a big<br>
game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach
Corridan<br>
about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades&mdash;they
just don't<br>
know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma
Mater<br>
to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the
goods! Your<br>
peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs
it this<br>
season, I hear&mdash;</p>

<p>There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as
the behemoth<br>
Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks,
Sr.,<br>
mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if
you'll get<br>
confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe
it to your<br>
Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you
have the<br>
goods&mdash;" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
possessed no more<br>
football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet&mdash;</p>

<p>"Another Hicks mystery," groaned Butch, holding the two
letters<br>
thoughtfully. "And father and son are in it, But if Hicks don't
get his B,<br>
it will be a shame. Say, I know&mdash;"</p>

<p>A few moments later, good-hearted Butch Brewster, in the
behalf of his<br>
sunny comrade, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was making to the Gold and
Green<br>
eleven and Coach Corridan, as eloquent a speech as that
blithesome youth,<br>
two weeks before, had made in defense of the condemned and
ostracized Thor!<br>
He read them the two letters of Hicks' beloved Dad, and told how
the cheery<br>
collegian wanted to win his B for his father's sake; graphically,
he<br>
related Hicks, Sr.'s, great ambition, and how Hicks, Jr., for
three years<br>
had vainly tried to make good at some athletic sport, and to win
his<br>
letter. Big Butch, warming to his theme, spoke of how T. Haviland
Hicks,<br>
Jr., letting the students believe that he entered every event in
the track<br>
meet of his Freshman year just for fun, had been trying to find
his event,<br>
and train for it; he explained that the festive youth, ever
sunny-natured,<br>
under the good-humored jeers of his comrades, who did not know
his real<br>
purpose, really yearned to win his B.</p>

<p>"You fellows, and you, Coach," he thundered, "all know how
Hicks, unable<br>
to make the 'Varsity, has always done humble service for old
Bannister,<br>
cheerfully, gladly; how he keeps the athletes in good spirits at
the<br>
training-table, and is always on hand after scrimmage to rub them
out. He<br>
is chock-full of college spirit, and is intensely loyal to his
Alma Mater.<br>
Why, look how he rounded up Thor&mdash;he ought to have his B for
that!"</p>

<p>Thanks to Butch's speech, the Gold and Green football stars,
most of whom<br>
were Hicks' closest friends, saw the scatter-brained,
happy-go-lucky<br>
youth in a new light; his eloquent defense of John Thorwald had
shown old<br>
Bannister that he could be serious, but the knowledge that T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., even as he made a ridiculous farce in athletics, was
ambitious<br>
to win his B, just to make his Dad happy, stunned them. For three
years,<br>
the sunny Hicks' appearance on old Bannister Field, to try for a
team, had<br>
meant a small-sized riot of jeers and good-natured ridicule at
his expense;<br>
but Hicks had always grinned &agrave; la Cheshire cat,&mdash;and
no one but good<br>
Butch Brewster, all the time, had known how in earnest the
lovable<br>
collegian was.</p>

<p>"Now," concluded Butch, "Hicks <i>may</i> win a B in track
work, if he gets a<br>
first place in the high-jump, and if so, O.K., but if he does
not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You mean&mdash;" Monty Merriweather&mdash;understood, "if he
fails, then the<br>
Athletic Association ought to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Present him with a B!" said Butch, earnestly, "as a deserved
reward for<br>
his faithful loyalty and service to old Bannister's athletic
teams. Don't<br>
let him graduate without gaining his letter, and making his Dad
realize a<br>
part of his ambition&mdash;a two-thirds vote of the Athletic
Association can<br>
award him his letter, and when all the students know the truth
about his<br>
ridiculous fiasco on Bannister Field, and realize the serious
purpose<br>
beneath them all, they&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We'll give him his B!" shouted Beef, loudly, "If he fails in
track work<br>
next spring, we'll vote him his letter, anyway!"</p>

<p>Out in the corridor, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., returning from
Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth's room and entering his own cozy quarters, could not
help<br>
hearing the conversation, as the doors of both his den and the
room across<br>
the corridor were open. A great love for his comrades came to his
impulsive<br>
heart, and a mist before his eyes, as he heard how they wanted to
vote him<br>
his B in case he failed to win it in track work; he thrilled at
Butch's<br>
speech, but&mdash;</p>

<br><br><br><br>
<img alt="bw.jpg (92K)" src="bw.jpg" height="851" width="545">
<br><br><br><br>

<p>"Fellows," he startled them by appearing in the doorway,
"I&mdash;I thank you<br>
from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't help hearing, you
know&mdash;I <i>do</i><br>
appreciate your generous thoughts, but&mdash;I can't and won't
accept my B<br>
unless I win it according to the rule of the Athletic
Association."</p>

<p>A silence, and then Butch Brewster, gripping his comrade's
hand<br>
understandingly, held out to him the two letters.</p>

<p>"Forgive me, old man," he breathed, "for reading them aloud,
but I wanted<br>
the fellows to know, to appreciate you! And say, Hicks, what does
your Dad<br>
mean by saying that you are the 'Class Kid' of Yale, '96, and
that those<br>
sons of old Eli want you to win your letter? And what does he
mean by<br>
saying that you may get in a <i>big game</i>&mdash;may <i>win</i>
it&mdash;that you have<br>
the goods in football, but lack the confidence to announce it to
Coach<br>
Corridan? Also that old Bannister needs just the peculiar brand
you<br>
possess?"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his sunny, Cheshire cat grin
illuminating his<br>
cherubic countenance, beamed on the eleven and Coach Corridan a
moment.</p>

<p>"Oh, that's a <i>mystery</i>," he said, cheerfully. "If I
<i>do</i> gain the courage<br>
and confidence, I'll explain, but unless I do&mdash;it remains
a&mdash;<i>mystery</i>!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER VIII</p>

<p>COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN</p>

<p>"ALL MEMBERS OF THE FIRST ELEVEN ARE<br>
URGENTLY REQUESTED TO BE PRESENT IN<br>
THE ROOM OF T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.&mdash;<br>
AT EIGHT P. M. TONIGHT;<br>
YOU WILL BE DETAINED ONLY A FEW MINUTES,<br>
BUT LET EVERY PLAYER COME, AS A MATTER OF<br>
EXTREME IMPORTANCE WILL BE PRESENTED.<br>
PATRICK HENRY COERIDAN, HEAD-COACH."</p>

<p>"Now, what do you suppose is up Coach Corridan's sleeve?"
demanded T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., cheerfully. "Has Ballard learned our
signals, or some<br>
Bannister student sold them to a rival team, as per the usual
football<br>
story? Though the notice doth not herald it, I am to be present,
for my<br>
room is to be used, and the Coach gave me a special invitation to
cut the<br>
Gordian knot with my keen intellect."</p>

<p>The sunny Hicks, with Butch, Beef, Tug, and Monty, had just
come from<br>
"Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, after supper; they
had paused<br>
before the Bulletin Board at the Gymnasium entrance, where all
college<br>
notices were posted, and the Coach's urgent request had caught
their gaze.<br>
The announcement had caused quite a stir on the campus. The
Bannister<br>
youths stood in excited groups talking of it, and in the
dormitories it<br>
superseded all thought of study; however, there seemed little
chance that<br>
any but the "'Varsity" and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who was always
consulted<br>
in football problems, would know what took place in this
meeting.</p>

<p>"There is only one way to find out, Hicks," responded big
Butch Brewster,<br>
his arm across his blithesome comrade's shoulders, "and that is,
attend<br>
the meeting! You can wager that every member of the eleven will
be there,<br>
except Thor&mdash;he regards it as 'foolishness,' I suppose, and
he won't spare<br>
that precious time from his studies."</p>

<p>At five minutes past eight, Butch's prophecy was fulfilled,
for every<br>
member of the eleven <i>was</i> in Hicks' cozy room, except Thor,
the Prodigious<br>
Prodigy, whose presence would have caused a mild sensation. It
was an<br>
extremely quiet and orderly gathering, for Coach Corridan, who
had the<br>
floor, was so grave that he impressed the would-be sky-larking
youths.<br>
Having their undivided attention, he proceeded to make a speech
that, to<br>
all intents and purposes, had much the same effect on the team
and Hicks as<br>
a Zeppelin's bombs on London:</p>

<p>"Boys," he spoke, in forceful sentences, driving straight to
the point,<br>
"I am going to take the eleven, and Hicks, whose suggestions are
always<br>
timely, into my confidence, in the hope that we, working
together, may<br>
carry out an idea of mine for the awakening of Thor to a
realization<br>
of things! I ask you not to let what I shall tell you be known to
the<br>
student-body, but you fellows play with Thor every day, and you
will<br>
understand the crisis, and appreciate <i>why</i> it is done, if I
decide it<br>
necessary to drop John Thorwald from the football squad."</p>

<p>"Drop Thor from the squad!" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
staggered, and<br>
then pandemonium broke loose among the players. Drop the
Prodigious Prodigy<br>
from the squad, why, what <i>could</i> the Slave-Driver be
thinking of? Why,<br>
look how Thorwald, on the scrubs, tore through the heavy 'Varsity
line for<br>
big gains. He was simply unstoppable; and yet, almost on the eve
of the big<br>
game that old Bannister depended on Thor to win by his splendid
prowess, he<br>
might be dropped from the squad! Excited exclamations sounded
from Captain<br>
Butch Brewster, Beef, and the others of the Gold and Green
eleven:</p>

<p>"Why not give the big games to Ballard and Ham, Coach?"</p>

<p>"Say, shoot Theophilus Opperdyke in at full-back!"</p>

<p>"Good-by, championship! No hopes now, fellows!"</p>

<p>"If Thor doesn't play in the Big Games&mdash;good night!"</p>

<p>A greater sensation could not have been caused even had kindly
white-haired<br>
Prexy announced his intention of challenging Jess Willard for the
World's<br>
Heavy-Weight Championship. Dropping that human battering-ram,
Thor, from<br>
the football, squad was something utterly undreamed-of. Coach
Corridan<br>
raised his hand for silence, and the youths subsided.</p>

<p>"Hear me carefully, boys," he urged, "I know that old
Bannister has come to<br>
regard John Thorwald as invincible, to use his vast bulk as a
foundation<br>
on which to build hopes of the Championship, which is a bad
policy, for no<br>
team can be a <i>one-man</i> team and win. I realize that as a
football player,<br>
Thor hasn't an equal in the State today, and if he had the right
spirit, he<br>
would have few in the country. It would be ridiculous to decry
his prowess,<br>
for he is a physical phenomenon. But you remember T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s,<br>
splendid defense of Thor, a week or so ago? Hicks gave you a full
and clear<br>
explanation of the big fellow, and showed you <i>why</i> he does
not know what<br>
college spirit is, what loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater
mean! His<br>
masterly speech changed your attitude toward Thor, and even
before he<br>
decided to play football, for Mr. Hicks' sake, you admired him,
because<br>
of his indomitable purpose, his promise to his dying mother. Now
I am<br>
telling you why he may be dropped from the squad, because I want
you<br>
fellows to give Thor a square deal, to remember what Hicks told
you of him,<br>
and to keep on striving to awaken him to the true meaning of
campus years,<br>
to make him realize that college life is more than a mere buying
of<br>
knowledge. I want to keep him on the squad, if humanly possible,
and I<br>
shall outline my plot later.</p>

<p>"Tomorrow we play Latham College. It is the last game before
the big games<br>
for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Saturday
after this,<br>
we play Hamilton, and the following week Ballard, the Champions!
The eleven<br>
I send in against those teams must be a solid unit, <i>one</i> in
spirit and<br>
purpose&mdash;every member of the Gold and Green team must be
welded with his<br>
team-mates, and they must forget everything but that their Alma
Mater must<br>
win the Championship! With no thought of self-glory, no other
purpose in<br>
playing than a love for old Bannister, every fellow must go into
those<br>
games to fight for his Alma Mater! Now, as for Thor, I need not
tell you<br>
that he is not in sympathy with our ambition; he simply does not
understand<br>
campus tradition and spirit. He is as yet not possessed of an
Alma Mater;<br>
he plays football only because of gratitude to Mr. Thomas
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Sr., and he hates to lose the time from his studies for the
practice.<br>
The football squad knows that his presence is a veritable wet
blanket on<br>
enthusiasm and the team's fighting spirit."</p>

<p>It was true. That intangible shadow of something wrong,
brooding over<br>
training-table, shower-room, and Bannister Field, that
self-evident<br>
truth which almost every collegian had for days confessed to
himself yet<br>
hesitated to voice, had been given definite form by Coach
Corridan talking<br>
to the eleven. The good that Thorwald might do for the team by
his superb<br>
prowess and massive bulk was more than offset and nullified by
his<br>
attitude.</p>

<p>To the blond Colossus, daily practice was unutterable mental
torture. His<br>
mind was on his studies, to which his bulldog purpose shackled
him; he<br>
begrudged the time spent on Bannister Field; he was stolid,
silent, aloof.<br>
He scarcely ever spoke, except when addressed. He reported for
practice at<br>
the last second, went through the scrimmage like a great, dumb,
driven ox,<br>
doing as he was ordered; and when the squad was dismissed he
hurried to his<br>
room. He was among the squad, but not of them; he neither
understood nor<br>
cared about their love for old Bannister, their vast desire to
win for<br>
their Alma Mater; he played football because he was grateful to
Hicks, Sr.,<br>
for helping him to get started toward his goal, but as Coach
Corridan now<br>
told the 'Varsity, he killed the squad's enthusiasm,</p>

<p>"All of this cannot fail to damage the <i>esprit de corps</i>,
the <i>morale</i>, of<br>
the eleven," declared Coach Corridan, having outlined Thor's
attitude. "I<br>
know that every member of the squad, if Thor played the game
because of<br>
college spirit, for love of old Bannister, would rejoice at his
prowess.<br>
But as it is they are justly resentful that he is not in the
spirit of the<br>
game. What we may gain by his playing, we lose because the others
cannot do<br>
their best with his example to hurt their fighting spirit. I do
not want,<br>
nor will I have on my eleven, any player who plays for other
reasons than a<br>
love for his Alma Mater, be he a Hogan, Brickley, Thorpe, or
Mahan. I have<br>
waited, hoping Thorwald would be awakened, as Hicks explained,
but now I<br>
must act. Tomorrow's game with Latham must see Thor awakened, or
I must,<br>
for the sake of the eleven, drop him from the squad for the rest
of the<br>
season.</p>

<p>"Yet I beg of you, in case the plan I shall propose fails,
remember Hicks'<br>
appeal! Do not condemn or ostracize John Thorwald in any degree.
He has<br>
three more seasons of football, so let us keep on trying to make
him<br>
understand campus life, college tradition. Be his friends, help
him all you<br>
can, and sooner or later he will awaken. Something may suddenly
shock him<br>
to a true understanding of what old Bannister means to a fellow.
Or perhaps<br>
the awakening will be slow, but it must come. And Bannister can
win without<br>
Thor, don't forget that! We'll make one final effort to awaken
Thor, and<br>
if it fails, just forget him, boys, so far as football goes, and
watch the<br>
Gold and Green win that championship."</p>

<p>"What is your scheme, Coach?" questioned Captain Butch
Brewster, his honest<br>
countenance showing how heavily the responsibility of team-leader
weighed<br>
upon him. "You are right; as Thor is now, he is a handicap to the
eleven,<br>
but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"My idea is this," explained the Slave-Driver earnestly.
"Select some<br>
student to go to Thorwald and try to show him that unless he gets
into the<br>
game and plays for old Bannister, he will be dropped from the
squad. If<br>
possible, let the fellow make him understand that, in his case,
it will be<br>
a shame and a dishonor. Now, Butch, you and Hicks can probably
approach<br>
Thor, or perhaps you know of someone who&mdash;"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cherubic countenance showed the
light of dawning<br>
inspiration, and Coach Corridan paused, as the sunny youth
exhibited a<br>
desire to say something, with him not by any means a
phenomenal<br>
happening; given the floor, the blithesome youth burst forth
excitedly:<br>
"Theophilus&mdash;Theophilus Opperdyke is the one! He has more
influence over<br>
Thor than any other student, and the big fellow likes the little
boner.<br>
Thor will at least listen to Theophilus, which Is more than any
of us can<br>
gain from him."</p>

<p>After the meeting had adjourned, and the last inspection had
been made in<br>
the other dorms, the Seniors being exempt, several members of the
Gold and<br>
Green team&mdash;Captain Butch, Beef, Pudge, Monty, Roddy, and
Bunch, together<br>
with little Theophilus Opperdyke, dragged from his
studies&mdash;foregathered in<br>
the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; those who had heard
the<br>
coach's talk were still stunned at the ban likely to be placed on
the<br>
Brobdingnagian Thor. On the campus outside Creighton Hall, a
horde of<br>
Bannister youths, incited by Tug Cardiff, who gave them no reason
for his<br>
act, were making a strenuous effort to awaken the Prodigious
Prodigy,<br>
evidently depending on noise to achieve that end, for a vast
sound-wave<br>
rolled up to Hicks' windows&mdash;"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor!
Thor!<br>
He's&mdash;all&mdash;right!"</p>

<p>"Listen!" exploded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignantly. "You
and I,<br>
Theophilus, would give a Rajah's ransom just to hear the fellows
whoop it<br>
up for us like that, and it has no more effect on that sodden
hulk of a<br>
Thor than bombarding an English super-dreadnaught with Roman
candles!<br>
Howsomever, Coach Corridan exploded a shrapnel bomb on old
Bannister's<br>
eleven tonight."</p>

<p>Then Hicks carefully outlined to the dazed little boner the
substance of<br>
the coach's talk to the team, and Theophilus was alarmed when he
thought of<br>
Thor's being dropped from the squad. When Captain Butch had
outlined the<br>
Slave-Driver's plot for striving to awaken the Colossus to a
realization of<br>
what a disgrace it would be to be sent from the gridiron, though
he did not<br>
announce that the Human Encyclopedia had been elected to carry
out Coach<br>
Corridan's last-hope idea, Theophilus sat on the edge of the
chair,<br>
blinking owlishly at them over his big-rimmed spectacles.</p>

<p>"After all, fellows," quavered Theophilus nervously, "Coach
Corridan, if he<br>
drops Thor from the squad, won't create such a riot on the campus
as you<br>
might expect. You see, the students, even as they built and
planned on<br>
Thor, gradually came to know that there is vastly more to be
considered<br>
than physical power. That great bulk actually acts as a drag on
the eleven,<br>
because Thor isn't in sympathy with things! Still, if he could
only be<br>
aroused, awakened, wouldn't the team play football, with him
striving for<br>
old Bannister, and not because he thinks he ought to play, for
Hicks' dad?<br>
Oh, I <i>do</i> hope the Coach's plan succeeds, and he awakens
tomorrow; I<br>
know the boys won't condemn him, if he doesn't,
but&mdash;I&mdash;I want him to<br>
understand!"</p>

<p>"It's his last chance this season," reflected T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
enshrouded in a penumbra of gloom. "I made a big boast that I
would round<br>
up a smashing full-back. I returned to Bannister with the
Prodigious<br>
Prodigy. I made a big mystery of him, and
then&mdash;biff!&mdash;Thor quit football.<br>
Then I explained the mystery, and got the fellows to admire him,
and when<br>
Thor decided to play the game I thought 'All O.K.; I'll just wait
until<br>
he scatters Hamilton and Ballard over Bannister Field, then I'll
swagger<br>
before Butch and say, "Oh, I told you just to leave it to
Hicks!"' But now<br>
Thor has spilled the beans again."</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I hope that the one you have chosen to appeal to
Thor&mdash;" spoke<br>
Theophilus timorously, "will succeed, for&mdash;Oh, I
<i>don't</i> want him to be<br>
dropped from the squad, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, who had been gazing at little Theophilus
Opperdyke with<br>
a basilisk glare that perturbed the bewildered Human
Encyclopedia, suddenly<br>
strode across the room and placed his hand on the grind's thin
shoulders.</p>

<p>"Theophilus, old man, it's up to you!" he said earnestly.
"Thor has a<br>
strong regard for you; in fact, outside of his good-natured
tolerance<br>
for Hicks, you alone have his friendship. Now I want you to go to
him,<br>
Theophilus, and make a last appeal to Thor. Try to awaken him, to
make him<br>
understand his peril of being dropped from the squad, unless he
plays<br>
the game for his college! It's for old Bannister, old man, for
your Alma<br>
Mater&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Go to it, Theophilus!" urged Beef McNaughton. "Coach Corridan
said Thor<br>
might be suddenly awakened by a shock, but no electric battery
can shock<br>
that Colossus, and, besides, miracles don't happen nowadays. Yes,
it's up<br>
to you, old man."</p>

<p>For a moment little Theophilus, his big-rimmed spectacles
falling off<br>
as fast as he replaced them, and his puny frame tense with
excitement,<br>
hesitated. Sitting on the extreme edge of the chair, he surveyed
his<br>
comrades solemnly and was convinced that they were in earnest.
Then, "I&mdash;I<br>
will <i>try</i>, sir!" exclaimed Theophilus, who would
<i>never</i> forget his<br>
Freshman training. "I'm <i>sure</i> Hicks, or somebody, could do
It better than<br>
I; but&mdash;I'll try!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER IX</p>

<p>THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK</p>

<p>  "College ties can ne'er be broken&mdash;<br>
  Loyal will remain each heart;<br>
  Though the last farewell be spoken&mdash;<br>
  And from Bannister we part!</p>

<p>  "Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!<br>
  Echoes softly from each heart;<br>
  We'll be ever loyal to thee&mdash;<br>
  Till we from life shall part!"</p>

<p>Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, intensely studious Human
Encyclopedia,<br>
stood at the window of John Thorwald's study room. That behemoth,
desiring<br>
quiet, had moved his study-table and chair to a vacant room
across the<br>
second-floor corridor of Creighton, the Freshman dormitory, when
the<br>
Bannister youths cheered him, and he was still there, so that
Theophilus,<br>
on his mission, had finally located him by his low rumblings, as
he<br>
laboriously read out his Latin. The little Senior was gazing
across the<br>
brightly lighted Quadrangle. He could see into the rooms of the
other<br>
class dormitories, where the students studied, skylarked,
rough-housed,<br>
or conversed on innumerable topics; from a room in Nordyke, the
abode of<br>
care-free Juniors, a splendidly blended sextette sang songs of
their<br>
Alma Mater, and their rich voices drifted across the Quad. to
Thor and<br>
Theophilus:</p>

<p>  "Though thy halls we leave forever<br>
  Sadly from the campus turn;<br>
  Yet our love shall fail thee never<br>
  For old Bannister we'll yearn!<br>
    Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!"</p>

<p>Theophilus turned from the window, and looked despairingly at
that young<br>
Colossus, Thor. The behemoth Norwegian, oblivious to everything
except the<br>
geometry problem now causing him to sweat, rested his massive
head on his<br>
palms, elbows on the study-table, and was lost in the intricate
labyrinth<br>
of "Let the line ABC equal the line BVD." The frail chair creaked
under his<br>
ponderous bulk. On the table lay an unopened letter that had come
in the<br>
night's mail, for, tackling one problem, the bulldog Hercules
never let go<br>
his grip until he solved it, and nothing else, not even
Theophilus, could<br>
secure his attention. Hence the Human Encyclopedia, trembling at
the<br>
terrific importance of the mission entrusted to him, waited,
thrilled by<br>
the Juniors' songs, which failed to penetrate Thor's mind.</p>

<p>"Oh, what <i>can</i> I do?" breathed Theophilus, sitting down
nervously on the<br>
edge of a chair and peering owlishly over his big-rimmed
spectacles at the<br>
stolid John Thorwald. "I am sure that, in time, I can help Thor
to&mdash;to know<br>
campus life better; but&mdash;<i>tomorrow</i> is his last chance!
He will be dropped<br>
from the squad, unless&mdash;"</p>

<p>As Thor at last leaned back and gazed at his little comrade,
just then, to<br>
the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," an augmented chorus drifted
across the<br>
Quadrangle:</p>

<p>  "And we'll sing one song<br>
  For the college that we love&mdash;<br>
  For our dear old Bannister&mdash;good-by"</p>

<p>To the Bannister students there was something tremendously
queer in the<br>
friendship of Theophilus and Thor. That the huge Freshman, of all
the<br>
collegians, should have chosen the timorous little boner was most
puzzling.<br>
Yet, to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a keen reader of human nature, it
was<br>
clear; Thorwald thought of nothing but study, Theophilus was a
grind,<br>
though he possessed intense college spirit, hence Thor was
naturally drawn<br>
to the little Senior by the mutual bond of their interest in
books, and<br>
Theophilus, with his hero-worshiping soul, intensely admired the
splendid<br>
purpose of John Thorwald, toiling to gain knowledge, because of
the promise<br>
of his dying mother. The grind, who thought that next to T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., Thor was the "greatest ever," as Hicks phrased it, had been,
doing<br>
what that care-free collegian termed "missionary work," with the
stolid,<br>
unimaginative Prodigious Prodigy for some weeks. Thrilled with
the thought<br>
that he worked for his Alma Mater, he quietly strove to make
Thorwald<br>
glimpse the true meaning and purpose of college life and its
broadness of<br>
development. The loyal Theophilus lost no opportunity of
impressing his<br>
behemoth friend with the sacred traditions of the campus, or of
explaining<br>
why Thor was wrong in characterizing all else than study as
foolishness and<br>
waste of time.</p>

<p>"Thor," began Theophilus timidly yet determinedly, for he was
serving old<br>
Bannister now, "old man, do you feel that you are giving the
fellows at<br>
Bannister a square deal?"</p>

<p>John Thorwald, slowly tearing open the letter that had come
that night,<br>
and had lain, unnoticed, on the study-table while he wrestled
with his<br>
geometry, turned suddenly. The Human Encyclopedia's vast
earnestness and<br>
the strange query he had fired at Thor, surprised even that
stolid mammoth.</p>

<p>"Why, what do you mean, Theophilus?" spoke Thor slowly. "A
square deal?<br>
Why, I owe them nothing! I sacrifice my time for them, leaving my
studies<br>
to go out and waste precious time foolishly on football.
Why&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I mean this," Theophilus kept doggedly on, his earnest desire
to stir Thor<br>
conquering his natural timidity. "You were brought to old
Bannister by<br>
Hicks, who made a great mystery of you, so we knew nothing of
you; but the<br>
fellows all thought you were willing to play football. Then,
after they<br>
got enthused, and builded hopes of the championship on
<i>you</i>, came<br>
your quitting. Hicks defended you, Thor, and changed the boys'
bitter<br>
condemnation to vast admiration, by telling of your life, your
father's<br>
being a castaway, your mother's dying wish, your toil to get
learning, and<br>
your inability to grasp college life. Then from gratitude to Mr.
Hicks you<br>
started to play again&mdash;naturally, the students waxed
enthusiastic, when you<br>
ripped the 'Varsity to pieces, but now you may be dropped by the
coach,<br>
after tomorrow, because you don't play for old Bannister, and
your<br>
indifference kills the team's fighting spirit. You do not care if
you are<br>
dropped; it will give you more time to study, and relieve you of
your<br>
obligation, as you so quixotically view it, to play because Mr.
Hicks will<br>
be glad; but&mdash;think of the fellows.</p>

<p>"They, Thor, disappointed in you, their hopes of your bringing
by your<br>
massive body and huge strength the Championship to old Bannister
shattered,<br>
are still your friends&mdash;they of the eleven, I mean
especially, for, as yet,<br>
the rest do not know you may be dropped. And the fellows came
beneath your<br>
window tonight to cheer you; they will do so, Thor, even if you
are dropped<br>
and they know that you will not use that prodigious power for
their Alma<br>
Mater in the big games; they will stand by you, for they
understand! Just<br>
think, old man; haven't the fellows, despite your rude rebuffs,
<i>tried</i><br>
to be your comrades? Haven't they helped you to get settled to
work and<br>
assisted you with your studies? Why, you have been a big boor,
cold and<br>
aloof, you have upset their hopes of you in football, and yet
they have no<br>
condemnation for you, naught but warm friendliness.</p>

<p>"You are not giving them or yourself a square deal, Thor! You
won't even<br>
<i>try</i> to understand campus life, to grasp its real purpose,
to realize what<br>
tradition is! The time will come, Thor, when you will see your
mistake; you<br>
will yearn for their good fellowship, you will learn that getting
knowledge<br>
is not all of college life. You will know that this 'silly
foolishness' of<br>
singing songs and giving the yell, of rooting for the eleven, of
loyalty<br>
and love for one's Alma Mater, is something worth while. And you
may find<br>
it out too late. Oh, if you could only understand that it isn't
what you<br>
take from old Bannister that makes a man of you, it is what you
give to<br>
your college&mdash;in athletics, in your studies, in every phase
of campus life;<br>
that in toiling and sacrificing for your Alma Mater you grow and
develop,<br>
and reap a rich reward!"</p>

<p>Could T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch Brewster, and the Gold and
Green eleven<br>
have heard little Theophilus' fervent and eloquent appeal to John
Thorwald,<br>
they would have felt like giving three cheers for him. They loved
this<br>
pathetic little boner, who, because of his pitifully frail body,
could<br>
never fight for old Bannister on gridiron, diamond, or track, and
they<br>
tremendously admired him for working for his college and for the
redemption<br>
of Thor. Timorous and shrinking by nature, whenever his Alma
Mater, or a<br>
friend, needed him the Human Encyclopedia fought down his painful
timidity<br>
and came up to scratch nobly.</p>

<p>It was Theophilus whose clear logic had vastly aided T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., to originate The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, in 1919's
Sophomore<br>
year, and quell Roddy Perkins' Freshman Equal Rights campaign. In
fact, it<br>
had been the boner's suggestion that gave Hicks his needed
inspiration.<br>
And, a Junior, Theophilus had been elected business manager of
the<br>
Bannister Weekly, with Hicks as editor-in-chief as a colossal
joke. The<br>
entire burden of that almost defunct periodical had been thrust
on those<br>
two, and, thanks to the grind's intensely humorous "copy," the
Weekly had<br>
been revived and rebuilt. And Theophilus, in writing the humorous
articles,<br>
had been moved by a great ambition to do something for old
Bannister.</p>

<p>"Look at me, Thor!" continued Theophilus Opperdyke, his puny
body dwarfed<br>
as he faced the colossal Prodigious Prodigy. "A poor, weak,
helpless<br>
nothing! I'd cheerfully sacrifice all the scholastic honor or
glory I ever<br>
won, or shall win, just to make a touchdown for the Gold and
Green, just to<br>
win a baseball game, or to break the tape in a race for old
Bannister!<br>
And you&mdash;<i>you</i>, with that tremendous body, that massive
bulk, that vast<br>
strength&mdash;you won't play the game for your Alma Mater, you
won't throw<br>
that big frame into the scrimmage, thrilled with a desire to win
for your<br>
college! Oh, what wonderful things you <i>could</i> do with your
powerful build;<br>
but it means nothing to you, while I&mdash; Oh, you don't care,
you just won't<br>
awaken; and, unless you do, in tomorrow's game you'll be dropped
from the<br>
squad, a disgrace."</p>

<p>John Thorwald-Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, that Gargantuan
Freshman of<br>
whom Bannister said he possessed no soul&mdash;stirred uneasily,
shifted his<br>
vast tonnage from one foot to the other, and stared at little
Theophilus<br>
Opperdyke. That solemn Senior, who had not seen the slightest
effect his<br>
"Missionary Work" was having on the stolid Thor, was in despair;
but he did<br>
not know the truth. As Hicks had once said, "You don't know
nothing what<br>
goes on in Thor's dome. There's a wall of solid concrete around
the<br>
machinery of his mind, and you can't see the wheels, belts, and
cogs at<br>
work!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with all his keen insight into human
nature, had<br>
failed utterly to diagnose Thor's case, had not even stumbled on
the true<br>
cause of that young giant's aloofness. The truth was unknown to
anyone,<br>
but there was one natural reason for John Thorwald's not mingling
with his<br>
fellows of the campus-the blond Colossus was inordinately
bashful! From his<br>
fifteenth year, Thor had seen the seamy side of life, had lived,
grown and<br>
developed among men. In his wanderings in the Klondike, the wild
Northwest,<br>
in Panama, his experiences as cabin-boy, miner, cowboy,
lumber-jack, and<br>
Canal Zone worker, he had existed where everything was roughness
and<br>
violence, where brawn, not brain, usually held sway, where
supremacy was<br>
won, kept, and lost by fists, spiked boots, or guns! In his
adventurous<br>
career, young Thorwald had but seldom encountered the finer
things of life,<br>
and his nature, while wholesome, was sturdy and virile, not
likely to be<br>
stirred by sentiment; so that now, among the good-natured,
friendly boys of<br>
old Bannister, he, accustomed to rude surroundings and rough
acquaintances,<br>
was bashful.</p>

<p>And Theophilus, as well as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot far
wide of the<br>
mark in believing that the big Hercules had no power to feel; he
possessed<br>
that power, but, with it the ability to conceal his feelings.
They thought<br>
nothing appealed to him, had stirred his soul, at college, but
they were<br>
wrong; true, Thor was unable to understand this new, strange
life; he was<br>
puzzled when the collegians condemned and ostracized him at
first, when<br>
he quit football because it was not a Faculty rule to play, but
he was<br>
grateful when Hicks defended him, and the admiration of the
student-body<br>
was welcome to him. He had thought he was doing all they desired
of him,<br>
when he went back to the game, and now&mdash;when Theophilus told
him that he<br>
might be dropped from the squad, he was bewildered. He could not
understand<br>
just why this could be, when he was reporting for scrimmage every
day!</p>

<p>But the friendliness of the youths, their kind help with his
studies,<br>
the assistance of the genial Hicks, and, more than all, above
even<br>
the admiration of the Freshmen for his promise and purpose, the
daily<br>
missionary work of little Theophilus, for whom the massive Thor
felt a real<br>
love, had been slowly, insidiously undermining John Thorwald's
reserve. No<br>
longer did he condemn what he did not understand. At times he had
a vague<br>
feeling that all was not right, that, after all, he was missing
something,<br>
that study was not all; and yet, bashful as he was, fearing to
appear<br>
rough, crude, and uncouth among these skylarking youths, Thor
kept on his<br>
silent, lonely way, and they thought him untouched by their
overtures. Of<br>
late, when unobserved, the big Freshman had stood by the window,
watching<br>
the collegians on the campus, listening to their songs of old
Bannister,<br>
and yet because he felt embarrassed when with them, he gave no
sign that he<br>
cared.</p>

<p>Now, however, the splendid appeal of loyal, timorous
Theophilus stirred<br>
Thor, and yet he could not break down the wall of reserve he had
builded<br>
around himself. He had deluded himself that this comradeship was
not for<br>
him, that he could never mingle with these happy-go-lucky youths,
that<br>
he must plod straight ahead, and live to himself, because his
past had<br>
roughened him.</p>

<p>"You are a Freshman!" spoke Theophilus, unaware that forces
were at work on<br>
Thor, and making a last effort. "You stand on the very threshold
of your<br>
campus years; everything is before you. I am at the journey's
end&mdash;very<br>
nearly, for in June I graduate from old Bannister. I never had
the chance<br>
to fight for my Alma Mater on the athletic field, and
you&mdash;Oh, think of<br>
what you can do! About to leave the campus, I, and my
class-mates, realize<br>
how dear our college has become to us. If <i>you</i> could just
know that<br>
Bannister means something to you, even now, if you only felt it,
you<br>
could make your years mean great things to you. Thor, could you
leave old<br>
Bannister tomorrow without regret, without one sigh for the dear
old place?<br>
We, who soon shall leave it forever, fully understand
Shakespeare, when in<br>
a sonnet he wrote:</p>

<p>  "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong&mdash;<br>
  To love that well which thou must leave ere long!"</p>

<p>There was a silence, and then Thor slowly drew out a letter
from its<br>
envelope, scanning the scrawl across its pages. A few moments,
while its<br>
meaning seemed to seep into his slow-acting mind, and then a look
of<br>
helpless bewilderment, as though the stolid Freshman just could
not<br>
understand at all, came to his face; a minute John Thorwald
stood, as in a<br>
trance, staring dully at the letter.</p>

<p>"Thor! Thor! What's the matter? What's wrong?" quavered the
alarmed<br>
Theophilus, "Have you gotten bad news?"</p>

<p>"Read it, read it," said the big Freshman lifelessly,
extending the letter<br>
to the startled Senior. "It's all over, I suppose, and I've got
to go to<br>
work again. I've got to leave college, and toil once more, and
save. My<br>
promise to my mother can't be fulfilled&mdash;yet. And just as I
was getting<br>
fairly started."</p>

<p>Theophilus Opperdyke hurriedly perused the message, which had
come to Thor<br>
in that night's mail but which the blond giant had let lie
unnoticed while<br>
he tackled his geometry. With difficulty Theophilus deciphered
the scrawl<br>
on an official letterhead:</p>

<p>THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANA STEAMSHIP LINE</p>

<p>(New York Offices)</p>

<p>Nov. 4, 19&mdash;.</p>

<p>DEAR SON:</p>

<p>I am writing to tell you that I've run into a sort of
hurricane, and you<br>
and I have got a hard blow to weather. I started you at college
on the<br>
$5,000 received from the heirs of Henry B. Kingsley, on whose
yacht, as<br>
you know, I was wrecked in the South Seas, and marooned for ten
years. I<br>
figured on giving you an education with that sum, eked out by my
wages, and<br>
what you earn in vacations.</p>

<p>I had the $5,000, untouched, in a New York bank, and I wanted
to take it<br>
over to Christiania; when I was about to sail on my last voyage,
I drew out<br>
the sum, and put it in care of the Purser of the Norwhal, on
which I<br>
was mate, intending, of course, to get it on docking, and deposit
it in<br>
Christiania. At the last hour I was transferred to the Valkyrie,
to sail<br>
a few days later, and I knew the Norwhal's purser would leave the
$5,000<br>
for me in the Company's Christiania offices, so I did not bother
to<br>
transfer it to the Valkyrie.</p>

<p>Perhaps you read in the newspapers that the Norwhal struck a
floating<br>
mine, and went down with a heavy loss of life. The Purser was
among those<br>
lost, and none of the ship's papers were saved; my $5,000, of
course, went<br>
down also.</p>

<p>I am sorry, John, but there seems nothing to do but for you to
leave<br>
college and work. For your mother's sake, I wish we could avoid
it; but we<br>
must wait and work and tackle it again. Your first term expenses
are paid,<br>
so stay until the term is out. Perhaps Mr. Hicks can give you a
job in one<br>
of his steel mills again, but we must work our own way, son.
Don't lose<br>
courage, we'll fight this out together with the memory of your
promise to<br>
your dying mother to spur you on. The road may be long and rocky
but we'll<br>
make it. Just work and save, and in a year or two you can start
at college<br>
again. You can study at night, too, and keep on learning.</p>

<p>I'll write later. Stay at college till the term is up, and in
the meantime<br>
try to land a job. However, you won't have any trouble to do
that. Keep<br>
your nerve, boy, for your mother's sake. It's a hard blow, but
we'll<br>
weather it, never fear, and reach port.</p>

<p>Your father,</p>

<p>JOHN THORWALD, SR.</p>

<p>P.S. I am sailing on the Valkyrie today, will write you on my
return to<br>
New York, in a few weeks.</p>

<p>Theophilus looked at the massive young Norwegian, who had
taken this<br>
solar-plexus blow with that same stolid apathy that characterized
his every<br>
action. He wanted to offer sympathy, but he knew not how to reach
Thor. He<br>
fully understood how terrific the blow was, how it must stagger
the<br>
big, earnest Freshman, just as he, after ten years of grinding
toil, of<br>
sacrifice, of grim, unrelenting determination, had conquered
obstacles and<br>
fought to where he had a clear track ahead. Just as it seemed
that fate had<br>
given him a fair chance, with his father rescued and five
thousand dollars<br>
to give him a college course, this terrible misfortune had
befallen him.<br>
Theophilus realized what it must mean to this huge, silent
Hercules, just<br>
making good his promise to his dying mother, to give up his
studies, and go<br>
back to work, toil, labor, to begin all over again, to put off
his college<br>
years.</p>

<p>"Leave me, please," said Thor dully, apparently as unmoved by
the blow<br>
as he had been by Theophilus' appeal. "I&mdash;I would like to be
alone, for<br>
awhile."</p>

<p>Left alone, John Thorwald stood by the window, apparently not
thinking of<br>
anything in particular, as he gazed across the brightly lighted
Quad. The<br>
huge Freshman seemed in a daze&mdash;utterly unable to comprehend
the disaster<br>
that had befallen him; he was as stolid and impassive as ever,
and<br>
Theophilus might have thought that he did not care, even at
having to give<br>
up his college course, had not the Senior known better.</p>

<p>Across the Quadrangle, from the room of the Caruso-like
Juniors,<br>
accompanied by a melodious banjo-twanging, drifted:</p>

<p>  "Though thy halls we leave forever<br>
  Sadly from the campus turn;<br>
  Yet our love shall fail thee never<br>
  For old Bannister we'll yearn!</p>

<p>  "'Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!'<br>
  Echoes softly from each heart;<br>
  We'll be ever loyal to thee<br>
  Till we from life shall part."</p>

<p>Strangely enough, the behemoth Thorwald was not thinking so
much of having<br>
to give up his studies, of having to lay aside his books and take
up again<br>
the implements of toil. He was not pondering on the cruelty of
fate in<br>
making him abandon, at least temporarily, his goal; instead, his
thoughts<br>
turned, somehow, to his experiences at old Bannister, to the
football<br>
scrimmages, the noisy sessions in "Delmonico's Annex," the
college<br>
dining-hall, to the skylarking he had often watched in the
dormitories. He<br>
thought, too, of the happy, care-free youths, remembering Hicks,
good Butch<br>
Brewster, loyal little Theophilus; and as he reflected, he heard
those<br>
Juniors, over the way, singing. Just now they were chanting
that<br>
exquisitely beautiful Hawaiian melody, "Aloha Oe," or "Farewell
to Thee,"<br>
making the words tell of parting from their Alma Mater. There was
something<br>
in the refrain that seemed to break down Thor's wall of reserve,
to melt<br>
away his aloofness, and he caught himself listening eagerly as
they sang.</p>

<p>Somehow he felt no desire to condemn those care-free youths,
to call their<br>
singing silly foolishness, to say they were wasting their time
and their<br>
fathers' money. Queer, but he actually liked to hear them sing,
he realized<br>
he had come to listen for their saengerfests. Now that he had to
leave<br>
college, for the first time he began to ponder on what he must
leave. Not<br>
alone books and study, but&mdash;</p>

<p>As he stood there, an ache in his throat, and an awful sorrow
overwhelming<br>
him, with the richly blended voices of the happy Juniors drifting
across to<br>
him, chanting a song of old Ballard, big Thor murmured
softly:</p>

<p>"What did little Theophilus say? What was it Shakespeare
wrote? Oh, I have<br>
it:</p>

<p>  "'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong&mdash;<br>
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.'"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER X</p>

<p>THOR'S AWAKENING</p>

<p>  "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea,<br>
  And we'll put Bannister in that hole!<br>
  In that hole&mdash;in&mdash;that&mdash;hole&mdash;<br>
  Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!"</p>

<p>"In the famous words of the late Mike Murphy," said T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr.,<br>
"the celebrated Yale and Penn track trainer, 'you can beat a team
that<br>
can't be beat, but&mdash;you can't beat a team that won't be
beat!' Latham must<br>
be in the latter class."</p>

<p>It was the Bannister-Latham game, and the first half had just
ended.<br>
Captain Butch Brewster's followers had trailed dejectedly from
Bannister<br>
Field to the Gym, where Head Coach Corridan was flaying them with
a tongue<br>
as keen as the two-edged sword that drove Adam and Eve from the
Garden of<br>
Eden. A cold, bleak November afternoon, a leaden sky lowered
overhead, and<br>
a chill wind swept athwart the field; in the concrete stands, the
loyal<br>
"rooters" of the Gold and Green, or of the Gold and Blue,
shivered,<br>
stamped, and swung their arms, waiting for the excitement of the
scrimmage<br>
again to warm them. Yet, the Bannister cohorts seemed silent
and<br>
discouraged, while the Latham supporters went wild, singing,
cheering,<br>
howling. A look at the score-board explained this:</p>

<p>    END OF FIRST HALF: SCORE:<br>
      Bannister ........ 0<br>
      Latham ........... 3</p>

<p>The statement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a gold and
green<br>
blanket and humped on the Bannister bench, to shivering little
Theophilus<br>
Opperdyke, the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and several more
collegians<br>
who had joined him when the half ended, was singularly
appropriate. In<br>
Latham's light, fast eleven, trained to the minute, coached to a
shifty,<br>
tricky style of play with numberless deceptive fakes from which
they worked<br>
the forward pass successfully, Bannister seemed to have
encountered, as<br>
Mike Murphy phrased it, "A team that won't be beat!" According to
the<br>
advance dope of the sporting writers, who, in football, are
usually as good<br>
prophets as the Weather Bureau, Bannister was booked to come out
the winner<br>
by at least five touchdowns to none. But here a half was gone,
and Latham<br>
led by three points, scored on a rather lucky field-goal!</p>

<p>The psychology of football is inexplicable. Yale, beaten by
Virginia,<br>
Brown, and Wash-Jeff, with the Blue's best gridiron star
ineligible to<br>
play, a team that seemed at odds with itself and the 'Varsity,
mismanaged,<br>
poorly coached, journeys to Princeton to battle with old Nassau;
the Tiger,<br>
Its tail as yet untwisted, presents its best eleven for several
seasons, a<br>
great favorite in the odds, and yet the final score is Yale, 14;
Princeton,<br>
7! A strange fear of the Bulldog, bred of many bitter defeats, of
similar<br>
occasions when a feeble Yale team aroused itself and trampled an
invincible<br>
Orange and Black eleven, when the Blue fought old Nassau with a
team that<br>
"wouldn't" be beat, gave victory to the poorer aggregation. So
many things<br>
unforeseen often enter into a football contest, shifting the
balance of<br>
power from the stronger to the weaker team. One eleven gets the
jump on the<br>
other, the favorite weirdly goes to pieces&mdash;team dissension
may exist, a<br>
dozen other causes&mdash;but, boiled down, Mike Murphy's
statement was most<br>
appropriate now.</p>

<p>Latham simply <i>would not</i> be beat! The sporting pages had
said: "Latham<br>
simply can't beat Bannister!" Here the team, that could not be
beaten was<br>
being defeated, and the team that would not be defeated was, so
far, the<br>
victor. Perhaps the threatened dropping of Thor from the Gold and
Green<br>
squad shook somewhat Captain Butch's players; more likely, the
Latham<br>
aggregation got the jump on Bannister, opening up a bewildering
attack of<br>
criss-crosses, line plunges, cross-bucks, and tandems, from all
of which<br>
the forward pass frequently developed; they literally overwhelmed
a<br>
supposedly unbeatable team. And once they got the edge, it was
hard for<br>
Bannister to regain poise and to smother the fast plays that
swept through<br>
or around the bewildered eleven.</p>

<p>"We have <i>got</i> to beat 'em!" growled Shad, "Mike Murphy
or not. Why,<br>
if little old Latham cleans us up, smash go our chances of the
State<br>
Championship! Oh, look at Thor&mdash;the big mountain of muscle.
Why doesn't he<br>
wake up, and go push that team off the field?"</p>

<p>Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, his vast hulk unprotected from
the cold wind<br>
by a football blanket, squatted on the ground, on the side-line,
apparently<br>
in a trance. Ever since the night before, when his father's
letter had<br>
dealt such a knock-out blow to his hopes of fulfilling the
promise to his<br>
dying mother, had rudely side-tracked him from the climb to his
goal, the<br>
blond giant had maintained that dumb apathy. If anything, it
seemed that<br>
the cruel blow of fate had only served to make Thor more stolid
and<br>
impassive than ever, and Theophilus wondered if the Colossus had
really<br>
grasped the import of the tragic letter as yet. The news had
spread over<br>
the college and campus, and the students were sincerely sorry for
Thor. But<br>
to offer him sympathy was about as difficult as consoling a Polar
bear with<br>
the toothache.</p>

<p>Coach Corridan, carrying out his plot, had decided not to
start Thor in<br>
the first half of the game. So the Norwegian Hercules, having
received no<br>
orders to the contrary, however, donned togs and appeared on the
side-line,<br>
where he had sat, paying not the slightest heed to the scrimmage
and<br>
seemingly unaware that the Gold and Green was facing defeat and
the loss of<br>
the Championship, for a game lost would put the team out of the
running.<br>
All big John Thorwald knew was, in a few weeks he must leave old
Bannister,<br>
must give up, for a time, his college course. Just when the grim
battle was<br>
won, he must leave, to work. Not that the Viking cared about
toil. It was<br>
the delay that chafed even his stolid self. He was stunned at
having to<br>
wait, maybe two years, before starting again.</p>

<p>And yet, as he squatted on the side-line, oblivious to
everything but his<br>
bitter reflections, the Theophilus-quoted words of Shakespeare
persisted in<br>
intruding on his thoughts:</p>

<p>  "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong&mdash;<br>
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long."</p>

<p>Try as he would, he could not fight away the keen realization
that<br>
books and study were not all he would regret to leave. He was
forced to<br>
acknowledge that his mind kept wandering to other things. He
found himself<br>
pondering on the parting with Theophilus Opperdyke, with that
crazy Hicks;<br>
he wondered if he, out in the world again, toiling his lonely
way, would<br>
miss the glad fellowship of these care-free youths that he had
watched,<br>
but never shared, if he would ever think of the weeks at old
Bannister.<br>
Somehow, he felt that he would often vision the Quad at night,
brightly<br>
lighted, dormitories' lights agleam, students crossing and
recrossing,<br>
shouting at studious comrades. He would hear again the
melodious<br>
banjo-twanging, the gleeful saengerfests, the happy skylarking of
the boys.<br>
He had never entered into all this, and yet he knew he would miss
it all;<br>
why, he would even miss the daily scrimmage on Bannister Field;
the noisy<br>
shower-room, with its clouds of steam, and white forms flitting
ghostlike.<br>
He would miss the classrooms; in brief, <i>everything</i>!</p>

<p>John Thorwald was awakening! Even had this blow not befallen
him, the huge,<br>
slow-minded Norwegian, in time, with Theophilus Opperdyke's
missionary<br>
work, would have gradually come to understand things
better&mdash;at least, to<br>
know he was wrong in his ideas, which is the beginning of wisdom.
Already,<br>
he had ceased to condemn all this as foolishness, to rail at the
youths<br>
for wasting time and money. Already something stirred within him,
and yet,<br>
stolid as he was, bashful among the collegians, he was apparently
the same.<br>
But the sudden shock Head Coach Corridan spoke of had come. His
father's<br>
letter telling of his loss and that Thor must leave Bannister had
awakened<br>
him to the startling knowledge that he did care for something
more than<br>
study, that all the things that had puzzled him, that he had
sneered at,<br>
meant something to his existence, that he dreaded leaving other
things than<br>
his books.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I don't understand things," thought Thorwald.
"But&mdash;if I could only<br>
stay, I'd want to learn. I'd try to get this 'college' spirit!
Oh, I've<br>
been all wrong, but if I could only stay&mdash;"</p>

<p>As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the big Freshman
beheld marching<br>
toward him Theophilus Opperdyke, his spectacles off, and his face
aglow,<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., evidently in the throes of emotional
insanity; a<br>
Senior whom he knew as Parson Palmetter; Registrar Worthington,
and Doctor<br>
Alford, the kindly, beloved Prexy of old Bannister. The last
named placed<br>
his hand on the puzzled behemoth's ponderous shoulder.</p>

<p>"Thorwald," he said kindly, "Hicks, Opperdyke and Brewster,
last night,<br>
came to my study and acquainted me with your misfortune. They
told me of<br>
your life-history, of your splendid purpose to gain knowledge, to
make<br>
something of yourself, for your dying mother's sake. Old
Bannister needs<br>
men like you, Thorwald. Perhaps you do not understand campus ways
and<br>
tradition yet, perhaps you are not in sympathy with everything
here; but<br>
once a love for your Alma Mater is awakened, you will be a power
for good<br>
for your college.</p>

<p>"Now I at once took up the matter with Mr. Palmetter,
President of The<br>
Students' Aid Bureau. This year, for the first time in our
history, we have<br>
dispensed with janitors and sweeps in the dormitories, and with
dining-hall<br>
waiters, so that needy and deserving students may work their way
through<br>
Bannister. Owing to the fact that Mr. Deane, a Senior, has given
up his<br>
dormitory, Creighton Hall, as he has funds for the year and needs
the time<br>
to study, we can offer you board and tuition, in exchange for
your work in<br>
the dormitory, and waiting on tables in the dining-hall. Since
your first<br>
term bills, until January first, are paid, if you will start to
work at<br>
once, we will credit any work done this term on books and
incidentals for<br>
next term. By this means&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, you don't&mdash;you <i>can't</i> mean&mdash;" rumbled
Thor, who had just dimly<br>
grasped the greatest point in Prexy's speech. "Why, then I won't
have to<br>
leave Bannister&mdash;I won't have to quit my studies! Oh, thank
you, sir; thank<br>
you! I will work <i>so</i> hard. I am not afraid of work; I love
it&mdash;a chance to<br>
toil and earn my education, that's what I want! Thank you!"</p>

<p>"And in addition," said the Registrar, "Mr. Palmetter reports
that he can<br>
secure you, downtown, a number of furnaces to tend this winter,
which you<br>
can do early in the morning and at night; this will bring you an
income for<br>
living expenses, and in the spring something else will offer
itself. It<br>
means every moment of your time will be crowded, but Bannister
needs<br>
workers&mdash;"</p>

<p>Something stirred in John Thorwald. His heart had been touched
at last. He<br>
thought of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, and little Theophilus
worried<br>
at his having to leave college, going to Doctor Alford; of Prexy,
the<br>
Registrar, and Parson Palmetter, working to keep Thor at old
Bannister.<br>
He recalled how sympathetic all the youths had been, how they
admired his<br>
purpose and determination; and he had rewarded their friendliness
with<br>
cold aloofness. He felt a thrill as he visioned himself working
for his<br>
education, rising in the cold dawn, tending furnaces, working in
the dorm.,<br>
waiting on tables&mdash;studying. With what fierce joy he would
assail his<br>
tasks, glad that he could stay! He knew the students would
rejoice, that<br>
they would not look down on him; instead, they would respect and
admire<br>
him, toiling to grow and develop, to attain his goal!</p>

<p>"Go to it, Thor!" urged T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "We all want
you to stay,<br>
old man; we'll give you a lift with your studies. Old Bannister
<i>wants</i><br>
you, <i>needs</i> you, so <i>stick</i>!"</p>

<p>"Stay, please!" quavered little Theophilus. "You don't want to
leave your<br>
Alma Mater; stay, Thorwald, and&mdash;you'll understand things
soon,"</p>

<p>"Report at the Registrar's office at seven tonight, Thorwald,"
said Prexy,<br>
and then, because he understood boys and campus problems, "and to
show your<br>
gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team which is
trying to<br>
lick old Bannister."</p>

<p>John Thorwald, when Doctor Alford and the Registrar had gone,
arose and<br>
stood gazing across Bannister Field. He saw not the white-lined
gridiron,<br>
the gaunt goal-posts, the concrete stands filled with spectators,
or the<br>
gay banners and pennants. He saw the buildings and campus of old
Bannister,<br>
the stately old elms bordering the walks; he beheld the Gym., the
four<br>
dormitories&mdash;Bannister, Nordyke, Smithson, and
Creighton&mdash;the white Chapel,<br>
the ivy-covered Library, the Administration and Recitation Halls;
he<br>
glimpsed the Memorial Arch over the entrance driveway, and big
Alumni Hall.<br>
All at once, like an inundating wave, the great realization
flashed on<br>
Thor that he did not have to leave it all! Often again would he
hear the<br>
skylarking youths, the gay songs, the banjo-strumming; often
would he see<br>
the brightly lighted Quad., would gaze out on the campus! It was
still<br>
his&mdash;the work, the study, and, if he tried, even the glad
comradeship of<br>
the fellows, the bigger things of college life, which as yet he
did not<br>
understand.</p>

<p>The big slow-minded youth could not awaken, at once, to a full
knowledge<br>
and understanding of campus life and tradition, to a knowledge of
college<br>
spirit; but, thanks to the belief that he had to leave it all, he
had<br>
awakened to the startling fact that already he loved old
Bannister. And<br>
now, joyous that he could stay, John Thorwald suddenly felt a
strong desire<br>
to do something, not for himself, but for these splendid fellows
who had<br>
worried for his sake, had worked to keep him at college. And just
then he<br>
remembered the somewhat unclassical, yet well meant, words of
dear old<br>
Doctor Alford, "And to show your gratitude, you might go out
there and<br>
spank that team, which is trying to lick old Bannister."</p>

<p>John Thorwald for the first time looked at the score-board; he
saw, in big<br>
white letters:</p>

<p>    BANNISTER .......... 0<br>
    LATHAM ............. 3</p>

<p>From the Gym. the Gold and Green players&mdash;grim,
determined, and yet worried<br>
by the team that "won't be beat!"&mdash;were jogging, followed by
Head Coach<br>
Patrick Henry Corridan. The Latham eleven was on the field, the
Gold and<br>
Blue rooters rioted in the stands. From the Bannister cohorts
came a<br>
thunderous appeal:</p>

<p>  "Hold 'em, boys&mdash;hold 'em,
boys&mdash;hold&mdash;hold&mdash;<i>hold</i>!<br>
  Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!"</p>

<p>A sudden fury swayed the Prodigious Prodigy; it was his
college, his<br>
eleven, and those Blue and Gold youths were actually beating old
Bannister!<br>
The Bannister boys had admired him, some of them had helped him
in his<br>
studies, three had told Doctor Alford of him, had made it
possible for him<br>
to stay, to keep on toward his goal. They would be
sorrow-stricken if<br>
Latham won! A feeling of indignation came to Thor. How dare those
fellows<br>
think they could beat old Bannister! Why, <i>he</i> would go out
there and show<br>
them a few things!</p>

<p>Head Coach Corridan, let it be chronicled, was paralyzed when
he ducked<br>
under the side-line rope&mdash;stretched to hold the spectators
back&mdash;to collide<br>
with an immovable body, John Thorwald, and to behold an eager
light on that<br>
behemoth's stolid face. Grasping the Slave-Driver in a grip that
hurt, Thor<br>
boomed:</p>

<p>"Mr. Corridan, let me play, <i>please</i>! Send me out this
half. We can win.<br>
We've <i>got</i> to win! I want to do something for old
Bannister. Why, if we<br>
lose today, we lose the Championship! I don't understand things
yet, but I<br>
do love the college. I want to fight for Bannister. Please let me
play!"</p>

<p>The astonished coach and the equally dazed Gold and Green
eleven, with the<br>
bewildered collegians who heard Thor's earnest appeal, were
silent a few<br>
moments, unable to grasp the truth. Then Captain Brewster, his
face aglow,<br>
seized the big Freshman's arm excitedly.</p>

<p>"Sure you'll play, Thor!" he shouted. "Fullback, old man! Come
on, team.<br>
Thor's awake! He wants to fight for his Alma Mater; he wants
Bannister to<br>
win! Oh, watch us shove Latham off the field&mdash;everybody
together now&mdash;the<br>
yell, for Thor!"</p>

<p>"Right here," grinned an excitedly happy T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., when the<br>
yell was given, "is where a team that won't be beat gets licked
by a chap<br>
what can lick 'em!"</p>

<p>What took place when the blond Prodigious Prodigy lumbered on
Bannister<br>
Field at the start of the last half of the Bannister-Latham game
can be<br>
imagined by the final score-board figures:</p>

<p>    BANNISTER ......... 27<br>
    LATHAM ............. 3</p>

<p>It can best be described with the aid of Scoop Sawyer's
account in the next<br>
Bannister Weekly:</p>

<p>&mdash;At the start of the second half, however, the Latham
cohorts were given<br>
a shock when they beheld a colossal being almost as big as the
entire Gold<br>
and Blue eleven, go in at fullback for Bannister. And the Latham
eleven<br>
received a series of shocks when Thor began intruding that
massive body<br>
of his into their territory. Tennyson's saying, "The old order
changeth,<br>
yielding place to new" was aptly illustrated in the second half;
for<br>
Bannister's bugler quit sounding "Retreat!" and blew "Charge!"
Four<br>
touchdowns and three goals from touchdowns, in one half, is
usually<br>
considered a fair day's work for an entire team. Even Yale or
Harvard; but<br>
when one player corrals four touchdowns in a half&mdash;he is
going some! Well,<br>
Thor went some! Most of the half he furnished free transportation
for<br>
two-thirds of the Latham team, carrying them on his back, legs,
and neck,<br>
as he strode down the field; a writ of habeas corpus could not
have stopped<br>
the blond Colossus. Anyone would have stood more show to stop an
Alpine<br>
avalanche than to slow up Thor, and the stretcher was constantly
in<br>
evidence, for Latham knockouts.</p>

<br><br><br><br>
<img alt="cw.jpg (97K)" src="cw.jpg" height="853" width="538">
<br><br><br><br>

<p>The game turned into a Thor's Personally Conducted Tour.
Thorwald, escorted<br>
by the Gold and Green team, made four quick tours to the Latham
goal-line.<br>
It was simply a matter of giving the ball to the Prodigious
Prodigy, then<br>
waving the linesmen to move down twenty yards or more toward
Latham's line.<br>
Thor was simply unstoppable, and more beneficial even than his
phenomenal<br>
playing was his encouragement to the team. He kept urging them to
action,<br>
his foghorn growl of, "Come on, boys!" was a slogan of victory!
Judging by<br>
Thor's awakening, and his work of the Latham game, Bannister's
hopes of The<br>
State Intercollegiate Football Championship are as roseate as the
blush on<br>
a maiden's cheek at her first kiss, and&mdash;</p>

<p>That night, in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., John
Thorwald,<br>
supremely happy yet withal as uncomfortable as a whale on the
Sahara<br>
Desert, overflowed an easy-chair. The room was filled, or what
space Thor<br>
left, with the Bannister eleven, second-team players, Coach
Corridan, and<br>
several students; on the campus a riotous crowd of Bannister
youths "raised<br>
merry Heck," as Hicks phrased it, and their cheer floated up to
the<br>
windows:</p>

<p>"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor!
He's&mdash;all&mdash;right!"</p>

<p>"Come, fellows," spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.</p>

<p>"Let's sing to the captain, good old Butch! Let 'er go!"</p>

<p>  "Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink it down!<br>
  Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink It down!<br>
  Here's to good Butch Brewster&mdash;<br>
  He plays football like he <i>uster&mdash;</i><br>
  Drink it down! Drink it
down&mdash;down&mdash;down&mdash;down!"</p>

<p>A strange sound startled the joyous youths; it was a rumbling
noise,<br>
like distant thunder, and at first they could not place it. Then,
as It<br>
continued, they located the disturbance as coming from the
prodigious body<br>
of Thor, and at last the wonderful phenomenon dawned on them.</p>

<p>"Thor is singing college songs!" quavered little Theophilus
Opperdyke,<br>
so happy that his big-rimmed spectacles rode the end of his nose.
"Oh,<br>
Hicks&mdash;Butch&mdash;Thor is awake at last! He is trying to
get college spirit, to<br>
understand campus life&mdash;"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., suddenly realized that what he had so
ardently<br>
longed for had come to pass; aided by Theophilus' missionary work
and by<br>
the sudden shock of Thorwald, Sr.'s, letter. Thor was awakened,
had come to<br>
know that he loved old Bannister. His awakening, as shown in the
football<br>
game, had been splendid. How he had towered over the scrimmage,
in every<br>
play, urging his team to fight, himself doing prodigies for old
Bannister.<br>
Thor, who had been so silent and aloof! Then the sunny-souled
youth<br>
remembered.</p>

<p>"Oh, I told you I'd awaken Thor, Butch!" he began, but that
behemoth<br>
quelled him with an ominous look.</p>

<p>"You!" he growled, with pretended wrath, "<i>you</i>! It was
Theophilus<br>
Opperdyke who did the most of it, and Thorwald's father did the
rest! Don't<br>
you rob Theophilus of his glory, you
feeble-imitation-of-some-thing-human!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinned &agrave; la Cheshire cat. The
happy-go-lucky<br>
Senior was vastly glad that Thor had awakened, that now he would
try<br>
to grasp the real meaning of college existence. He felt that the
young<br>
Hercules, from now on, would slowly and surely develop to a
splendid<br>
college man, that he would do big things for his Alma Mater. And
the<br>
generous Hicks gave Theophilus all the credit, and impressed on
that<br>
happy Human Encyclopedia the fact that he had done a great deed
for old<br>
Bannister. Just so, Thor was awakened.</p>

<p>"Oh, I say, Deke Radford, Coach, and Butch," Hicks chortled,
getting the<br>
attention of that triumvirate as well as that of the others in
the room,<br>
"remember up in Camp Bannister, in the sleep-shack, when Coach
Corridan<br>
outlined a smashing full-back he wanted?"</p>

<p>"Sure!" smiled Deke. "What of it, Hicks?"</p>

<p>Then T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., that care-free, lovable,
irrepressible youth,<br>
whose chance to swagger before this same trio had been postponed
so long<br>
and seemingly lost forever, satiated his fun-loving soul and
reaped his<br>
reward. Calling their attention to Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy,
and asking<br>
them to remember his playing against Latham that day, the sunny
Senior<br>
strutted before them vaingloriously.</p>

<p>"Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!" he declared,
grinning happily.<br>
"I promised to round up an unstoppable fullback, a Gargantuan
Hercules, and<br>
I did! Just think of what he will do to Hamilton and Ballard in
the big<br>
games! As I have often told you, <i>always</i>&mdash;leave It to
Hicks!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XI</p>

<p>"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"</p>

<p>  "Oh, what we'll do to Ballard<br>
  Will surely be a shame!<br>
  We'll push their team clear off the field<br>
  And win the football game!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one night three days after the first
big game, that<br>
with Hamilton, a week following Thor's great awakening in the
Latham game,<br>
sat in his cozy room, having assumed his favorite
position&mdash;chair tilted<br>
back at a perilous angle and feet thrust atop of the radiator.
The<br>
versatile youth, having just composed a song with which to
encourage<br>
Bannister elevens in the future, was reading it aloud, when his
mind was<br>
torpedoed by a most startling thought.</p>

<p>"Land o' Goshen!" reflected the sunny-souled Senior, aghast.
"I haven't<br>
twanged my ole banjo and held forth with a saengerfest for a
coon's age! I<br>
surely can do so now without arousing Butch to wrath. Thor has
awakened,<br>
Hamilton is walloped, and Bannister will surely win the
Championship!<br>
Everything is happy, an' de goose hangs high, so here goes!"</p>

<p>Holding his banjo &agrave; la troubadour, the blithesome
Hicks, who as a Senior<br>
was harassed by no study-hours or inspections, strode from his
room and out<br>
into the corridor, up and down which he majestically paced, like
a sentinel<br>
on his beat, twanging his beloved banjo with abandon, and roaring
in his<br>
foghorn, subterranean voice:</p>

<p>  "Oh, the way we walloped Hamilton<br>
  Surely was a shame!<br>
  And we're going to win the Championship&mdash;<br>
  For we'll do Ballard the same!</p>

<p>  "And Bannister shall flaunt the flag<br>
  For at least three seasons more;<br>
  Because&mdash;no team can win a game<br>
  While the Gold and Green has Thor!"</p>

<p>On Bannister Field, three days before, the Gold and Green had
crushed the<br>
strong team from "old Ham" to the tune of 20 to 0; Thor's
magnificent<br>
ground-gaining, in which he smashed through the supposedly
impregnable<br>
defense of the enemy, was a surprise to his comrades and a shock
to<br>
Hamilton. Time and again, on the fourth down, the ball was given
to<br>
Thorwald, and the blond Colossus, with several of old Ham's
players<br>
clinging to him, plunged ahead for big gains. So now with a
monster<br>
mass-meeting in half an hour, the exultant Bannister youths
pretended to<br>
study, but prepared to parade on the campus, cheer the eleven and
Thor,<br>
and arouse excitement for the winning of the biggest game, a
victory over<br>
Ballard, a week later.</p>

<p>From the rooms of would-be studious Seniors on both sides of
the corridor,<br>
as Hicks patrolled it, came vociferous protests and classic
criticisms,<br>
gathering in force and volume as the breezy youth's foghorn voice
roared<br>
his song; that heedless collegian grinned as he heard:</p>

<p>"R-r-rotten! Give that Jersey calf more rope!"</p>

<p>"Hicks has had a relapse! Sing-Sing for yours, old man!"</p>

<p>"Arrest Hicks, under the Public Nuisance Act!"</p>

<p>"Woof! Woof! Shoot it quick! Don't let it suffer!"</p>

<p>Just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., strumming the banjo blithely
and Carusoing<br>
with glee, reached the end of the corridor and executed a brisk
'bout-face,<br>
he heard a terrific commotion on the stairway, and, a moment
later, Butch<br>
Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford and Monty Merriweather
gained the<br>
top of the stairs. As they were now between the offending Hicks
and<br>
his quarters, there seemed no chance for the sunny Senior to play
his<br>
safety-first policy; so he waited, panic-stricken, as Butch and
Beef<br>
lumbered heavily down the corridor.</p>

<p>"Help! Aid! Succor! Relief! Assistance!" shrieked Hicks,
leaning his<br>
beloved banjo against the wall and throwing himself into what
he<br>
fatuously believed was an intensely pugilistic pose. "I am a
believer in<br>
preparedness. You have me cornered, so beware! I am a follower of
Henry<br>
Ford, but even I will fight&mdash;at bay!"</p>

<p>"Well, you are at <i>sea</i> now!" growled Beef, tucking the
splinter youth<br>
under one arm and striding down the corridor, followed by Butch
with the<br>
banjo, and Monty with Deacon. "You desperado, you destroyer of
peace and<br>
quietude, you one-cylinder gadabout! You're off again! We'll
instruct you<br>
to annoy real students, you faint shadow of something human!"</p>

<p>"Them's harsh sentences, Beef!" chuckled T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., as that<br>
behemoth kicked open Hicks' door, bore the futilely squirming,
kicking<br>
youth into the room, and hurled him on the davenport. "Watch my
banjo,<br>
there, Butch; have a couple of cares! Say, what'smatter wid youse
guys,<br>
anyhow? This is my first saengerfest for eons. Old Bannister has
a clear<br>
track ahead at last, the Championship is won for <i>sure</i>, and
Thor, that<br>
mighty engine of destruction to Ham's and Ballard's hopes, after
much<br>
tinkering, is hitting on all twelve cylinders. Why, I prithee,
deny me the<br>
pleasure of a little joyous song?"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., since the memorable Latham game, when
Thor had<br>
awakened between halves, and the Prodigious Prodigy had shown
himself<br>
worthy of his title by winning the game after defeat leered at
old<br>
Bannister, had suffered a relapse, and was again his old sunny,
heedless,<br>
happy-go-lucky self. Now that John Thorwald had been startled
into<br>
realizing that he loved his college and had been saved from
having to<br>
leave, now that he played football for his Alma Mater, and
Bannister's<br>
hopes of the Championship were roseate, the blithesome Hicks had
abandoned<br>
himself to a golden existence of Beefsteak Busts downtown at
Jerry's,<br>
entertaining jolly comrades in his cozy room, and pestering the
campus with<br>
his banjo and ridiculous imitations of Sheerluck Holmes, the
Dachshund<br>
Detective. Big Butch Brewster, lecturing him for his care-free
ways, as<br>
futilely as he had done for three years past, gave up in
despair.</p>

<p>"I might as well be showing moving-pictures to the inmates of
a blind<br>
asylum," he growled on one occasion, "as to persuade you to quit
acting<br>
like a lunatic! You, a Senior&mdash;acting like an escaped
inhabitant of<br>
Matteawan! Bah!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, drawing a chair up to the davenport,
assumed the manner<br>
of a physician toward a recalcitrant patient, while Beef
carefully stowed<br>
the banjo in the closet and Deacon Radford, an interested
spectator, sat<br>
on the bed. The happy-go-lucky Hicks, at a loss to account for
the strange<br>
expressions of his comrades, tried to arise, but the football
captain<br>
pinned him down with one hand.</p>

<p>"Seriously, Hicks," spoke Butch, "your saengerfest came at a
lamentably<br>
inopportune time! I regret to Inform you that old Bannister faces
another<br>
problem, with regard to Thor, and unless it is solved, I
fear&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Thor has balked again?" gasped the dazed Hicks, whom Butch
now allowed to<br>
sit up, as he showed interest. "Has the engine of destruction
stalled?<br>
Why, as fast as we get him lined up, off he slides at an angle!
Well, you<br>
fellows did perfectly right to bring this baffling problem,
whatever it is,<br>
to me. What is the trouble&mdash;won't Thor play football?"</p>

<p>The irrepressible Hicks was bewildered at hearing that a new
problem<br>
regarding Thor had arisen, and, naturally, he at once connected
it with<br>
football, since the big Freshman had twice balked in that
respect. Since<br>
his awakening, effected by Theophilus' missionary work, his last
appeal,<br>
and Thor's letter from his father, Thor had earnestly striven to
grasp the<br>
true meaning of college life, to understand campus tradition. No
longer did<br>
he hold aloof, boning always, in his lonely room. Instead, he
mingled with<br>
his fellows, lingering with the team for the skylarking in the
shower-room<br>
after scrimmage, turning out for the nightly mass-meeting. Often,
as the<br>
youths practiced songs and yells on the campus, Thor's terrific
rumble was<br>
heard&mdash;some had even dared to slap his massive back and say,
"Hello, Thor,<br>
old man!" and the big Freshman had responded. It was evident to
all that<br>
Thorwald was striving to become a collegian, and knowing his
slow, bulldog<br>
nature, there was no doubt as to his ultimate success; hence T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., was vastly puzzled now.</p>

<p>"Oh, Thor hasn't backslid!" smiled Beef. "You see, Hicks, it's
this way:<br>
Owing to Mr. Thorwald's losing the five thousand dollars, Thor,
as you<br>
know, is working his way at Bannister. Well, with his hustling,
his studies<br>
and football scrimmage, he simply does not have a minute for the
other<br>
phases of college life, for the comradeship with his
fellows&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Here is his day's schedule," chimed in Deacon, referring to a
paper: "Rise<br>
at four-thirty A. M. Hustle downtown to tend several furnaces
until seven.<br>
Breakfast at seven. Till nine, make beds and sweep dormitory
rooms.<br>
Nine till three-fifteen P. M., recitation periods and dormitory
work,<br>
sandwiched. Then until supper, football practice, and nights
study. Add<br>
to that waiting on tables for the three meals, and what time has
Thor to<br>
broaden and develop, to take in all the big things of campus
existence, to<br>
grow into an all-round college man?"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wonderful to chronicle, was silent. He
was<br>
reflecting on the irony of fate; as Deacon said, now that Thor
had<br>
awakened, and earnestly wanted to be a collegian, he had no time
to enter<br>
into campus life. Glad at being able to stay at old Bannister, to
keep on<br>
with his studies, climbing steadily toward his goal, and finding
a joy in<br>
his new relationship with the students, the ponderous Thorwald
had flung<br>
himself into his hustling, as the youths called working one's way
at<br>
college, with zeal. To the huge Freshman, toil was nothing, and
since it<br>
meant that he could keep on with his study, he was content. The
collegians<br>
vastly admired his grim determination; they aided all they could
with<br>
his studies, and helped with his work, so he could have more time
for<br>
scrimmage, and yet another phase of the problem came to
Hicks.</p>

<p>It seemed unjust that John Thorwald, after his long years of
hard physical<br>
toil, and his mental struggles, often after hours of grinding
work, at the<br>
very time when the five thousand dollars from Henry B. Kingsley's
heirs<br>
promised him a chance to study without a body tortured and
exhausted,<br>
should be forced again to take up his stern fight for knowledge.
And it<br>
was cruel that Thor, just awakening to the true meaning of
college life,<br>
striving to grasp campus tradition, and eager to serve his Alma
Mater in<br>
every way, should have so little time to mingle with his fellows.
He should<br>
be with them on the campus, on the athletic field, in the dorms.,
the<br>
literary society halls, the Y. M. C. A. He should be realizing
the golden<br>
years of college life, the glad comradeship of the campus.
Instead, he must<br>
arise in the bitter cold, gray dawn, and from then until late
night toil<br>
and study unceasingly.</p>

<p>"It's a howling shame!" declared the serious Hicks, a heart
full of<br>
sympathy for Thor. "Just as he wakes up and is trying to
understand things<br>
at old Bannister, bang! the Norwhal is blown up by a stray mine,
and<br>
down goes his dad's money. Why didn't Mr. Thorwald get the five
thousand<br>
transferred to the Valkyrie? Oh, if that money hadn't gone down
to Davy<br>
Jones' locker, Thor would be awakened and have time for college
life, too!"</p>

<p>Butch Brewster started to speak when the thunderous tread of
John Thorwald<br>
sounded in the corridor. The Prodigious Prodigy seemed
approaching at<br>
double-quick time, and the youths stared at each other. However,
when<br>
Thor appeared in the doorway, a letter in hand, they gazed at him
in<br>
bewilderment, for his face fairly glowed.</p>

<p>"Read it, fellows, read it!" he breathed, with what, for him,
was almost<br>
excitement. "It just came! Oh, isn't that good news? Read it out,
Captain<br>
Butch. Won't we wallop Ballard now!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, mystified by Thor's happiness, and urged
on by his<br>
equally puzzled comrades, drew out the letter, and a glad smile
coming to<br>
his honest countenance, he read aloud:</p>

<p>"THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA. STEAMSHIP LINE (New York
Office)</p>

<p>"Nov. 18, 19&mdash;.</p>

<p>"MR. JOHN THORWALD, JR., Bannister College.</p>

<p>"DEAR SIR:</p>

<p>"We beg to state that your father, first mate on our liner,
the Valkyrie,<br>
three days outbound from New York to Christiania, sent a message,
<i>via</i><br>
wireless, to our New York offices by the inbound Dutch Line's
Rotterdam.<br>
The Rotterdam relayed the message to us, and we forward it
herewith,<br>
<i>verbatim:</i></p>

<p>"'DEAR SON: Purser of my ship, the Valkyrie, informed me today
that the<br>
purser of the ill-fated Norwhal, learning of my transfer to this
liner,<br>
transferred my $5,000 to the Valkyrie before he sailed to his
fate. I am<br>
sending this <i>via</i> the Rotterdam, inbound, and our office
will forward it<br>
to you. Will write on arriving at Christiania. Father.'</p>

<p>"We are sorry for the delay in forwarding this message, but
through an<br>
accident, it was mislaid in our office for a few days.</p>

<p>"Yours truly,</p>

<p>"THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA STEAMSHIP LINE,</p>

<p>"per J. L. G."</p>

<p>A moment of silence; outside on the campus the Bannister
youths, preparing<br>
for the mass-meeting in the Auditorium, started cheering. Someone
caught<br>
sight of Thor, standing now by the window of Hicks' room, on the
third<br>
floor of Bannister Hall, and a few seconds later there
sounded:</p>

<p>"Thor! Thor! Thor! Thor will bring the Championship to old
Bannister! Rah!<br>
Rah! Rah!&mdash;Thor!"</p>

<p>"Oh," shouted T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning happily, his
arm across<br>
Thor's massive shoulders, "'All's well that ends well,' as Bill
Shakespeare<br>
says. It's all right now, Thor. Fate dealt you a hard punch, but
it served<br>
its purpose; for it made you realize how you would regret to
leave college.<br>
Now you won't have to hustle and have all your time filled with
toil and<br>
study; you can go after every phase of campus life, and serve old
Bannister<br>
in so many ways."</p>

<p>John Thorwald stood, a contented look on his placid, impassive
face,<br>
gazing down at the campus below and hearing the plaudits of the
excited<br>
collegians. The stately old elms, gaunt and bare, tossed their
limbs<br>
against a leaden sky; a cold, dreary wind sent clouds of dry
leaves<br>
scurrying down the concrete walks. In the faint moonlight that
struggled<br>
through the clouds, the towers and spires of old Bannister were
limned<br>
against the sky-line. Across the campus, on Bannister Field,
the<br>
goal-posts, skeleton-like, kept their lonely vigil. On that
field, in<br>
less than a week, the Gold and Green must face the crucial
test&mdash;against<br>
Ballard's championship eleven, in the Biggest Game; and now,
almost on the<br>
eve of battle, the shackles had been knocked from him; he was
free of the<br>
great burden, free to serve his Alma Mater, to fight for the Gold
and<br>
Green, to grow and develop into an all-round, representative
college man.</p>

<p>All of a sudden it dawned on the slow-thinking young Norwegian
just how<br>
much this freedom to grow and expand meant to him, and he turned
from the<br>
window. From below, the shouts of "Thor! Thor! Thor!" drifted,
stirring his<br>
blood, as he looked at Hicks, Butch, Beef, Monty and Deacon.</p>

<p>"'All's well that ends well,' you say. Hicks," he spoke
slowly, his face<br>
joyous. "That's true; but I'm just starting, fellows. I'm just
<i>beginning</i><br>
to live my college years, not for myself, but for old Bannister,
for my<br>
Alma Mater, for I am awake, and <i>free</i>!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XII</p>

<p>THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, a life-sized picture of despair, roosted
dejectedly on<br>
the Senior Fence, between the Gym and the Administration
Building. It was<br>
quite cold, and also the beginning of the last study-period
before Butch's<br>
final and most difficult recitation of the day, Chemistry. Yet
instead<br>
of boning in his warm room, the behemoth Senior perched on the
fence and<br>
stared gloomily into space.</p>

<p>As he sat, enveloped in a penumbra of gloom, the campus
entrance door of<br>
Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., opened suddenly, and T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., that happy-go-lucky youth, came out cautiously, after the
fashion of a<br>
second-story artist, emerging from his crib with a bundle of
swag, the<br>
last item being represented by a football tucked under Hicks'
left arm.<br>
Beholding Butch Brewster on the Senior Fence, the sunny-souled
Senior<br>
exhibited a perturbation of spirit seeming undecided whether to
beat a<br>
retreat or to advance.</p>

<p>"Now what's ailin' <i>you</i>?" demanded Butch wrathily,
believing the<br>
pestersome Hicks to be acting in that burglarious manner for
effect. "Why<br>
should <i>you</i> sneak out of a dorm., bearing a football like
it was an auk's<br>
egg? Why, you resemble a nigger, making his get-away after
robbing a<br>
hen-roost! Don't torment me, you
accident-somewhere-on-its-way-to-happen. I<br>
feel about as joyous as a traveling salesman who has made a town
and gotten<br>
nary a order!"</p>

<p>"It's <i>awful</i>!" soliloquized T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
perching beside the<br>
despondent Butch on the Senior Fence. "I am not a fatalist, old
man, but<br>
it <i>does</i> seem that fate hasn't destined Thor to play
football for old<br>
Bannister this season! Here, after he won the Ham game, and we
expected him<br>
to waltz off with Ballard's scalp and the Championship, he has to
tumble<br>
downstairs! Oh, it's tough luck!"</p>

<p>It was two days before the biggest game, with
Ballard&mdash;the contest that<br>
would decide the State Intercollegiate Football Championship.
Ballard, the<br>
present champions, discounting even Hamilton's stories of Thor's
prowess,<br>
were coming to Bannister with an eleven more mighty than the one
that had<br>
crushed the Gold and Green the year before, with a heavy,
stonewall line,<br>
fast ends, and a powerful, shifty backfield. The Ballard team was
confident<br>
of victory and the pennant. Bannister, building on the awakened
Thorwald,<br>
superbly sure of his phenomenal strength and power, of his
unstoppable<br>
rushes, serenely practiced the doctrine of preparedness, and
awaited the<br>
day.</p>

<p>And then John Thorwald, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose gigantic
frame seemed<br>
unbattered by the terrific daily scrimmage, whom it was
impossible to<br>
hurt on the gridiron, the day before, going downstairs in
Creighton Hall,<br>
hurrying to a class, had caught his heel on the top step, and
crashed to<br>
the bottom! And now, with a broken ankle, the blond Colossus,
heartbroken<br>
at not being able to win the Championship for old Bannister,
hobbled about<br>
on crutches. Without Thor, the Gold and Green must meet the
invincible<br>
Ballard team! It was a solar-plexus blow, both to the Bannister
youths,<br>
confident in Thor's prowess, building on his Herculean bulk, and
to the<br>
big Freshman. Thorwald, awakened, striving to grasp campus
tradition, to<br>
understand college life, was eager to fling himself into the
scrimmage, to<br>
give every ounce of his mighty power, to offer that splendid
body, for his<br>
Alma Mater, and now he must hobble impotently on the side-line,
watching<br>
his team fight a desperate battle.</p>

<p>"If Bannister only had a sure, accurate drop-kicker!"
reflected Captain<br>
Butch hopelessly. "One who could be depended on to average eight
out of ten<br>
trials, we'd have a fighting chance with Ballard. Deke Radford is
a wonder.<br>
He can kick a forty-five-yard goal, but he's erratic! He might
boot the<br>
pigskin over when a score is needed from the forty-yard line, and
again he<br>
might miss from the twenty-yard mark. Oh, for a kicker who isn't
brilliant<br>
and spectacular, but who can methodically drop 'em over from,
say, the<br>
thirty-five-yard line! Hello, what's the row, Hicks?"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., started to speak, changed his mind,
coughed, grew<br>
red and embarrassed, and acted in a most puzzling manner. At any
other<br>
time, big Butch would have been bewildered; but with Thor's loss
weighing<br>
on his mind, the Gold and Green captain gave his comrade only a
cursory<br>
glance.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;Oh, nothing, Butch!" stammered Hicks, to
whom, being "fussed," as<br>
Bannister termed embarrassment, was almost unknown. "I&mdash;I
guess I'll<br>
take this football over to my locker in the Gym. I ought to
glance at my<br>
Chemistry, too. So-long, Butch; see you later, old top!"</p>

<p>When the splinter-youth had drifted into the Gym., Butch
Brewster,<br>
remembering his strange actions, actually managed to transfer his
thoughts<br>
for a time from the eleven to the care-free T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr. The<br>
behemoth Senior reflected that, to date, the pestiferous Hicks
had not<br>
explained his baffling mystery he recalled the day when he had
told the<br>
Gold and Green eleven of the loyal Hicks' ambition to please his
dad by<br>
winning his B, when he had described the youth's intense college
spirit<br>
and had suggested that if Hicks failed to corral his letter the
Athletic<br>
Association award him one for his loyalty to old Bannister. And
Butch saw<br>
again the bewildering sentences in the letter from Thomas
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Sr., to his son.</p>

<p>"Evidently," meditated Butch, literally and figuratively "on
the fence,"<br>
"Hicks has failed to summon up enough self-confidence to explain
his<br>
mystery; queer, too, for he usually is bubbling with faith in
himself. He<br>
has acted like a bashful schoolgirl at frequent times&mdash;he
starts to tell<br>
me something, then he gets embarrassed, back-fires, and stalls.
He and<br>
Theophilus have been sneaking out in the early dawn, too. Wow!
What did he<br>
sneak out of the dorm. that way, with a football, for? He looked
like a<br>
yeggman working night shift. Why should <i>he</i> skulk out with
a football? He<br>
has never explained his dad's letter, or told just what Mr. Hicks
meant by<br>
calling him the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and saying those
members of old<br>
Eli wanted him to star! Oh, he's a tantalizing wretch, and I'd
like to<br>
solve his mystery, without his knowledge, so I could&mdash;"</p>

<p>At that instant, to the intense indignation and bewilderment
of good Butch<br>
Brewster, little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous Human
Encyclopedia of<br>
old Bannister, exited from Bannister Hall. The Senior boner gave
a correct<br>
imitation of the offending Hicks, in that he skulked out, gazing
around<br>
him nervously; but he portaged no pigskin, and, unlike the sunny
youth, on<br>
periscoping Butch, he seemed relieved.</p>

<p>"Theophilus, <i>come here</i>!" thundered the wrathful
football captain,<br>
shifting his tonnage on the Senior Fence. "What's the plot,
anyhow? It's<br>
bad enough when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sneaks out, bearing a
football,<br>
like an amateur cracksman making a getaway; but when you appear,
imitating<br>
a Nihilist about to hurl a bomb&mdash;say, what's the answer to
the puzzle, old<br>
man?"</p>

<p>Little Theophilus, his pathetically frail body trembling with
suppressed<br>
excitement, his big-rimmed spectacles tumbling off with
ridiculous<br>
regularity, and his solemn eyes peering owlishly at his behemoth
classmate,<br>
stood before the startled Butch. It was evident that the 1919
grind<br>
labored under great stress. He was waging a terrific battle with
himself,<br>
struggling to make some vast and all-important decision. He
strove to<br>
speak, hesitated, choked, coughed apologetically, and acted as
fussed as<br>
Hicks had done, until Butch was wild; then, as if resolved to
cast the die<br>
and cross the Rubicon, he decided, and plunged desperately
ahead.</p>

<p>"It's&mdash;it's Hicks, Butch!" he quavered, torn cruelly by
conflicting<br>
emotions. "Oh, I don't want to be a traitor&mdash;he trusted me
with his secret,<br>
and I&mdash;I can't betray him, I just can't! But he didn't make
me promise not<br>
to tell. He just told me not to. Oh, it's his very last chance,
Butch, and<br>
with Thor hurt, old Bannister might need him in the Ballard
game."</p>

<p>"What is it, Theophilus, old man?" Butch spoke kindly, for he
saw the<br>
solemn little Senior was intensely excited. "Tell me&mdash;if our
Alma Mater<br>
needs any fellow's services, you know, he should give them
freely&mdash;since<br>
you did not promise not to tell about Hicks, if Bannister may be
able<br>
to use Hicks against Ballard&mdash;though I can't, by any stretch
of the<br>
imagination, figure how&mdash;then it is your duty to tell! I
think I glimpse<br>
the dark secret&mdash;Hicks possesses some sort of football
prowess, goodness<br>
knows what, and he lacks the confidence to tell Coach Corridan!
Now, were<br>
it only drop-kicking&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It is drop-kicking!" Theophilus burst forth desperately.
"Hicks is a<br>
drop-kicker, Butch, and a sure one&mdash;inside the thirty-yard
line. He almost<br>
<i>never</i> misses a goal, and he kicks them from every angle,
too. He isn't<br>
strong enough to kick past the thirty-yard line, but inside that
he is<br>
wonderfully accurate. With Thor out of the Ballard game, a
drop-kick may<br>
win for Bannister, and Deke Radford is so erratic! Oh, Hicks will
be angry<br>
with me for telling; but he just won't tell about himself, after
all his<br>
practice, because he fears the fellows will jeer. He is afraid he
will fail<br>
in the supreme test. Oh, I've betrayed him, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a drop-kicker!" exploded the dazed
Butch, who<br>
could not have been more astounded had Theophilus announced that
the sunny<br>
youth possessed powers of black magic. "Theophilus Opperdyke,
Tantalus<br>
himself was never so tantalized as I have been of late. Tell me
the whole<br>
story, old man&mdash;hurry. Spill it, old top!"</p>

<p>Butch Brewster, by questioning the excited Human Encyclopedia,
like a<br>
police official giving the third degree, slowly extracted from
Theophilus<br>
the startling story. A year before, just as the Gold and Green
practiced<br>
for the Ham game, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one afternoon, had
arrayed his<br>
splinter-structure in a grotesque, nondescript athletic outfit,
and had<br>
jogged out on Bannister Field. The gladsome youth's motive had
been free<br>
from any torturesome purpose. He intended to round up the
Phillyloo Bird,<br>
Shad Weatherby, and other non-athletic collegians, and with them
boot the<br>
pigskin, for exercise. However, little Skeet Wigglesworth,
beholding him<br>
as he donned the weird regalia of loud sweater, odd basket-ball
stockings,<br>
tennis trousers, baseball shoes, and so on, misconstrued his
plan, and<br>
believed Hicks intended to torment the squad. Hence, he hurried
out,<br>
so that when Hicks appeared in the offing, the football squad and
the<br>
spectators in the stands had jeered the happy-go-lucky Junior,
and had<br>
good-natured sport at his expense.</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., after Jack Merritt had drop-kicked a
forty-yard<br>
goal, made the excessively rash statement that it was easy.
Captain Butch<br>
Brewster had indignantly challenged the heedless youth to show
him, and<br>
the results of Hicks' effort to propel the pigskin over the
crossbar were<br>
hilarious, for he missed the oval by a foot, nearly dislocated
his knee,<br>
and, slipping in the mud, he sat down violently with a thud.
However, so<br>
the excited Theophilus now narrated, even as the convulsed
students jeered<br>
Hicks, hurling whistles, shouts, cat-calls, songs and humorous
remarks at<br>
the downfallen kicker, one of Hicks' celebrated inspirations had
smitten<br>
the pestersome Junior, evidently jarred loose by his crashing to
terra<br>
firma.</p>

<p>"Hicks figured this way, Butch," explained little Theophilus
Opperdyke,<br>
eloquent in his comrade's behalf, "nature had built him like a
mosquito,<br>
and endowed him with enough power to lift a pillow; hence he
could never<br>
hope to play football on the 'Varsity; but he knew that many
games are<br>
won by drop-kicks and by fellows especially trained and coached
for that<br>
purpose, and they don't need weight and strength, but they must
have the<br>
art, that peculiar knack which few possess. His inspiration was
this:<br>
Perhaps he had that knack, perhaps he could practice faithfully,
and<br>
develop into a sure drop-kicker. If he trained for a year, in his
Senior<br>
season, he might be able to serve old Bannister, maybe to win a
big game.<br>
So he set to work."</p>

<p>Theophilus hurriedly yet graphically narrated how T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
had made the loyal, hero-worshiping little Human Encyclopedia his
sole<br>
confidant. He told the thrilled Butch how the sunny youth, from
that<br>
day on, had watched and listened as Head Coach Corridan trained
the<br>
drop-kickers, learning all the points he could gain. Vividly he
described<br>
the mosquito-like Hicks, as he with a football bought from the
Athletic<br>
Association began in secret to practice the fine art of
drop-kicking! For a<br>
year, at old Bannister and at his dad's country home near
Pittsburgh, Hicks<br>
had faithfully, doggedly kept at it. With no one bat Theophilus
knowing of<br>
his great ambition, he had gone out on Bannister Field, when he
felt safe<br>
from observation; here, with his faithful comrade to keep watch,
and to<br>
retrieve the pigskin, he had practiced the instructions and
points gained<br>
from watching Coach Corridan train the booters of the squad. To
his vast<br>
delight, and the joy of his little friend, Hicks had found that
he did<br>
possess the knack, and from before the Ham game until
Commencement he had<br>
kept his secret, practicing clandestinely at old Bannister; he
had improved<br>
wonderfully, and when vacation started the cheery collegian had
told his<br>
beloved dad, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., of his hopes.</p>

<p>The ex-Yale football star, delighted at his son's ambition to
serve old<br>
Bannister and joyous at discovering that Hicks actually possessed
the<br>
peculiar knack of drop-kicking, coached the splinter-youth all
summer at<br>
their country place near Pittsburgh. Under the instruction of
Hicks, Sr.,<br>
the youth developed rapidly, and when he returned to the campus
for his<br>
final year, he was a sure, dependable drop-kicker, inside the
thirty-yard<br>
line. As Theophilus stated, beyond that he lacked the power, but
in that<br>
zone he could boot 'em over the cross-bar from any angle.</p>

<p>"He's been practicing all this season, in secret!" quavered
the little<br>
Senior, "and he's a&mdash;a <i>fiend</i>, Butch, at drop-kicking.
And yet, here it is<br>
time for the last game of his college years, and&mdash;he lacks
confidence to<br>
tell you, or Coach Corridan. Oh, I'm afraid he will be angry with
me for<br>
betraying him, and yet&mdash;I just <i>can't</i> let him miss his
splendid chance,<br>
now that Thor is out and old Bannister <i>needs</i> a
drop-kicker!"</p>

<p>Big Butch was silent for a time. The football leader was
deeply impressed<br>
and thrilled by Theophilus Opperdyke's story of T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s<br>
ambition. As he roosted on the Senior Fence, the behemoth
gridiron<br>
star visioned the mosquito-like youth, whom nature had endowed
with a<br>
splinter-structure, sneaking out on Bannister Field, at every
chance, to<br>
practice clandestinely his drop-kicking. He could see the
faithful Human<br>
Encyclopedia, vastly excited at his blithesome colleague's
improvement,<br>
retrieving the pigskin for Hicks. He thrilled again as he thought
of the<br>
bean-pole Hicks, who could never gain weight and strength enough
to make<br>
the eleven, loyally training and perfecting himself in the
drop-kick,<br>
trying to develop into a sure kicker, within a certain zone,
hoping<br>
sometime, before he left college forever, to serve old Bannister.
With Thor<br>
in the line-up at fullback, he would not have been needed, but
now, with<br>
the Prodigious Prodigy out, it was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s big
chance!</p>

<p>And Butch Brewster understood why the usually confident Hicks,
even with<br>
the knowledge of his drop-kicking power, hesitated to announce it
to old<br>
Bannister. Until Butch had told the Gold and Green football team
of Hicks'<br>
being in earnest in his ridiculous athletic attempts of the past
three<br>
years, no one but himself and Hicks had dreamed that the sunny
youth meant<br>
them, that he really strove to win his B and please his dad. The
appearance<br>
of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on Bannister Field was always the
cause of<br>
a small-sized riot among the squad and spectators. Hicks was
jeered<br>
good-naturedly, and "butchered to make a Bannister holiday," as
he blithely<br>
phrased it. Hence, the splinter-Senior was reluctant to announce
that he<br>
could drop-kick. He knew that when tested he would be so in
earnest, that<br>
so much would hang in the balance and the youths, unknowing how
important<br>
it was, would jeer. Then, too, knowing his long list of athletic
fiascos,<br>
ridiculous and otherwise, Hicks trembled at the thought of being
sent into<br>
the biggest game to kick a goal. He feared he might fail!</p>

<p>"You are a <i>hero</i>, Theophilus!" said Butch, with deep
feeling. "I can<br>
realize how hard it was for Hicks to tell us. He would have kept
silent<br>
forever, even after his training in secret! And how you must have
suffered,<br>
knowing he could drop-kick, and yet not desiring to betray him!
But your<br>
love for old Bannister and for Hicks himself conquered. I'll take
him out<br>
on the gridiron, before the fellows come from class, and see what
he<br>
can do. Aha! There is the villain now. Hicks, ahoy! Come hither,
you<br>
Kellar-Herman-Thurston. Your dark secret is out at last!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., peering cautiously from the Gym.
basement doorway,<br>
in quest of the tardy Theophilus, who was to have accompanied him
on a<br>
clandestine journey to Bannister Field, obeyed the summons.
Bewildered,<br>
and gradually guessing the explanation from the shivering little
boner's<br>
alarmed expression, the gladsome youth approached the stern Butch
Brewster,<br>
who was about to condemn him for his silence. "Don't be angry
with me,<br>
Hicks, <i>please</i>!" pled Theophilus, pathetically fearful that
he had<br>
offended his comrade, "I&mdash;I just <i>had</i> to tell, for it
was positively your<br>
last chance, and&mdash;and old Bannister needs your sure
drop-kicking! I never<br>
promised not to tell. You never made me give my word,
so&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It was Theophilus' duty to tell!" spoke Butch, hiding a grin,
for the<br>
grind was so frightened, "and yours, Hicks, knowing as you do how
we need<br>
you, with Thor hurt! You graceless wretch, you aren't usually so
like ye<br>
modest violet! Why didn't you inform us, then swagger and say,
'Oh, just<br>
leave it to Hicks, he'll win the game with a drop-kick?' Now, you
come with<br>
me, and I'll look over your samples. If you've got the goods,
it's highly<br>
probable you'll get your chance, in the Ballard game; and I'm
<i>glad</i>, old<br>
man, for your sake. I know what it would mean, if you win it!
But&mdash;now that<br>
the '<i>mystery</i>' is solved, what's that about your being a
'Class Kid,' of<br>
Yale, '96?"</p>

<p>"That's easy!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his arm across
Theophilus'<br>
shoulders, "I was the first boy born to any member of Yale, '96;
it is the<br>
custom of classes graduating at Yale to call such a baby the
class kid!<br>
Naturally, the members of old Eli, Class of 1896, are vastly
interested in<br>
me. Hence, my Dad wrote they'd be tickled if I won a big game for
Bannister<br>
with a field-goal!"</p>

<p>A moment of silence, Theophilus Opperdyke, gathering from
Hicks' arm,<br>
across his shoulders, that the cheery youth was not so awfully
wrathful at<br>
his base betrayal, adjusted his big-rimmed spectacles, and stared
owlishly<br>
at Hicks.</p>

<p>"Hicks, you&mdash;you are not angry?" he quavered. "You are
not sorry. I&mdash;I<br>
told&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sorry?" quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "Class Kid," of Yale,
'96, with a<br>
Cheshire cat grin, "<i>sorry</i>? I should say <i>not</i>&mdash;I
wanted it to be known to<br>
Butch, and Coach Corridan, but I got all shivery when I tried to
confess,<br>
and I&mdash;couldn't! Nay, Theophilus, you faithful friend, I'm
so <i>glad</i>, old<br>
man, that beside yours truly, the celebrated Pollyanna resembles
Niobe,<br>
weeping for her lost children."</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XIII</p>

<p>HICKS&mdash;CLASS KID&mdash;YALE '96</p>

<p>  "Brekka-kek-kek&mdash;Co-Ax&mdash;Co-Ax!<br>
  Brekka-kek-kek&mdash;Co-Ax&mdash;Co-Ax!<br>
  Whoop-up! Parabaloo! Yale! Yale! Yale!<br>
  Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a cumbersome Gold and Green
football<br>
blanket, and crouching on the side-line, like some historic
Indian, felt a<br>
thrill shake his splinter-structure, as the yell of "old Eli"
rolled from<br>
the stand, across Bannister Field. In the midst of the Gold and
Green flags<br>
and pennants, fluttering in the section assigned the Bannister
cohorts, he<br>
gazed at a big banner of Blue, with white lettering:</p>

<p>YALE UNIVERSITY&mdash;CLASS OF 1896</p>

<p>"Oh, Butch," gasped Hicks, torn between fear and hope, "just
listen to<br>
that. Think of all those Yale men in the stand with my Dad! Oh,
suppose I<br>
do get sent in to try for a drop-kick!"</p>

<p>It was almost time far the biggest game to start, the contest
with Ballard,<br>
the supreme test of the Gold and Green, the final struggle for
The State<br>
Intercollegiate Football Championship! In a few minutes the
referee's<br>
shrill whistle blast would sound, the vast crowd in the stands,
on the<br>
side-lines, and in the parked automobiles, would suddenly still
their<br>
clamor and breathlessly await the kick-off&mdash;then, seventy
minutes of grim<br>
battling on the turf, and victory, or defeat, would perch on the
banners of<br>
old Bannister.</p>

<p>It was a thrilling scene, a sight to stir the blood. Bannister
Field, the<br>
arena where these gridiron gladiators would fly at each other's
throats&mdash;or<br>
knees, spread out&mdash;barred with white chalk-marks, with the
skeleton-like<br>
goal posts guarding at each end. On the turf the moleskin clad
warriors,<br>
under the crisp commands of their Coaches, swiftly lined down,
shifted to<br>
the formation called, and ran off plays. Nervous subs. stood in
circles,<br>
passing the pigskin. Drop-kickers and punters, tuning up, sent
spirals, or<br>
end-over-end drop-kicks, through the air. The referee,
field-judge, and<br>
linesmen conferred. Team-attendants, equipped with buckets of
water,<br>
sponges, and ominous black medicine-chests, with Red Cross
bandages, ran<br>
hither and thither. On the substitutes' bench, or on the ground,
crouched<br>
nervous second-string players; Ballard's on one side of the
gridiron, and<br>
Bannister's directly across.</p>

<p>A glorious, sunshiny day in late November, with scarcely a
breath of<br>
wind, the air crisp and bracing; the radiant sunlight fell
athwart the<br>
white-barred field, and glinted from the gay pennants and banners
in the<br>
stands! Here was a riot of color, the gold and green of old
Bannister; in<br>
the next section, the orange and black of Ballard. The bright
hues and<br>
tints of varicolored dresses, and the luster of the official
flowers<br>
all contributed to a bewilderingly beautiful spectacle!
Flower-venders,<br>
peddlers of pennants, sellers of miniature footballs with the
college<br>
colors of one team and the other, hawked their wares, loudly
calling above<br>
the tumult, "Get yer Ballard colors yere!" "This way fer the
Bannister<br>
flags!" Ten thousand spectators, packed into the cheering
sections of the<br>
two colleges, or in the general stands, or standing on the
side-lines,<br>
impatiently awaited the kick-off. At the appearance of each
football star,<br>
a tremendous cheer went up from the mass. Across the field from
each other,<br>
the two bands played stirring strains. The confident Ballard
cohorts<br>
cheered, sang, and yelled and those of Bannister, not
<i>quite</i> so sure of<br>
victory, with Thor out, nevertheless, cheered, sang, and yelled
as loudly,<br>
for the Gold and Green.</p>

<p>The sight of that vast Yale banner, so conspicuous, with its
big white<br>
letters on a field of blue, amidst the fluttering pennants of
gold and<br>
green, excited comment among the Ballard followers. The Bannister
students,<br>
however, knew what it meant; Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and
thirty<br>
members of Yale, '96, were in the stand, ready to cheer Captain
Butch's<br>
eleven, and hoping for a chance to whoop it up for T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
if he got his big chance.</p>

<p>Two days before, when little Theophilus Opperdyke, after a
terrible<br>
struggle with himself, divided between loyalty to Hicks and a
love for<br>
his Alma Mater, had betrayed his toothpick class-mate to Captain.
Butch<br>
Brewster, that behemoth Senior had rounded up Coach Corridan, and
together<br>
they had dragged the shivering Hicks out to the football field.
Here, while<br>
the rest of the student body, unsuspecting the important event in
progress,<br>
made good use of the study-hour, or attended classes in
Recitation Hall,<br>
the Gold and Green Coach, with the team-Captain, and the excited
Human<br>
Encyclopedia, watched T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. show his samples
of<br>
drop-kicks. And the success of that happy-go-lucky youth, after
his nervous<br>
tension wore off, may be attested by the Slave-Driver's somewhat
slangy<br>
remark, when the exhibition closed.</p>

<p>"Butch," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, impressively,
"what it<br>
takes to drop-kick field-goals, from anywhere inside the
thirty-yard line,<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is broke out with!"</p>

<p>The proficiency attained by the heedless Hicks in the
difficult art of<br>
drop-kicking, gained by faithful practice for a year, aided by
his Dad's<br>
valuable coaching, was wonderful. Of course, Hicks possessed
naturally the<br>
needed knack, but he deserved praise for his sticking at it so
loyally. He<br>
had no surety that he would ever be of use to his college, and,
indeed,<br>
with the advent of Thor, his hopes grew dim, yet he plugged on,
in case old<br>
Bannister might sometime need him&mdash;and yet, but for
Theophilus, he would<br>
not have summoned the courage to tell! To the surprise and
delight of the<br>
Coach and Captain, Hicks, after missing a few at first,
methodically booted<br>
goals over the crossbar from the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard
lines, and<br>
from the most difficult angles. There was nothing showy or
spectacular in<br>
his work, it was the result of dogged training, but he was almost
sure,<br>
when he kicked!</p>

<br><br><br><br>
<img alt="dw.jpg (89K)" src="dw.jpg" height="840" width="544">
<br><br><br><br>

<p>"Good!" ejaculated Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks'
shoulders, as they<br>
walked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you
in to try<br>
for a goal tomorrow, if Bannister gets blocked inside the
thirty-yard line!<br>
Just keep your nerve, boy, and boot it over! Now&mdash;I'll post
a notice for<br>
a brief mass-meeting at the end of the last class period, and
Butch and I<br>
will tell the fellows about you, and how you may serve
Bannister."</p>

<p>"That's the idea!" exulted Butch, joyous at his comrade's
chance to get in<br>
the biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man,
and they<br>
won't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for
you! Oh, just<br>
wait until you hear them cheer you, and <i>mean</i>
it&mdash;you'll astonish the<br>
natives, Hicks!"</p>

<p>Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that
same day, T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart
in his<br>
shoes, sat on the side-line. In the stands, the entire
student-body,<br>
informed in the mass-meeting of his ability, shrieked for "Hicks!
Hicks!<br>
Hicks!" Near the end of the practice game, the hard-fighting
scrubs fought<br>
their way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush
took it five<br>
yards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the
right-half-back<br>
to the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
hurried out<br>
on the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians
yelling<br>
frenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took
his<br>
position in the kick formation. Then a silence, a few seconds of
suspense,<br>
as the pigskin whirled back to him, and then&mdash;a quick
stepping forward,<br>
a rip of toe against the leather, and&mdash;above the heads of
the 'Varsity<br>
players smashing through, the football shot over the
cross-bar!</p>

<p>"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" was the shout, "Hicks will beat
Ballard!"</p>

<p>That night, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., having crossed the
Rubicon, and<br>
committed himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had
dispatched a<br>
telegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his
distinguished<br>
parent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old
Bannister, and<br>
that the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try
for a<br>
field-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr.
Thomas<br>
Haviland Hicks, Sr., in a night-letter, had wired back:</p>

<p>Son Thomas:</p>

<p>Am on my way to New Haven for Yale-Harvard game. Will stop off
at old<br>
Bannister&mdash;bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our
Class Kid will<br>
get his chance against Ballard.</p>

<p>Dad.</p>

<p>On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks'
private car the<br>
Vulcan, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other
members of<br>
Yale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College
Hill in<br>
good old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
proudly<br>
introduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All
morning, Mr.<br>
Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who
listened to his<br>
tales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale
breathlessly. The<br>
ex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending
them out on<br>
Bannister Field resolved to do or die!</p>

<p>"My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the
side line; as<br>
he gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his
athletic<br>
figure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or
wonderfully<br>
tender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his
wealth,<br>
was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians
were his<br>
comrades.</p>

<p>"Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee
raised his<br>
whistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal
may win<br>
for us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a
touchdown<br>
is gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try
Deke<br>
Radford, but inside it, you are far more sure."</p>

<p>The vast crowd, a moment before creating an almost
inconceivable din,<br>
stilled with startling suddenness; a shrill blast from the
referee's<br>
whistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of substitutes,
coaches,<br>
trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of
Bannister and<br>
Ballard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to
receive<br>
the kick-off. The Gold and Green players, Butch, Beef, Roddy,
Monty, Biff,<br>
Pudge, Bunch, Tug, Hefty, Buster, and Ichabod, spread out,
fan-like,<br>
while across the center of the field the Ballard eleven, a
straight line,<br>
prepared to advance as the full-back kicked off. There was a
breathless<br>
stillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end,
then<br>
strode back to his position.</p>

<p>"All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an
affirmative from the<br>
Orange and Black leader.</p>

<p>"Ready, Bannister?"</p>

<p>"Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of
encouragement to<br>
his players.</p>

<p>The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly
excited and<br>
partisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black
would<br>
battle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle,
Ballard,<br>
three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought
the<br>
strongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of
victory.<br>
Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had
snatched<br>
the greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Sophomore year,
when Jack<br>
Merritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when
Butch<br>
himself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into
the<br>
upright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five
years, and<br>
now&mdash;when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the
Prodigious<br>
Prodigy&mdash;smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt
the annual blow<br>
in advance, by crippling him.</p>

<p>"Oh, we've <i>got</i> to win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.
"Oh, I hope I<br>
don't get sent in&mdash;I mean&mdash;I hope Bannister wins
without me! But if I <i>do</i><br>
have to kick&mdash;Oh, I hope I send it over that
cross-bar&mdash;"</p>

<p>A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe
ripped into<br>
the pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into
Bannister's<br>
territory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of
Captain<br>
Butch Brewster, on the Gold and Green's five-yard line,
and&mdash;"We're off!"<br>
shrieked Hicks, excitedly. "Come on, Butch&mdash;run it back! Oh,
we're off."</p>

<p>The biggest game had started!</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XIV</p>

<p>THE GREATER GOAL</p>

<p>"Time out!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green
blanket, and<br>
standing on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out
on<br>
Bannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of
scrimmage<br>
had crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into
Ballard's<br>
stonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a
five-yard<br>
loss. The mass of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad
players rose<br>
from the turf, all but one. He, wearing the gold and green, lay
still,<br>
white-faced, and silent.</p>

<p>"It's Biff Pemberton!" chattered Hicks, shivering as with a
chill. "Oh, the<br>
game is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last
quarter<br>
is nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick.
It's our<br>
very last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from
defeat!"</p>

<p>The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time
out, stopped<br>
the game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and
several<br>
players worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the
exultant Ballard<br>
cohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their
banners, arose<br>
<i>en masse,</i> and their thunderous chorus drifted across
Bannister Field:</p>

<p>  "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea,<br>
  And we'll put Bannister in that hole!<br>
  In that hole&mdash;in&mdash;that&mdash;hole&mdash;<br>
  Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!"</p>

<p>From the Bannister section, the Gold and Green undergraduates,
alumni, and<br>
supporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their
hearts, yet<br>
determined to the last, came the famous old slogan of
encouragement to<br>
elevens battling on the gridiron:</p>

<p>  "Smash 'em, boys, run the ends&mdash;hold, boys,
<i>hold</i>&mdash;<br>
  Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!<br>
  Touchdown! Touchdown! Hold, boys, <i>hold,<br>
  Don't</i> let 'em win from the Green and the Gold!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on
the deserted<br>
subs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like
Senior<br>
gazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters
and<br>
figures:</p>

<p>4TH QUARTER; TIME TO PLAY&mdash;2 MIN.; <br>
BANNISTER'S BALL ON BALLARD'S 22-YD. LINE; <br>
4TH DOWN&mdash;8 YDS. TO GAIN;<br>
SCORE: BALLARD&mdash;6; BANNISTER&mdash;3.</p>

<p>It had been a terrific contest, a biggest game never to be
forgotten by<br>
the ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been
trained to the<br>
second for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted
gonfalon<br>
of glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately,
while<br>
Ballard's fighters struggled as grimly for their Alma Mater. For
six years,<br>
the Gold and Green had failed to annex the Championship, and for
the past<br>
three, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of
Juggernaut<br>
over all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest
the<br>
banner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to
retain<br>
possession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the
alumni<br>
could find none in past history to compare, was the result.</p>

<p>Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and
Gargantuan strength<br>
would have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically
the same<br>
eleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been
defeated by a<br>
scant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a
furious<br>
rush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first
down.<br>
Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its
own<br>
thirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon
Radford, who<br>
booted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score
3-0 in<br>
Bannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker,
apparently<br>
in fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild.</p>

<p>In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as
sporting<br>
writers term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with
a series<br>
of body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the
Bannister lines<br>
like the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way,
trench by<br>
trench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the
loss of a<br>
single yard, the terrific, catapulting charges forced back old
Bannister,<br>
until the enemy's fullback, who ran like the famous Johnny
Maulbetsch,<br>
of Michigan, shot headlong over the goal line! The attempt for
goal from<br>
touchdown failed, leaving the score, at the end of the third
quarter,<br>
Ballard&mdash;6; Bannister&mdash;3.</p>

<p>And Deacon Radford, whose first effort at drop-kicking had
been so<br>
brilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate
chance, the<br>
Bannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of
the goal<br>
posts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to
be<br>
depended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by
Ballard's<br>
battering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the
Bannister<br>
cohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter,
their<br>
last hope. The forward pass had been futile, for the visitors
were trained<br>
especially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up
every<br>
attempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on
Bannister's<br>
twenty-yard line, came a fumble&mdash;like a leaping tiger, Monty
Merriweather<br>
had flung himself on the elusively bounding ball, rolled over to
his feet,<br>
and was off down the field.</p>

<p>"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" shrieked old Bannister's
madly excited<br>
students, as Monty sprinted. "Go it,
Monty&mdash;<i>touchdown</i>! Sprint, old man,<br>
<i>sprint</i>!"</p>

<p>But Cupid Colfax, Ballard's famous sprinter, playing
quarterback, was off<br>
on Monty's trail almost instantly, and his phenomenal speed cut
down the<br>
Ballard end's advantage; still, by dint of exerting every ounce
of energy,<br>
it was on Ballard's forty-yard line that Monty Merriweather,
hugging the<br>
pigskin grimly, finally crashed to earth.</p>

<p>"Come on, Bannister!" shouted Captain Butch Brewster, as the
two teams<br>
lined down. "Right across the goal-line, then kick the goal, and
we win!<br>
Play the game&mdash;<i>fight</i>&mdash;Oh, we can win the
Championship right now."</p>

<p>Then ensued a session of football spectacular in the extreme,
replete with<br>
thrilling plays, with sensational tackles, and blood-stirring
scrimmage.<br>
The Bannister players, nerved by Captain Brewster's exhortation,
by sheer<br>
will-power drove their battered bodies into the scrimmage. End
runs,<br>
line-smashing tandem plays, forward passes, followed in
bewildering<br>
succession, until the ball rested on Ballard's twenty-yard line,
and a<br>
touchdown meant victory and the Championship for old Bannister,
Another<br>
rush, and five yards gained, then, Ballard, fighting at the last
ditch,<br>
made a stand every bit as heroic and thrilling as that
sensational march<br>
in the first half. The Gold and Green's tigerish rushes were
hurled<br>
back&mdash;three times Captain Butch threw his backfield against
the line, and<br>
three times not an inch was gained. On the third down, Monty
Merriweather<br>
was forced back for a loss, so now, with two minutes to play and
the ball<br>
in Bannister's possession, with eight yards to gain, the play was
on<br>
Ballard's twenty-two-yard line!</p>

<p>And the biggest game had produced a new hero of the gridiron.
Biff<br>
Pemberton, left half-back, imbued with savage energy, had borne
the brunt<br>
of that spectacular advance; and now, he stretched on the turf,
white and<br>
still.</p>

<p>"Hicks, old man," T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. turned as a hand
rested grippingly<br>
on his shoulder. Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, his face
grim, had come<br>
to him, and in quick, terse sentences, he outlined his plan.</p>

<p>"It's Bannister's last chance&mdash;" he said, tensely. "We
<i>can't</i> make the<br>
first down, the way Ballard is fighting, unless we take desperate
odds.<br>
Now, Hicks, it's <i>up to you</i>. On <i>you</i> depend old
Bannister's hopes."</p>

<p>A great, chilling fear swept over T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
leaving him weak<br>
and shaken. It had come at last-the moment for which he had
trained and<br>
practiced drop-kicking, for a year, in secret, that moment he had
hoped<br>
would come, sometime, and yet had dreaded, as in a nightmare.
Before that<br>
vast, howling crowd of ten thousand madly partisan spectators,
<i>he</i> must<br>
go out on Bannister Field, to try and boot a drop-kick from
the<br>
twenty-eight-yard-line, to save the Gold and Green from defeat.
And he<br>
thought of the great glory that would be his, if he succeeded-he
would be a<br>
campus hero, the idol of old Bannister, the youth who saved his
Alma Mater<br>
from defeat, in the biggest game! Then he remembered his Dad,
inspiring<br>
the eleven, between the halves, by a ringing speech; he heard
again his<br>
sentences:</p>

<p>"&mdash;And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor
to our dear Alma<br>
Mater, is our greater goal! Go back into the game, throw
yourselves into<br>
the scrimmage, with no thought of personal glory, of the plaudits
of the<br>
crowd&mdash;it is a fine thing, a splendid goal, to play the game
and be a hero;<br>
it is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal, one's
Alma<br>
Mater!"</p>

<p>"Now listen carefully," Coach Corridan rushed on, "Biff is
knocked out.<br>
They'll start again soon, we are going to take a desperate
chance; your Dad<br>
advises it! A tie score means the Championship stays with
Ballard. To win<br>
it, we must <i>win</i> this game&mdash;and on <i>you</i>
everything depends."</p>

<p>"But&mdash;how&mdash;" stammered Hicks, dazed&mdash;the only
way to <i>tie</i> the score was by<br>
a drop-kick; the only way to win, by a touchdown&mdash;did the
Coach mean he was<br>
<i>not</i> to realize his great ambition to save old Bannister by
a goal, the<br>
reward of his long training?</p>

<p>"You jog out," whispered Coach Corridan, hurriedly, for a
stretcher was<br>
being rushed to Biff Pemberton, "report to the Referee, and
whisper to<br>
Butch to try Formation Z; 23-45-6-A! Now, here is the dope: our
only chance<br>
is to fool Ballard completely. When you go out, the Bannister
rooters, and<br>
your Yale friends, will believe it is to try a drop-kick and tie
the score.<br>
I am sure that the Ballard team will think this, too, because of
your<br>
slender build. You act as though you intend to try for a goal,
and have<br>
Captain Butch make our fellows act that way. Then&mdash;it is a
fake-kick; the<br>
backfield lines up in the kick formation, but the ball is passed
to Butch,<br>
at your right. He either tries for a forward pass to the right
end, or<br>
if the end Is blocked, rushes it himself! Hurry-the referee's
whistle is<br>
blowing; remember, Hicks, my boy, it's the greater goal, it's for
your Alma<br>
Mater."</p>

<p>In a trance, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., flung off the gold and
green blanket,<br>
and dashed out on Bannister Field. How often, in the past year,
had he<br>
visioned this scene, only&mdash;he pictured himself saving the
game by a<br>
drop-kick, and now Coach Corridan ordered him to sacrifice this
glory! From<br>
the stands came the thunderous cheer of the excited Bannister
cohorts,<br>
firmly believing that the slender youth, so ludicrously fragile,
among<br>
those young Colossi, was to try for a goal.</p>

<p>"Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Hicks! Kick the
goal&mdash;Hicks!"</p>

<p>And from the Yale grads., among them his Dad, came a shout, as
he jogged<br>
across the turf:</p>

<p>"Breka-kek-kek&mdash;co-ax&mdash;Yale! Hicks-Hicks-Hicks!"</p>

<p>But the Bannister Senior did not thrill. Now, instead, a
feeling of growing<br>
resentment filled his soul; even this intensely loyal youth, with
all his<br>
love for old Bannister, was vastly human, and he felt cheated of
his just<br>
rights. How the students were cheering him, how those Yale men
called his<br>
name, and he was not to have his big chance! That for which he
had trained<br>
and practiced; the opportunity to serve his Alma Mater, by
kicking a goal<br>
at the crucial moment, and saving Bannister from defeat, was
never to be<br>
his. Now, in his last game at college, he was to act as a decoy,
as a foil.<br>
Like a dummy he must stand, while the other Gold and Green
athletes ran off<br>
the play! Instead of everything, a tie game, or a defeat,
depending on his<br>
kicking, defeat or victory hung on that fake play, on Butch
Brewster<br>
and Monty Merriweather! So&mdash;the ear-splitting plaudits of
the crowd for<br>
"Hicks!" meant nothing to him; they were dead sea fruit,
tasteless as<br>
ashes&mdash;as the ashes of ambition. And then&mdash;</p>

<p>"&mdash;And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor
to our dear Alma<br>
Mater, is our greater goal&mdash;no thought of personal
glory&mdash;a splendid goal,<br>
to play the game and be a hero; It is a far more noble act to
strive for<br>
the greater goal&mdash;one's Alma Mater&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I was nearly a <i>traitor</i>" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
his Dad's words<br>
echoing In his memory, and a vision of that staunch, manly
Bannister<br>
ex-athlete before him. "Oh, I was betraying my Alma Mater.
Instead of<br>
rejoicing to make <i>any</i> sacrifice, however big, for
Bannister, I thought<br>
only of myself, of my glory! I'll do it, Dad, I'll strive for the
greater<br>
goal, and&mdash;we just can't fail."</p>

<p>Reaching the scrimmage, Hicks, whose nervous dread had left
him, when<br>
he fought down selfish ambition, and thirst for glory, reported
to the<br>
Referee, and hurriedly transferred Coach Corridan's orders to
Captain<br>
Butch Brewster; half a minute of precious time was spent in
outlining the<br>
desperate play to the eleven, for "time!" had been called, and
then&mdash;</p>

<p>"Z-23-45-6-A!" shouted Quarterback Deacon Radford. "Come on,
line&mdash;hold!<br>
Right over the cross-bar with it, Hicks&mdash;tie the score, and
save Bannister<br>
from defeat&mdash;"</p>

<p>The Gold and Green backfield shifted to the kick formation.
Ten yards back<br>
of the center, on the thirty-two-yard line of Ballard, stood T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr.; the vast crowd was hushed, all eyes stared at that
slender<br>
figure, standing there, with Captain Butch Brewster at his right,
and Beef<br>
McNaughton on his left hand-the spectators believed the
frail-looking<br>
youth had been sent in to try a drop-kick. The Ballard rooters
thought<br>
it, and&mdash;the Ballard eleven were <i>sure</i> of their
enemy's plan&mdash;Hicks'<br>
mosquito-like build, his nervous swinging of that right leg,
deluded them,<br>
and helped Coach Corridan's plot.</p>

<p>It was the only play, if Bannister wanted the Championship
enough to try a<br>
desperate chance; better a fighting hope for that glory, with a
try for<br>
a touchdown, than a field-goal, and a tie-score! The lines of
scrimmage<br>
tensed. The linesmen dug their cleats in the sod, those of
Ballard tigerish<br>
to break through and block; old Bannister's determined to
<i>hold</i>. Back of<br>
Ballard's line, the backfield swayed on tip-toe, every muscle
nerved, ready<br>
to crash through; the ends prepared to knock Roddy and Monty
aside, the<br>
backs would charge madly ahead, in a berserk rush, to crash into
that slim<br>
figure.</p>

<p>"Boot it, Hicks!" shrieked Deke Radford, and as he shouted,
the pigskin<br>
shot from the Bannister center's hands; the Gold and Green line
held nobly,<br>
but not so the ends. Monty Merriweather, making a bluff at
blocking the<br>
left end, let him crash past, while he sprinted
ahead&mdash;Captain Butch<br>
Brewster, to whom the pass had been made, ran forward, until he
saw he was<br>
blocked, and then, seeing Monty dear, he hurled a beautiful
forward pass.</p>

<p>Into the arms of the waiting Monty it fell, and that Gold and
Green star,<br>
absolutely free of tacklers, sprinted twelve yards to the
goal-line,<br>
falling on the pigskin behind it! Coach Corridan's "100 to 1"
chance,<br>
suggested by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., had succeeded,
and&mdash;the<br>
Biggest Game and the Championship had come to old Bannister at
last!</p>

<p>Followed a scene pauperizing description! For many long years
old Bannister<br>
had waited for this glory; years of bitter disappointment,
seasons when the<br>
Championship had been missed by a scant margin, a drop-kick
striking the<br>
cross-bar, Butch Brewster blindly crashing into an upright. But
now, all<br>
their pent-up joy flowed forth in a mighty torrent! Singing,
yelling,<br>
dancing, howling, the Bannister Band leading them, the Gold and
Green<br>
students, alumni, Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around
Bannister<br>
Field. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound around the
gridiron,<br>
everyone who possessed a hat flinging it over the cross-bars.
The<br>
victorious eleven, were borne by the maddened
youths&mdash;Captain Butch, Pudge,<br>
Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty, Buster, Bunch,
and&mdash;T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try a
field-goal, had<br>
been taken completely off guard. Surprised by the daring attempt,
it had<br>
succeeded with ease, and the final score was Bannister&mdash;10;
Ballard&mdash;6!</p>

<p>"At last! At last!" boomed Butch Brewster, to whom this was
the happiest<br>
day of his life. "The Championship at last. My great ambition is
realized.<br>
Old Bannister has won the Championship, and I was the Team
Captain!"</p>

<p>After a time, when "the shouting and the tumult died," or at
least quieted<br>
somewhat, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and
looking down<br>
from the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his Dad. Mr.
Hicks' strong<br>
face was aglow with pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son's
hand again<br>
and again.</p>

<p>"I understand, Thomas!" he said, and his words were reward
enough for the<br>
youth. "It was a <i>big</i> sacrifice, but you made it
gladly&mdash;I know! You<br>
gave up personal glory for the greater goal, and&mdash;old
Bannister won the<br>
Championship! You helped win, for the winning play turned on
<i>you</i>. It was<br>
splendid, my son, and I am proud of you! No matter if your
sacrifice is<br>
never known to the fellows, I understand."</p>

<p>A moment of silence on Hicks' part; then the sunny youth
grinned at his<br>
beloved Dad, as he responded blithesomely: "I'm Pollyanna, that
old<br>
Bannister and I won out, Dad!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XV</p>

<p>HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"</p>

<p>"Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, human
beings,<br>
and&mdash;Freshmen! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic
High-Jump<br>
Champion, holder of the World's record, and winner at the
Panama-Pacific<br>
International Exposition National Championships, in his event, is
about to<br>
high jump! The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks is the
Herculean<br>
athlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe."</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded in
that<br>
flamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and insane colors, that
inevitably<br>
attended his athletic efforts, shaming Joseph's
coat-of-many-colors, gazed<br>
despairingly at his good friend, Butch Brewster, and Track-Coach
Brannigan,<br>
with a Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance.</p>

<p>"It's no use, Butch, it's no use!" quoth he, with ludicrous
indignation,<br>
as big Tug Cardiff, the behemoth shot-putter, through a huge
megaphone<br>
imitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement to
the<br>
hilarious crowd of collegians in the stand. "Old Bannister will
<i>never</i><br>
take my athletic endeavors seriously. Here I have won two second
places,<br>
and a third, in the high-jump this season, and have a splendid
show to<br>
annex <i>first</i> place and my track B in the Intercollegiates,
but&mdash;hear<br>
them!"</p>

<p>It was a balmy, sunshiny afternoon in late May. The
sunny-souled,<br>
happy-go-lucky T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had trained indefatigably
for<br>
the high jump, with the result that he had won several points for
his<br>
team&mdash;however, he had not realized his great ambition of
first place, and<br>
his track letter.</p>

<p>As Hicks now exclaimed to his team-mate and Coach Brannigan,
no matter,<br>
to the howling Bannister youths, if he <i>had</i> won three
places in the high<br>
jump, in regularly scheduled meets; his comrades had been jeering
at<br>
his athletic fiascos for nearly four years, and even had Hicks
suddenly<br>
blossomed out as a star athlete, they would not have abandoned
their joyous<br>
habit. Still, those football 'Varsity players to whom good Butch
had read<br>
Hicks, Sr.'s, letters, and explained the sunny youth's
persistence, despite<br>
his ridiculous failures, though they kept on hailing his
appearance on<br>
Bannister Field with exaggerated joy, understood the care-free
collegian,<br>
and loved him for his ambition to please his Dad. Since Hicks
had<br>
absolutely refused to accept his B, for any sport, unless he won
it<br>
according to Athletic Association eligibility rules, the eleven
had kept<br>
secret the contents of the letters Butch Brewster had read to
them, for<br>
Hicks requested it.</p>

<p>The Bannister College track squad, under Track Coach Brannigan
and Captain<br>
Spike Robertson, had been training most strenuously for that
annual<br>
cinder-path classic, the State Intercollegiate Track and
Field<br>
Championships. The sprinters had been tearing down the
two-twenty<br>
straightaway like suburban commuters catching the 7.20 A.M. for
the city.<br>
Hammer-throwers and shot-putters&mdash;the weight
men&mdash;heaved the sixteen-pound<br>
shot, or hurled the hammer, with reckless abandon, like the
Strong Man of<br>
the circus. Pole-vaulters seemed ambitious to break the altitude
records,<br>
and In so doing, threatened to break their necks; hurdlers
skimmed over<br>
the standard as lightly as swallows, though no one ever beheld
swallows<br>
hurdling. The distance runners plodded determinedly around the
quarter-mile<br>
track, broad-jumpers tried to jump the length of the landing-pit.
And T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., vainly essayed to clear five-ten In the
high-jump!</p>

<p>It was the last-named event that "broke up the show," as the
Phillyloo Bird<br>
quaintly stated, somewhat wrongly, since the appearance of that
blithesome<br>
youth in the offing, his flamboyant bathrobe concealing his
shadow-like<br>
frame, had <i>started</i> the show, causing the track squad, as
well as a<br>
hundred spectator-students, to rush for seats in the stand. The
arrival<br>
of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to train for form and height in the
high-jump,<br>
though a daily occurrence, was always the signal for a Saturnalia
of sport<br>
at his expense, because&mdash;</p>

<p>"You can't live down your athletic past, Hicks!" smiled
good-hearted Butch<br>
Brewster. "Your making a touchdown for the other eleven, by
running the<br>
wrong way with the pigskin, your hilarious fiascos in every
sport, your<br>
home-run with the bases full, on a strike-out-are specters to
haunt you.<br>
Even now that you have a chance to win your B, just listen to the
fellows."</p>

<p>The track squad's "heavy weight&mdash;white hope" section,
composed of<br>
hammer-heavers and shot-putters&mdash;Tug Cardiff, Beef
McNaughton, Pudge<br>
Langdon, Buster Brown, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and
Bunch<br>
Bingham, equipped with megaphones, and with the <i>basso
profundo</i> voices<br>
nature gave them, lined up on both sides of the
jumping-standards, and<br>
chanted loudly:</p>

<p>  "All hail to T. Haviland Hicks!<br>
  He runs like a carload of bricks;<br>
    When to high jump he tries<br>
    From the ground he can't rise&mdash;<br>
  For he's built on a pair of toothpicks!"</p>

<p>This saengerfest was greeted with vociferous cheers from the
vastly amused<br>
youths in the stands, who hailed the grinning Hicks with jeers,
cat-calls,<br>
whistles, and humorous (so they believed) remarks:</p>

<p>"Say, Hicks, you won't <i>never</i> be able to jump anything
but your<br>
board-bill!"</p>

<p>"You're built like a grass-hopper, Hicks, but you've done lost
the hop!"</p>

<p>"If you keep on improving as you've done lately, you'll make a
high-jumper<br>
in a hundred more years, old top!"</p>

<p>"You may rise in the world, Hicks, but never in the high
jump!"</p>

<p>"Don't mind them, Hicks!" spoke Coach Brannigan, his hands on
the<br>
happy-go-lucky youth's shoulders. "Listen to me; the
Intercollegiates will<br>
be the last track meet of your college years, and unless you take
first<br>
place in your event, you won't win your track B. Second, McQuade,
of<br>
Hamilton, will do five-eight, and likely an inch higher, so to
take first<br>
place, you, must do five-ten. You have trained and practiced
faithfully<br>
this season, but no matter what I do, I <i>can't</i> give you
that needed two<br>
inches, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I know it, Coach!" responded the chastened Hicks, throwing
aside his<br>
lurid bathrobe determinedly, and exposing to the jeering students
his<br>
splinter-frame. "Leave it to Hicks, I'll clear it this time,
or&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not!" fleered Butch, whom Hicks' easy self-confidence never
failed to<br>
arouse. "Hicks, listen to me, I can tell you why you can't get
two inches<br>
higher. The whole trouble with you is this; for almost four years
you have<br>
led an indolent, butterfly, care-free existence, and now, when
you must<br>
call on yourself for a special effort, you are too lazy! You can
dear<br>
five-ten; you ought to do it, but you can't summon up the energy.
I've<br>
lectured you all this time, for your heedless, easy-going ways,
and<br>
now&mdash;you pay for your idle years!"</p>

<p>"You said an encyclopedia, Butch!" agreed the Coach, with
vigor. "If only<br>
something would just <i>make</i> Hicks jump that high, if only he
could do it<br>
once, and know it is in his power, he could do it in the
Intercollegiates,<br>
aided by excitement and competition! Let something <i>scare</i>
him so that he<br>
will sail over five-ten, and&mdash;he will win his B. He has the
energy, the<br>
build, the spring, and the form, but as you say, he is so
easy-going and<br>
lazy, that his natural grass-hopper frame avails him naught."</p>

<p>"Here I go!" announced Hicks, who, to an accompaniment of loud
cheers from<br>
the stand, had been jogging up and down in that warming-up
process known to<br>
athletes as the in place run, consisting of trying to dislocate
one's<br>
jaw by bringing the knees, alternately, up against the chin. "Up
and<br>
over&mdash;that's my slogan. Just watch Hicks."</p>

<p>Starting at a distance of twenty yards from the high-jump
standards, on<br>
which the cross-bar rested at five feet, ten inches, T. Haviland
Hicks,<br>
Jr., who vastly resembled a grass-hopper, crept toward the
jumping-pit,<br>
on his toe-spikes, as though hoping to catch the cross-bar off
its guard.<br>
Advancing ten yards, he learned apparently that his design was
discovered,<br>
so he started a loping gallop, turning to a quick, mad sprint, as
though he<br>
attempted to jump over the bar before it had time to rise higher.
With a<br>
beautiful take-off, a splendid spring&mdash;a quick, writhing
twist in air, and<br>
two spasmodic kicks, the whole being known as the scissors form
of high<br>
jump, the mosquito-like youth made a strenuous effort to clear
the needed<br>
height, but&mdash;one foot kicked the cross-bar, and as Hicks
fell flat on his<br>
back, in the soft landing-pit, the wooden rod, In derision,
clattered down<br>
upon his anatomy.</p>

<p>"Foiled again!" hissed Hicks, after the fashion of a
"Ten-Twent'-Thirt'"<br>
melodrama-villain, while from the exuberant youths in the
grandstand,<br>
who really wanted Hicks to clear the bar, but who jeered at his
failure,<br>
nevertheless, sounded:</p>

<p>"Hire a derrick, Hicks, and hoist yourself over the bar!"</p>

<p>"Your <i>head</i> is light enough&mdash;your feet weigh you
down!"</p>

<p>"'Crossing the Bar'&mdash;rendered by T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.!"</p>

<p>"Going up! Go play checkers, Hicks, you ain't no athlete!"</p>

<p>While the grinning, albeit chagrined T, Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
reposed<br>
gracefully on his back, staring up at the cross-bar, which
someone kindly<br>
replaced on the pegs, big Butch Brewster, who seemed suddenly to
have<br>
gone crazy, tried to attract Coach Brannigan's attention.
Succeeding,<br>
Butch&mdash;usually a grave, serious Senior, winked, contorted
his visage<br>
hideously, pointed at Hicks, and sibilated, "Now, Coach&mdash;now
is your<br>
chance! Tell Hicks&mdash;"</p>

<p>Tug Cardiff, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, Bunch
Bingham, Buster<br>
Brown, Beef McNaughton, and Pudge Langdon, who had been attacked
in a<br>
fashion similar to Butch's spasm, concealed grins of delight, and
made<br>
strenuous efforts to appear guileless, as Track-Coach Brannigan
approached<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. To that cheery youth, who was brushing the
dirt from<br>
his immaculate track togs, and bowing to the cheering youths in
the stand,<br>
the Coach spoke:</p>

<p>"Hicks," he said sternly, "you need a cross-country jog, to
get<br>
more strength and power in your limbs! Now, I am going to send
the<br>
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade for a four-mile run, and you go
with them.<br>
Oh, don't protest; they are all shot-putters and hammer-throwers,
but<br>
Butch, and they can't run fast enough to give a tortoise a fast
heat. Take<br>
'em out two miles and back, Butch, and jog all the way; don't let
'em loaf!<br>
Off with you,"</p>

<p>The unsuspecting Hicks might have detected the nigger in the
woodpile, had<br>
he not been so anxious to make five-ten in the high-jump.
However, willing<br>
to jog with these behemoths, with whom even he could keep pace,
so as to<br>
develop more jumping power, the blithesome youth cast aside his
garish<br>
bathrobe, pranced about in what he fatuously believed was Ted
Meredith's<br>
style, and howled:</p>

<p>"Follow Hicks! All out for the Marathon&mdash;we're off!
One&mdash;two&mdash;three&mdash;<i>go</i>!"</p>

<p>With the excited, track squad, non-athletes, and the baseball
crowd, which<br>
had ceased the game to watch the start, yelling, cheering,
howling, and<br>
whistling, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drawing his knees up in
exaggerated<br>
style at every stride, started to lead the
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade<br>
on its cross-country run. Without wondering why Coach Brannigan
had<br>
suddenly elected to send <i>him</i> along with the
hammer-throwers and<br>
shot-putters, on the jog, and not having seen the insane facial
contortions<br>
of the Brigade, before the Coach gave orders, the gladsome
Senior<br>
started forth in good spirits, resembling a tugboat convoying a
fleet of<br>
battleships.</p>

<p>"'Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! And over the country we go!'" warbled Hicks,
as the squad<br>
left Bannister Field, and jogged across a green meadow.
"'&mdash;O'er hill and<br>
dale, through valley and vale, Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho!'"</p>

<p>"Save your wind, you insect!" growled Butch Brewster, with
sinister<br>
significance that escaped the heedless Hicks, as the behemoth
Butch, a<br>
two-miler, swung into the lead. "You'll <i>need</i> it, you fish,
before we get<br>
back to the campus! Not <i>too</i> fast, you flock of human
tortoises. You'll be<br>
crawling on hands and knees, if you keep that pace up long!"</p>

<p>A mile and a half passed. Butch, at an easy jog, had led his
squad over<br>
green pastures, up gentle slopes, and across a plowed field, by
way of<br>
variety. At length, he left the road on which the pachydermic
aggregation<br>
had lumbered for some distance, and turned up a long lane,
leading to a<br>
farm-house. Back of it they periscoped an orchard, with
cherry-trees,<br>
laden with red and white fruit, predominating. Also, floating
toward the<br>
collegians on the balmy May air came an ominous sound:</p>

<p>"Woof! Woof! Woof! Bow-wow-wow! Woof!"</p>

<p>"Come on, fellows!" urged Butch Brewster. "We'll jog across
old Bildad's<br>
orchard and seize some cherries&mdash;the old pirate can't catch
us, for we are<br>
attired for sprinting. Don't they look good?"</p>

<p>"Nothing stirring!" declared Hicks, slangily, but vehemently,
as he stopped<br>
short in his stride. "Old Bildad has got a bulldog what am as big
as the<br>
New York City Hall. He had it on the campus last month, you know!
Not for<br>
mine! I don't go near that house, or swipe no cherries from his
trees. If<br>
you wish to shuffle off this mortal coil, drive right ahead, but
I will<br>
await your return here."</p>

<p>T, Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, dread of dogs, of all sizes, shapes,
pedigrees,<br>
and breeds, was well known to old Bannister; hence, the
Heavy-weights now<br>
jeered him unmercifully. Old "Bildad," as the taciturn recluse
was called,<br>
who lived like a hermit and owned a rich farm, did own a massive
bulldog,<br>
and a sight of his cruel jaws was a "No Trespass" sign. With
great<br>
forethought, when cherries began to ripen, the farmer had brought
Caesar<br>
Napoleon to the campus, exhibited him to the awed youths, and
said, "My<br>
cherries be for <i>sale</i>, not to be <i>stole</i>!" which
object lesson, brief as<br>
it was, to date, had seemed to have the desired effect.
Yet&mdash;here was Butch<br>
proposing that they literally thrust their heads, or other
portions of<br>
their anatomies, into the jaws of death!</p>

<p>"Well," said Bunch Bingham at last, "I tell you what; we'll
jog up to the<br>
house and ask old Bildad to <i>sell</i> us some cherries; we can
pay him when he<br>
comes to the campus with eggs to sell, Come along. Hicks, I'll
beard the<br>
bulldog in his kennel."</p>

<p>So, dragged along by the bulky hammer-throwers and
shot-putters, the<br>
protesting T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in mortal terror of Caesar
Napoleon, and<br>
the other canine guardians of old Bildad's property, progressed
up the lane<br>
toward the house.</p>

<p>"I got a hunch," said the reluctant Hicks, sadly, "that things
ain't<br>
a-comin' out right! In the words of the immortal
Somebody-Or-Other, 'This<br>
'ere ain't none o' <i>my</i> doin'; it's a-bein' thrust on me!'
All right, my<br>
comrades, I'll be the innocent bystander, but heed me&mdash;look
out for the<br>
bulldog!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XVI</p>

<p>THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON</p>

<p>The Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, towing the mosquito-like
T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., advanced on the stronghold of old Bildad, so named
because he<br>
was a pessimistic Job's comforter, like Bildad, the Shuhite, of
old&mdash;like<br>
a flock of German spies reconnoitering Allied trenches. Hearing
the house,<br>
with Butch and Beef holding the helpless, but loudly protesting
Hicks, who<br>
would fain have executed what may mildly be termed a strategic
retreat, big<br>
Tug Cardiff boldly marched, in close formation, toward the door,
when the<br>
portal suddenly flew open.</p>

<p>"Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Let go, Butch&mdash;there's the
dog!"</p>

<p>Amid ferocious howls from Caesar Napoleon, and alarmed
protests from the<br>
paralyzed Hicks, who could not have run, with his wobbly knees,
had he<br>
been set free by his captors, old Bildad, towed from the house by
Caesar<br>
Napoleon, who strained savagely at the leash until his face
bulged, burst<br>
upon the scene with impressive dramatic effect! It was difficult
to decide,<br>
without due consideration, which was the more interesting.
Bildad, a huge,<br>
gnarled old Viking, with matted gray hair, bushy eyebrows, a
flowing beard,<br>
and leathery face, a fierce-looking giant, was appalling to
behold, but so<br>
was Caesar Napoleon, an immense bulldog, cruel, bloodthirsty, his
massive<br>
jaws working convulsively, his ugly fangs gleaming, as he set his
great<br>
body against the leash, and gave evidence of a sincere desire to
make free<br>
lunch of the Bannister youths. As Buster Brown afterward stated,
"Neither<br>
one would take the booby prize at a beauty show, but at that, the
bulldog<br>
had a better chance than Bildad!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., let it
be<br>
recorded, could not have qualified as a judge, since his
undivided<br>
attention was awarded to Caesar Napoleon!</p>

<p>"What d'ye want round here, ye rapscallions?" demanded Bildad,
courteously,<br>
holding the savage bulldog with one hand, and constructing a
ponderous<br>
fist with the other, "Hike&mdash;git off'n my land, y'hear? Git,
er Caesar<br>
Napoleon'll git holt o' them scanty duds ye got on!"</p>

<p>"We want to&mdash;to buy some cherries, Mr.&mdash;Mr. Bildad!"
explained Bunch<br>
Bingham, edging away nervously. "We won't steal any, honest, sir.
Well pay<br>
you for them the very next time you come to the campus with milk
and eggs."</p>

<p>"Ho! Ho!" roared old Bildad, piratically, his colossal body
shaking, "A<br>
likely tale, lads&mdash;an' when I come for my money, ye'll jeer
me off the<br>
campus, an' tell me to whistle for it! Off my
land&mdash;<i>git,</i> an' don't let me<br>
cotch ye on it inside o' two minutes, or I'll let Caesar Napoleon
make a<br>
meal off'n yer bones&mdash;<i>git</i>!"</p>

<p>To express it briefly, they got. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., not
standing on<br>
the order of his going, set off at a sprint that, while it might
have<br>
caused Ted Meredith to lose sleep, also aroused in Caesar
Napoleon an<br>
overwhelming desire to take out after the fugitive youth, so that
Mr.<br>
Bildad was forced to exert his vast strength to hold the massive
bulldog.<br>
Butch, Beef, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Bunch, Pudge, and Biff, a
pachydermic<br>
crew, awed by Caesar Napoleon's bloodthirsty actions, jogged off
in the<br>
wake of Hicks, who confidently expected to hear the bulldog
giving tongue,<br>
on his trail, at every second.</p>

<p>Another lane, making in from a road making a cross-roads with
the one<br>
from which they came to Bildad's house, ran alongside the orchard
for two<br>
hundred yards, inside the fence; at its end was a high roadgate.
At<br>
what they decided was a safe distance from the "war zone,"
the<br>
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the
latter<br>
forcibly restrained from widening the margin between him and
peril, held a<br>
council on preparedness.</p>

<p>"The old pirate!" stormed Butch Brewster, gazing back to where
the vast<br>
figure of old Bildad, striding toward the house, towered. "We
can't let him<br>
get away with that, fellows. I'll have some of his cherries now,
or&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No, no&mdash;<i>don't</i>, Butch!" chattered Hicks, whose
dread of dogs amounted to<br>
an obsession. "He can still see us, and if you leave the lane, he
will send<br>
Caesar Napoleon after us! Oh, <i>don't</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p>But Butch Brewster, evidently wrathful at being balked, strode
from the<br>
path, or lane, of virtue, toward a cherry-tree, whose red fruit
hung<br>
temptingly low, and his example was followed by every one of the
Brigade,<br>
leaving the terrified Hicks to wait in the lane, where, because
of his<br>
alarm, he had no time to wonder at the bravado of his behemoth
comrades.<br>
However, finding that Bildad had disappeared, and believing he
had taken<br>
Caesar Napoleon into the house, the sunny Hicks, who was far from
a coward<br>
otherwise, but who had an unreasonable dread of dogs, little or
big, was<br>
about to wax courageous, and join his team-mates, when a wild
shout burst<br>
from Pudge Langdon:</p>

<p>"Run, fellows&mdash;<i>run</i>! Bildad's put the bulldog on
us! Here comes&mdash;Caesar<br>
Napoleon&mdash;!"</p>

<p>With a blood-chilling "Woof! Woof!" steadily sounding louder,
nearer,<br>
a streak of color shot across the orchard, from the house, toward
the<br>
affrighted Brigade, while old Bildad's hoarse growl shattered the
echoes<br>
with "Take 'em out o' here, Nap&mdash;chaw 'em up, boy!" For a
startled second,<br>
the youths stared at the on-rushing body, shooting toward them
through the<br>
orchard-grass at terrific speed, and then:</p>

<p>"Run!" howled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., terror providing him
with wings, as<br>
per proverb. Down the lane, at a pace that would have done credit
to Barney<br>
Oldfield in his Blitzen Benz, the mosquito-like youth sprinted
madly, and<br>
ever, closer, closer on his trail, sounded that awful "Woof!
Woof!" from<br>
Caesar Napoleon, who, as Hicks well knew, was acting with full
authority<br>
from Bildad! He heard, as he fled frantically, the excited shouts
of his<br>
comrades.</p>

<p>"Beat it, Hicks&mdash;he's right after you&mdash;run!
Run!"</p>

<p>"Jump the fence&mdash;he can't get you then&mdash;jump!"</p>

<p>"He's right on your trail, Hicks&mdash;<i>sprint</i>, old
man!"</p>

<p>"Make the fence, old man&mdash;<i>jump</i> it&mdash;and you're
<i>safe</i>!"</p>

<p>The terrible truth dawned on the frightened youth, as he
desperately<br>
sprinted: the innocent bystander always gets hurt. He had
protested against<br>
the theft of Bildad's cherries, and naturally, the bulldog had
kept after<br>
<i>him</i>! But it was too late to stop, for the old adage was
extremely<br>
appropriate, "He who hesitates is lost." He must <i>make</i> that
road-gate, and<br>
tumble over it, in some fashion, or be torn to shreds by Caesar
Napoleon,<br>
the savage dog that the cruel Bildad had sent after the
youths.</p>

<p>Nearer loomed the road-gate, appallingly high. Closer sounded
the panting<br>
breath of the ferocious Caesar Napoleon, and his incessant
"Woof-woof!"<br>
became louder. It seemed to the desperate Hicks that the bulldog
was at his<br>
heels, and every instant he expected to feel those sharp teeth
take hold of<br>
his anatomy! Once, the despairing youth imitated Lot's wife and
turned his<br>
head. He saw a body streaking after him, gaining at every jump,
also he<br>
lost speed; so thereafter, he conscientiously devoted his every
energy to<br>
the task in hand, that of making the gate, and getting over it,
before<br>
Caesar Napoleon caught his quarry!</p>

<p>At last, the road-gate, at least ten feet high, to Hicks'
fevered<br>
imagination, came so close that a quick decision was necessary,
for Caesar<br>
Napoleon, also, was in the same zone, and in a few seconds he
would<br>
overhaul the fugitive. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., realizing that a
second<br>
lost, perhaps, might prove fatal to his peace of mind,
desperately resolved<br>
to dash at the gate, and jump; if he succeeded even in striking
somewhere<br>
near the top, and falling over, he would not care, for the
bulldog would<br>
not follow him off Bildad's land. From his comrades, far in the
rear, came<br>
the chorus:</p>

<p>"Jump, Hicks! He's right on your heels!"</p>

<p>Like the immortal Light Brigade, Hicks had no time to reason
about<br>
anything. His but to jump or be bitten summed up the situation.
So, with<br>
a last desperate sprint, a quick dash, he left the
ground&mdash;luckily, the<br>
earth was hard, giving him a solid take-off, and he got a
splendid spring.<br>
As he arose In air, al! the training and practicing for form
stayed with<br>
him, and instinctively he turned, writhed, and kicked&mdash;</p>

<p>For a fleeting second, he saw the top of the gate beneath his
body, and<br>
he felt a thrill as he beheld twisted strands of barbed wire,
cruel and<br>
jagged, across it; then, with a great sensation of joy, he knew
that he<br>
had cleared the top, and a second later, he landed on the ground,
in the<br>
country road, in a heap.</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky,
indolent youth,<br>
for once in his care-free campus career aroused to strenuous
action,<br>
scrambled wildly to his feet, and forcibly realized the truth
of<br>
Longfellow's, "And things are not-what they seem!" Instead of
the<br>
ferocious, bloodthirsty bulldog, Caesar Napoleon, a huge,
half-grown<br>
St. Bernard pup gamboled inside the gate, frisking about
gleefully, and<br>
exhibiting, even so that Hicks, with all his innate dread of
dogs, could<br>
understand it, a vast friendliness. In fact, he seemed trying to
say,<br>
"That's fun. Come on and play with me some more!"</p>

<p>"Hey, fellows," shrieked the relieved Hicks, "that ain't
Caesar Napoleon!<br>
Why, he just wanted to play."</p>

<p>Bewildered, the members of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade
of the<br>
Bannister College track squad rushed on the scene. To their
surprise, they<br>
found not a savage bulldog, but a clumsy, good-natured St.
Bernard puppy,<br>
who frisked wildly about them, groveled at their feet, and put
his huge<br>
paws on them, with the playfulness of a juvenile elephant.</p>

<p>"Why, it <i>isn't</i> Nappie, for a fact!" gasped Butch. "Oh,
I am so glad<br>
that old Bildad wasn't mean enough to put the bulldog after us,
for he is<br>
dangerous. He scared us, though, and put this pup on our trail.
He wanted<br>
to play, and he thought it all a game, when Hicks fled. Oho! What
a joke on<br>
Hicks."</p>

<p>"I don't care!" grinned Hicks, thus siding with the famous Eva
Tanguay.<br>
"You fellows were fooled, too! You were too <i>scared</i> to run,
and if it had<br>
been Caesar Napoleon, I'd have saved your worthless lives by
getting him<br>
after me! I'll bet Bildad is snickering now, the old reprobate!
Why, Tug,<br>
are you <i>crazy</i>?"</p>

<p>Tug Cardiff, indeed, gave indications of lunacy. He marched up
to the<br>
road-gate, and stood close to it, so that the barbed wire top was
even with<br>
his hair; then he backed off, and gazed first at the gate, then
at the<br>
bewildered Hicks, while he grinned at the dazed squad in a
Cheshire cat<br>
style.</p>

<p>"Measure it, someone!" he shouted. "I am nearly six feet tall,
and it comes<br>
even with the top of my dome! Can't you see, you brainless
imbeciles, Hicks<br>
cleared it."</p>

<p>"Wait for me here!" howled big Butch Brewster, climbing the
fence and<br>
starting down the road at a pace that did credit even to that
fast<br>
two-miler. The Brigade, In the absence of their leader, tried to
estimate<br>
the height of the gate, and Hicks, gazing at its barbed-wire
top,<br>
shuddered. The St. Bernard pup, having caused T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., for<br>
once in his indolent life to exert every possible ounce of energy
in his<br>
splinter-frame, groveled at his feet, and strove to express his
boundless<br>
joy at their presence.</p>

<p>Butch Brewster, in fifteen minutes, returned, panting and
perspiring,<br>
bearing a tape-measure, borrowed at the next farm-house. With all
the<br>
solemnity of a sacred rite being performed, the youths waited, as
Butch and<br>
Tug, holding the tape taut, carefully measured from the ground to
the top<br>
of the barbed wire on the gate. Three times they did this, and
then, with<br>
an expression of gladness on his honest countenance, Butch hugged
the<br>
dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while Tug Cardiff howled, "Now for
the<br>
Intercollegiates and your track B, Hicks! You <i>can</i> do
five-ten in the<br>
meet, for Coach Brannigan said you could dear it, if only you did
it<br>
<i>once</i>."</p>

<p>"Why&mdash;what do you mean, Tug?" quavered Hicks, not daring
to allow himself<br>
to believe the truth. "You&mdash;you surely don't
mean&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I mean, that now you <i>know</i> you can jump that high,"
boomed Tug, executing<br>
a weird dance of exultation, In which, the Brigade joined, until
it<br>
resembled a herd of elephants gone insane, "for you have done
it&mdash;allowing<br>
for the sag, and everything, that gate is just five feet, ten
inches high,<br>
and&mdash;<i>you cleared it</i>!"</p>

<p>"Ladies and gentlemen&mdash;Hicks, of Bannister, is about to
high jump! Hicks<br>
and McQuade, of Hamilton, are tied for first place at five feet
eight<br>
inches! McQuade has failed three times at five-ten! Hicks' third
and last<br>
trial! Height of bar&mdash;five feet ten inches!"</p>

<p>This time, however, it was not big Tug Cardiff, imitating a
Ballyhoo<br>
Bill, and inciting the Bannister youths to hilarity at the
expense of the<br>
sunny-souled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; it was the Official
Announcer at the<br>
Annual State Intercollegiate Field and Track Championships, on
Bannister<br>
Field, and his announcement aroused a tumult of excitement in the
Bannister<br>
section of the stands, as well as among the Gold and Green
cinder-path<br>
stars.</p>

<p>"Come on, Hicks, old man!" urged Butch Brewster, who, with a
dozen fully<br>
as excited comrades of the cheery Hicks, surrounded that
splinter-athlete.<br>
"It's positively your last chance to win your track B, or your
letter in<br>
any sport, and please your Dad! If they lower the bar, and you
two jump off<br>
the tie, McQuade's endurance will bring him out the winner."</p>

<p>"You <i>can</i> clear five-ten!" encouraged Bunch Bingham.
"You did it once,<br>
when you believed Caesar Napoleon was after you. Just summon up
that much<br>
energy now, and clear that bar! Once over, the event and your
letter are<br>
won! Oh, if we only had that bulldog here, to sick on you."</p>

<p>Sad to chronicle, the score-board of the Intercollegiates
recorded the<br>
results of the events, so far, thus:</p>

<p>    HAMILTON ............35 BALLARD .............20 BANNISTER
...........28</p>

<p>It was the last event, and even did Hicks win the high-jump,
McQuade's<br>
second place would easily give old Ham. the Championship. Hence,
knowing<br>
that victory was not booked for an appearance on the Gold and
Green<br>
banners, the Bannister youths, wild for the lovable, popular
Hicks to win<br>
his Bs vociferously pulled for him:</p>

<p>"Come on, Hicks&mdash;up and over, old man&mdash;it's
<i>easy</i>!"</p>

<p>"Jump, you Human Grass-Hopper&mdash;you can do it!"</p>

<p>"Now or never, Hicks! One big jump does the work!"</p>

<p>"Sick Caesar Napoleon on him, Coach; he'll clear it then!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., casting aside that flamboyant
bathrobe, for what he<br>
believed was the last athletic event of his campus career, stood
gazing at<br>
the cross-bar. One superhuman effort, a great explosion of all
his energy,<br>
such as he had executed when he cleared the gate, thinking Caesar
Napoleon<br>
was after him, and the event was won! He <i>had</i> cleared that
height, it was<br>
within his power. If he failed, as Butch said, the bar would be
lowered,<br>
and then raised until one or the other missed once. McQuade, with
his<br>
superior strength and endurance, must inevitably win, but as he
had just<br>
missed on his third trial at five-ten, if Hicks cleared that
height on<br>
<i>his</i> final chance, the first place was his.</p>

<p>"And my B!" murmured Hicks, tensing his muscles. "Oh, won't my
Dad be<br>
happy? It will help him to realize some of his ambition, when I
show him my<br>
track letter! It is positively my last chance, and I <i>must</i>
clear it."</p>

<p>With a vast wave of determined confidence inundating his very
being, Hicks<br>
started for the bar; after those first, peculiar, creeping steps,
he had<br>
just started his gallop, when he heard Tug Cardiff's
<i>basso</i>, magnified by<br>
a megaphone, roared:</p>

<p>"All together, fellows&mdash;<i>let 'er go</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p>Then, just as Hicks dug his spikes into the earth, in that
short, mad<br>
sprint that gives the jumper his spring, just as he reached the
take-off,<br>
a perfect explosion of noise startled him, and he caught a sound
that<br>
frightened him, tensed as he was:</p>

<p>"Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Woof! Woof! Look out, Hicks,
Caesar Napoleon<br>
is after you!"</p>

<p>Psychology Is inexplicable. Ever afterward, Hicks' comrades of
that<br>
cross-country run averred strenuously that their roaring
through<br>
megaphones, in concert, imitating Caesar Napoleon's savage bark
at the<br>
psychological moment, flung the mosquito-like youth clear of the
cross-bar<br>
and won him the event and his B. Hicks, however, as fervidly
denied this<br>
statement, declaring that he would have won, anyhow, because he
had<br>
summoned up the determination to do it! So it can not be stated
just what<br>
bearing on his jump the plot of Butch Brewster really had. In
truth, that<br>
behemoth had entertained a wild idea of actually hiring old
Bildad and<br>
Caesar Napoleon to appear at the moment Hicks started for his
last trial,<br>
but this weird scheme was abandoned!</p>

<p>Fifteen minutes later, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had
escaped from the<br>
riotous Bannister students, delirious with joy at the victory of
the<br>
beloved youth, the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade, capturing
the<br>
grass-hopper Senior, gave him a shock second only to that which
he had<br>
experienced when first he believed Caesar Napoleon was on his
trail.</p>

<p>"Perhaps our barking didn't make you jump it!" said Beef
McNaughton, when<br>
Hicks indignantly denied that he had been scared over the
cross-bar, "but<br>
indirectly, old man, we helped you to win! If we had not put up a
hoax on<br>
you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A <i>hoax</i>?" queried the surprised Hicks. "What do you
mean&mdash;hoax?"</p>

<p>"It was all a frame-up!" grinned Butch Brewster, triumphantly.
"We paid old<br>
Bildad five dollars to play his part, and as an actor, he has
Booth and<br>
Barrymore backed off the stage! We got Coach Brannigan to send
you along<br>
with us on the cross-country jog, and your absurd dread of dogs,
Hicks,<br>
made it easy! Bildad, per instructions, produced Caesar Napoleon,
and<br>
scared you. Then, with a telescope, he watched us, and when I
gave the<br>
signal, he let loose Bob, the harmless St. Bernard pup, on our
trail.</p>

<p>"The pup, as he always does, chased after strangers, ready to
play. We<br>
yelled for you to run, and you were so <i>scared</i>, you insect,
you didn't<br>
wait to see the dog. Even when you looked back, in your alarm,
you didn't<br>
know it was not Caesar Napoleon, for his grim visage was seared
on your<br>
brain&mdash;I mean, where your brain ought to be! And even had
you seen it<br>
wasn't the bulldog, you would have been frightened, all the same.
But I<br>
confess, Hicks, when you sailed over that high gate, it was one
on <i>us</i>."</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drew a deep breath, and then a
Cheshire cat grin<br>
came to his cherubic countenance. So, after all, it had been a
hoax; there<br>
had not been any peril. No wonder these behemoths had so
courageously taken<br>
the cherries! But, beyond a doubt, the joke <i>had</i> helped him
to win his<br>
B. It had shown him he could clear five feet, ten inches, for he
had done<br>
it&mdash;and, in the meet, when the crucial moment came, the
knowledge that he<br>
<i>had</i> jumped that high, and, therefore, could do it,
helped&mdash;where the<br>
thought that he never had cleared it would have dragged him down.
He had at<br>
last won his B, a part of his beloved Dad's great ambition was
realized,<br>
and&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth that sunny-souled,
irrepressible<br>
youth, swaggering a trifle, "It was my mighty will-power, my
terrific<br>
determination, that took me over the cross-bar, and
not&mdash;<i>not</i> your<br>
imitation of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the
"Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade" in<br>
thunderous chorus. "Sick him&mdash;Caesar Napoleon&mdash;!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XVII</p>

<p>HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY</p>

<p>"Come on, Butch! Atta boy&mdash;some fin, old top! Say, you
Beef&mdash;you're asleep<br>
at the switch. What time do you want to be called? More pep
there,<br>
Monty&mdash;bust that little old bulb, Roddy! Aw, rotten! Say,
Ballard, your<br>
playing will bring the Board of Health down on you&mdash;why
don't you bring<br>
your first team out? Umpire? What&mdash;do you call that an
umpire? Why, he's<br>
a highway robber, a bandit. Put a 'Please Help the Blind' sign on
that<br>
hold-up artist!"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, captain of the Bannister College baseball
squad,<br>
navigating down the third-floor corridor of Bannister Hall, the
Senior<br>
dormitory, laden with suitcases, bat-bags, and other impedimenta,
as Mr.<br>
Julius Caesar says, and vastly resembling a bell-hop in action,
paused in<br>
sheer bewilderment on the threshold of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s,
cozy room.</p>

<p>"Hicks!" stormed the bewildered Butch, wrathfully, "what in
the name of Sam<br>
Hill <i>are</i> you doing? Are you crazy, you absolutely insane
lunatic? This<br>
is a study-hour, and even if <i>you</i> don't possess an
intellect, some of the<br>
fellows want to exercise their brains an hour or so! Stop that
ridiculous<br>
action."</p>

<p>The spectacle Butch Brewster beheld was indeed one to paralyze
that<br>
pachydermic collegian, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the
sunny-souled,<br>
irrepressible Senior, danced madly about on the tiger-skin rug in
midfloor,<br>
evidently laboring under the delusion that he was a lunatical
Hottentot at<br>
a tribal dance; he waved his arms wildly, like a signaling
brakeman, or<br>
howled through a big megaphone, and about his toothpick structure
was<br>
strung his beloved banjo, on which the blithesome youth twanged
at times an<br>
accompaniment to his jargon:</p>

<p>"Come on, Skeet, take a lead (<i>plunkety-plunk</i>!) Say,
d'ye wanta marry<br>
first base&mdash;divorce yourself from that sack!
(<i>plunk-plunk</i>!) Oh, you<br>
bonehead&mdash;steal&mdash;you won't get arrested for it! Hi! Yi!
Ouch, Butch! Oh,<br>
I'll be good&mdash;"</p>

<p>At this moment, the indignant Butch abruptly terminated T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr.'s, noisy monologue by seizing that splinter-youth firmly by
the scruff<br>
of the neck and forcibly hurling him on the davenport. Seeing his
loyal<br>
class-mate's resemblance to a Grand Central Station
baggage-smasher, the<br>
irrepressible Senior forthwith imitated a hotel-clerk:</p>

<p>"Front!" howled the grinning Hicks, to an imaginary bellboy,
"Show this<br>
gentleman to Number 2323! Are you alone, sir, or just by
yourself? I think<br>
you will like the room-it faces on the coal-chute, and has hot
and cold<br>
folding-doors, and running water when the roof leaks! The bed is
made once<br>
a week, regularly, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hicks, you Infinitesimal Atom of Nothing!" growled big Butch,
ominously.<br>
"What were you doing, creating all that riot, as I came down the
corridor?<br>
What's the main idea, anyway, of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Heed, friend of my campus days," chortled the graceless
Hicks, keeping<br>
a safe distance from his behemoth comrade, "tomorrow-your
baseball<br>
aggregation plays Ballard College, at that knowledge-factory, for
the<br>
Championship of the State. Because nature hath endowed me with
the<br>
Herculean structure of a Jersey mosquito, I am developing a
56-lung-power<br>
voice, and I need practice, as I am to be the only student-rooter
at the<br>
game tomorrow! Q.E.D.! And as for any Bannister student, except
perhaps<br>
Theophilus Opperdyke and Thor, desiring to investigate the
interiors of<br>
their lexicons tonight, I prithee, just periscope the
campus."</p>

<p>"I guess you are right, Hicks!" grinned Butch Brewster, as he
looked from<br>
the window, down on an indescribably noisy scene. "For once, your
riotous<br>
tumult went unheard. Say, get your traveling-bag ready, and leave
that<br>
pestersome banjo behind, if you want to go with the nine!"</p>

<p>Several members of the Gold and Green nine, embryo American
and National<br>
League stars, roosted on the Senior Fence between the Gymnasium
and the<br>
Administration Building, with, suitcases and bat-bags on the
grass. In a<br>
few minutes old Dan Flannagan's celebrated jitney-bus would
appear in the<br>
offing, coming to transport the Bannister athletes downtown to
the station,<br>
for the 9 P.M. express to Philadelphia. Incited by Cheer-Leaders
Skeezicks<br>
McCracken and Snake Fisher, several hundred youths encouraged the
nine,<br>
since, because of approaching final exams., they were barred by
Faculty<br>
order from accompanying the team to Ballard. In thunderous chorus
they<br>
chanted:</p>

<p>  "One more Job for the undertaker!<br>
  More work for the tombstone maker!<br>
  la the local ceme<i>tery</i>, they are
very&mdash;very&mdash;<i>very</i><br>
  Busy on a brand-new grave for&mdash;Ballard!"</p>

<p>As the lovable Hicks expressed it, "'Coming events cast their
shadows<br>
before.' Commencement overshadows our joyous campus existence!"
However, no<br>
Bannister acquaintance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., could detect
wherein the<br>
swiftly approaching final separation from his Alma Mater had
affected in<br>
the least that happy-go-lucky, care-free, irrepressible youth. If
anything,<br>
it seemed that Hicks strove to fight off thoughts of the end of
his golden<br>
campus years, using as weapons his torturesome saengerfests, his
Beefsteak<br>
Busts down at Jerry's, and various other pastimes, to the vast
indignation<br>
of his good friend and class-mate, Butch Brewster, who tried
futilely to<br>
lecture him into the proper serious mood with which Seniors must
sail<br>
through Commencement!</p>

<p>"You are a Senior, Hicks, a Senior!" Butch would explain
wrathfully. "You<br>
are popularly supposed to be dignified, and here you persist in
acting like<br>
a comedian in a vaudeville show! I suppose you intend to appear
on the<br>
stage, and, when handed your sheepskin, respond by twanging your
banjo and<br>
roaring a silly ballad."</p>

<p>Yet, the cheery Hicks had been very busy, since that memorable
day when,<br>
thanks to Caesar Napoleon and the hoax of the
Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-<br>
Brigade of the track squad, he had cleared the cross-bar at
five-ten,<br>
and won the event and his white B! Mr. T. Haviland Hicks, Sr.,
overjoyed<br>
at his son's achievement, had sent him a generous check, which
the youth<br>
much needed, and had promised to be present at the annual
Athletic<br>
Association Meeting, at Commencement, when the B's were
awarded<br>
deserving athletes, which caused Hicks as much joy as the pink
slip.<br>
With his final study sprint for the Senior Finals, his duties as
team-<br>
manager of the baseball nine, his preparations for Commencement,
his<br>
social duties at the Junior Prom., and multifarious other
details<br>
coincident to graduation, the heedless Hicks had not found time
to be<br>
sorrowful at the knowledge that it soon would end, forever, that
he must<br>
say "Farewell, Alma Mater," and leave the campus and corridors of
old<br>
Bannister; yet soon even Hicks' ebullient spirits must fail,
for<br>
Commencement was a trifle over a week off.</p>

<p>"Hicks, you lovable, heedless, irrepressible wretch," said Big
Butch,<br>
affectionately, as the two class-mates thrilled at the scene.
"Does it<br>
penetrate that shrapnel-proof concrete dome of yours that the
Ballard game<br>
tomorrow is the final athletic contest of my, and likewise your,
campus<br>
career at old Bannister?"</p>

<p>"Similar thoughts has smote my colossal intellect, Butch!"
responded the<br>
bean-pole Hicks, gladsomely. "But&mdash;why seek to overshadow
this joyous scene<br>
with somber reflections? You-should-worry. You have annexed
sufficient B's,<br>
were they different, to make up an alphabet. You've won your
letter on<br>
gridiron, track, and baseball field, and you've been team-captain
of<br>
everything twice! Why, therefore, sheddest thou them crocodile
tears?"</p>

<p>"Not for myself, thou sunny-souled idler!" announced Butch,
generously,<br>
"But for <i>thee</i>! I prithee, since you pritheed me a few
moments hence, let<br>
that so-called colossal intellect of yours stride back along the
corridors<br>
of Time, until it reaches a certain day toward the close of our
Freshman<br>
year. Remember, you had made a hilarious failure of every
athletic event<br>
you tried-football, basketball, track, and baseball; you had just
made a<br>
tremendous farce of the Freshman-Sophomore track meet, and to me,
your<br>
loyal comrade, you uttered these rash words, 'Before I graduate
from old<br>
Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!'</p>

<p>"I reiterate and repeat, tomorrow's game with Ballard is the
last chance<br>
you will have. There is no possibility that you, with your
well-known lack<br>
of baseball ability, will get in the game, and&mdash;your track
B, won in the<br>
high-jump, is the only B you have won! Now, do you still maintain
that you<br>
will make good that rash vow?"</p>

<p>"'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.'
'While there's<br>
life, there's hope.' 'Don't give up the ship.' 'Fight to the last
ditch.'<br>
'In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as
<i>fail</i>,'"<br>
quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. "As long as there
is an<br>
infinitesimal fraction of a chance left, I repeat, just leave it
to Hicks!"</p>

<p>"You haven't got a chance in the world!" Butch assured him,
consolingly.<br>
"You did manage to get into one football game, for a minute, and
you were a<br>
'Varsity player that long. By sticking to it, you have won your
track B in<br>
the high-jump, thanks to your grass-hopper build, and we rejoice
at your<br>
reward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be
sensible, and<br>
cease this ridiculous talk of winning your B in <i>three</i>
sports, when you<br>
can see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely
impossible&mdash;"</p>

<p>It was not that Butch. Brewster did not <i>want</i> his sunny
classmate to win<br>
his B in three sports, or that he would have failed to rejoice at
Hicks'<br>
winning the triple honor. Had such a thing seemed within the
bounds of<br>
possibility, Butch, big-hearted and loyal, would have been as
happy as<br>
Hicks, or his Dad. But what the behemoth athlete became wrathful
at was the<br>
obviously lunatical way in which the cheery Hicks, now that his
college<br>
years were almost ended, parrot-like repeated, "Oh, just leave it
to<br>
Hicks!" when he must know all hope was dead. In truth, T,
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., in pretending to maintain still that he would make good the
rash<br>
vow of his Freshman year, had no purpose but to arouse his
comrade's<br>
indignation; but Butch, serious of nature, believed there really
lurked in<br>
Hicks' system some germs of hope.</p>

<p>"We never know, old top!" chuckled Hicks, though he was
<i>sure</i> he could<br>
never fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of
a season<br>
on both the football and the baseball teams, "Something may show
up at the<br>
last minute, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus
below, for<br>
the enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the
"Honk!<br>
Honk!" of a Claxon was heard, "Here he comes! All together,
fellows&mdash;the<br>
Bannister yell for the nine&mdash;then for good old Dan
Flannagan!"</p>

<p>As Hicks and Butch watched from the window, old Dan
Flannagan's jitney-bus,<br>
to the discordant blaring of a horn, progressed up the driveway,
even as it<br>
had done on that night in September, when it transported to the
campus<br>
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. Amid
salvos of<br>
applause from the Bannister youths, and blasts of the Claxon, old
Dan<br>
brought "The Dove" to a stop before the Senior Fence, and bowed
to the<br>
nine, grinning genially the while.</p>

<p>"The car waits at the door, sir!" spoke T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., touching<br>
his cap after the fashion of an English butler, before seizing a
bat-bag,<br>
and his suit-case. "As team manager, I must attempt to force into
Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth's dome how he and the five subs, are to travel on
the C. N. &amp;<br>
Q., to Eastminster, from Baltimore. Come on, Butch, we're
off&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You are always off!" commented Butch, good-humoredly, as he
seized his<br>
baggage and followed the mosquito-like Hicks from the room,
downstairs, and<br>
out on the campus. Here the assembled youths, with yells, cheers,
and songs<br>
sandwiched between humorous remarks to Dan Flannagan, watched the
thrilling<br>
spectacle of the Gold and Green nine, with the Team Manager and
five<br>
substitutes, fifteen in all, squeeze into and atop of Dan
Flannagan's<br>
jitney-Ford.</p>

<p>"Let me check you fellows off," said Hicks, importantly,
peering into the<br>
jitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling
expenses.<br>
"Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch
Brewster, Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane,
Don<br>
Carterson; that is the regular nine, and are you five subs,
present? O. K.<br>
Skeet, climb out here a second."</p>

<p>Little Skeet Wigglesworth, the brilliant short-stop, climbed
out with<br>
exceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he
saluted in<br>
military fashion. The team manager, consulting a timetable of the
C. N.<br>
&amp;.Q. railroad, fixed him with a stern look.</p>

<p>"Skeet," he spoke distinctly, "now, <i>get
this</i>&mdash;myself and eight regulars,<br>
<i>nine</i> in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for
Philadelphia, and stay<br>
there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street
Station for<br>
Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. Now I have a lot of unused
mileage on<br>
the C. N. &amp; Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement.
So, heed: you<br>
want to go <i>via</i> Baltimore, to see your parents. You take
the 9.20 P. M.<br>
express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the
morning, to<br>
Eastminster, on the C. N, &amp; Q.&mdash;it's the only road. And
take the five subs<br>
with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy
bomb-proof<br>
dome?"</p>

<p>"Sure; you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!"
grinned<br>
Skeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the
A.M., for<br>
Eastminster?"</p>

<p>"Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books
to the<br>
shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. &amp; Q. timetable.
"Oh, yes&mdash;you<br>
leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at
Eastminster at<br>
noon; <i>it is the only train, you can get,</i> to make it in
time for the game,<br>
so remember the hour&mdash;7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable
in your pocket."</p>

<p>In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed
into old Dan<br>
Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus
concentrated<br>
their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning &agrave; la
Cheshire cat,<br>
climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much
trouble to<br>
start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late
Lord<br>
Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a
Louisville<br>
Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks
at the<br>
irrepressible youth:</p>

<p>"Home-run Hicks&mdash;he made a home-run&mdash;<i>on a
strike-out</i>!"&mdash;"Put Hicks in<br>
the game, Captain Butch&mdash;he will win it."&mdash;"Watch
Hicks&mdash;he'll pull<br>
some <i>bonehead</i> play!"&mdash;"Bring home the Championship,
but&mdash;lose Hicks<br>
somewhere!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit.
yielded to<br>
old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the
yelling<br>
students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously
believed<br>
was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a
lull in the<br>
tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd:</p>

<p>"Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the
Championship, for my<br>
Alma Mater, and&mdash;I'll do it by my headwork!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XVIII</p>

<p>T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK</p>

<p>"Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you <i>afraid</i> to
play?"</p>

<p>"Call the game, Mr. Ump.&mdash;make 'em play ball!"</p>

<p>"Batter up! Forfeit the game to Ballard, Umpire!"</p>

<p>"Lend 'em Ballard's bat-boy-to make a full nine!"</p>

<p>Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance, as a
moving-picture<br>
director would express it, "registering wrathful dismay,"
lumbered toward<br>
the Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green
players<br>
had entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard
cohorts<br>
vociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable
delay.</p>

<p>"We have <i>got</i> to play," he raged, striding up and down
before the bench.<br>
"The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And
here we<br>
have only <i>eight</i> 'Varsity players, and no one to make the
ninth&mdash;not even<br>
a sub.! Oh, I could&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That brainless Skeet Wigglesworth!" ejaculated T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
who, arrayed like a lily of the field, reposed his
splinter-structure on<br>
the bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed to
<i>miss</i> that train<br>
from Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. &amp; Q.
train, and there<br>
isn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a
German<br>
war-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!"</p>

<p>Gloom, as thick and abysmal as a London fog, hovered over the
Bannister<br>
dug-out. On the concrete bench, the seven Gold and Green
athletes, Beef,<br>
Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, with Team Manager
T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., stared silently at Captain Butch Brewster, who seemed
in<br>
imminent peril of exploding. Something probably never before
heard of in<br>
the annals of athletic history had happened. Bannister College,
about to<br>
play Ballard the big game for the State Championship, had lost a
short-stop<br>
and five substitutes, in some unfathomable manner, and it was
impossible<br>
to round up one other member of the Gold and Green baseball
squad. True, a<br>
hundred loyal alumni were in the stands, but only <i>bona
fide</i> students, of<br>
course, were eligible to play the game, and&mdash;the Faculty
ruling had kept<br>
them at old Bannister!</p>

<p>"Here comes Ballard's Manager," spoke Beef McNaughton, as a
brisk,<br>
clean-cut youth advanced, a yellow envelope in hand. "Why, he has
a<br>
telegram. Do you suppose Skeet actually had <i>brains</i> enough
to wire an<br>
explanation?"</p>

<p>"Telegram for Captain Brewster!" announced the Ballard
collegian, giving<br>
the message to that surprised behemoth. "It was sent in my
care&mdash;collect,<br>
and the sender, name of Wigglesworth, fired one to me personally,
telling<br>
me to deliver this one to Captain Butch Brewster, and collect
from Team<br>
Manager Hicks&mdash;he surely didn't bother to save money! I've
been out of<br>
town, and just got back to the campus; of course, the telegrams
could not<br>
be delivered to anyone but me, hence the delay."</p>

<p>Big Butch, thanking the Ballard Team Manager, and assuring him
that the<br>
charges he had paid would be advanced to him after the game,
ripped open<br>
the yellow envelope, and drew out the message. Like a
thunder-storm<br>
gathering on the horizon, a dark expression came to good
Butch's<br>
countenance, and when he had perused the lengthy telegram, he
transfixed<br>
the startled and bewildered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with an angry
glare:</p>

<p>"Bonehead!" he raged, apparently controlling himself with a
superhuman<br>
effort. "Oh, you lunatic, you wretch,
villain&mdash;you&mdash;<i>you</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p>To the supreme amazement and dismay of the puzzled Hicks,
Beef, next in<br>
line, after <i>he</i> had scanned Skeet's telegram, followed
Butch's example,<br>
for <i>he</i> glowered at the perturbed youth, and heaped
condemnations on his<br>
devoted head. And so on down the line on the bench, until Monty,
Roddy,<br>
Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, reading the message, joined in
gazing<br>
indignantly at their gladsome Team Manager, who, as the eight
arose <i>en<br>
masse</i> and advanced on him, sought to flee the wrath to
come.</p>

<p>"Safety first!" quoth T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. "'Mine not to
reason why, mine<br>
but to haste and fly,' or&mdash;be crushed! Ouch! Beef,
Monty&mdash;have a heart!"</p>

<p>Captured by Beef and Monty Merriweather, as he frantically
scrambled up<br>
the steps of the concrete dug-out, the grinning Hicks was held in
the firm<br>
grasp of that behemoth, Butch Brewster, aided by the skyscraper
Ichabod,<br>
while Cherub Challoner thrust the telegram before his eyes. In
words of<br>
fire that burned themselves into his brain&mdash;something his
colleagues<br>
denied he possessed&mdash;T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the
explanation of Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth's missing the train from Baltimore that A. M. Dazed,
the sunny<br>
youth read the message on which over-charges must be paid:</p>

<p>"Hicks&mdash;you bonehead! The time-table of the C.N. &amp; Q.
you gave me was an<br>
old one&mdash;schedule revised two weeks ago! Train now leaves
Balto. at 6.55<br>
A.M.! When we got to station at 7.05 A.M. she had went! No train
to Ballard<br>
till night! I and subs, had to wire Bannister for money to get
back on!<br>
You mis-manager&mdash;the <i>head-work</i> you boasted of is
boneheadwork! Pay the<br>
charges on this, you brainless insect! I'll send it to Butch, for
you'd<br>
never show it to him if I sent it to you! Indignantly&mdash;</p>

<p>"SKEET."</p>

<p>"Mis-manager is <i>right</i>!" seethed Captain Butch, for once
in his campus<br>
career really wrathy at the lovable Hicks. "We are in a
fix&mdash;eight players,<br>
and the crowd howling for the game to start. Oh, I could jump
overboard,<br>
and drag you with me!"</p>

<p>"Bonehead! Bonehead!" chorused the Gold and Green players,
indignantly.<br>
"Gave Skeet an out-of-date time-table&mdash;never looked at the
date! Let's drag<br>
him out before the crowd, and announce to them his brilliant
headwork!"</p>

<p>Captain Butch, "up against it," to employ a slightly slang
expression,<br>
gazed across Ballard Field. In the stands, the students
responding<br>
thunderously to their cheer-leaders' megaphoned requests, roared,
"Play<br>
ball! Play ball! Play ball!" Gay pennants and banners fluttered
in the<br>
glorious sunshine of the June day. It was a bright scene, but its
glory<br>
awakened no happiness in the heart of the Bannister leader, as
his gaze<br>
wandered to the somewhat flabbergasted expression on the cheery
Hicks'<br>
face. That inevitably sunny youth, however, managed to conjure up
a faint<br>
resemblance of his Cheshire cat grin, and following his usual
habit of<br>
letting nothing daunt his gladsome spirit, he croaked feebly:
"Oh, just<br>
leave it to Hicks! I will&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Play the game!" thundered Butch, inspired. "Beef, see the
umpire and say<br>
we'll be ready as soon as we get Hicks into togs-show him the
telegram, and<br>
explain our delay! I'll shift Monty from the outfield to Skeet's
job at<br>
short, and put this diluted imitation of something human in the
field, to<br>
do his worst. Come to the field-house, you poor fish&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, Butch, I can't&mdash;I just <i>can't</i>!" protested the
alarmed Hicks,<br>
helpless, as the big athlete towed him from the trench,
"I&mdash;I can't play<br>
ball, and I don't want to be shown up before all that mob! It's
all right<br>
at Bannister, in class-games, but&mdash;Oh, can't you play the
game with <i>eight</i><br>
fellows?"</p>

<p>"That is just what we intend to do!" said Butch, with grim
humor.<br>
"But&mdash;we'll have a dummy in the ninth position, to make the
people believe<br>
we have a full nine! Cheer up, Hicks&mdash;'In the bright lexicon
of youth<br>
there ain't no such word as fail,' you say! As for your making a
fool of<br>
yourself, you haven't brains enough to be classed as one!
Now&mdash;you'll pay<br>
dearly for your bonehead play."</p>

<p>Ten minutes later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as agitated as a
<i>prima donna</i><br>
making her d&eacute;but with the Metropolitan: Opera Company,
decorated the<br>
Bannister bench, arrayed in one of the substitutes' baseball
suits. It<br>
was too large for his splinter-structure, so that it flapped
grotesquely,<br>
giving him a startling resemblance to a scarecrow escaped from a
cornfield.<br>
With the thermometer of his spirits registering zero, the
dismayed youth,<br>
whose punishment was surely fitting the crime, heard the Umpire
bellow:</p>

<p>"Play ball! Batter up! Bannister at bat&mdash;Ballard in the
field!"</p>

<p>Hicks, that sunny-souled youth, had often daydreamed of
himself in a big<br>
game of baseball, for his college. He had vividly imagined a
ninth inning<br>
crisis, three of the enemy on base, two out, and a long fly, good
for a<br>
home-run, soaring over his head. How he had
sprinted&mdash;back&mdash;back&mdash;and at<br>
the last second, reached high in the air, grabbing the soaring
spheroid,<br>
and saving the game for his Alma Mater! Often, too, he had
stepped up to<br>
bat in the final frame, with two out, one on base, and Bannister
a run<br>
behind. With the vast crowd silent and breathless, he had
walloped the<br>
ball, over the left-field fence, and jogged around the bases,
thrilling to<br>
the thunderous cheers of his comrades. But now&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oooo!" shivered Hicks, as though he had just stepped beneath
an icy<br>
shower-bath. "I wish I could run away. I just <i>know</i> they'll
knock every<br>
ball to me, and I couldn't catch one with a sheriff and
posse!"</p>

<p>However, since, despite the blithesome Hicks' lack of
confidence, it was<br>
that sunny Senior, after all, whom fate&mdash;or fortune,
accordingly as<br>
each nine viewed it&mdash;destined to be the hero of the
Bannister-Ballard<br>
Championship baseball contest, the game itself is shoved into
such<br>
insignificance that it can be briefly chronicled by recording the
events<br>
that led up to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, self-prophesied
"head-work."</p>

<p>Without Skeet Wigglesworth at shortstop, with the futile Hicks
in<br>
right-field, and the confidence of the nine shaken, Captain Butch
Brewster<br>
and the Gold and Green players went into the big game, unable to
shake off<br>
the feeling that they would be defeated. And when Pitcher Don
Carterson,<br>
in his half of the frame, passed the first two Ballard batters,
the belief<br>
deepened to conviction. However, a fast double play and a long
fly ended<br>
the inning without damage, and Bannister, likewise, had failed to
make an<br>
impression on the score-board. In the second, Don promptly showed
that he<br>
was striving to rival the late Cy Morgan, of the Athletics, for
he promptly<br>
hit two batters and passed the third, whereupon, as
sporting-writers<br>
express it, he was "derricked" by Captain Butch.</p>

<p>Placing the deposed twirler in left field, Captain Brewster,
as a last<br>
resort, believing the game hopelessly lost, with his star pitcher
having<br>
failed, and his relief slabmen, thanks to Hicks, mislaid <i>en
route</i>, sent<br>
out to the box one Ichabod Crane, brought in from the position
given to<br>
Don Carterson. This cadaverous, skyscraper Senior, who always
announced,<br>
himself as originating, "Back at Bedwell Center, Pa., where I
come from&mdash;"<br>
was well known to fame as the "Champion Horse-Shoe Pitcher of
Bucks<br>
County," but his baseball pitching was rather uncertain; like the
girl in<br>
the nursery jingle, Ichabod, as a twirler, "When he was good, he
was very,<br>
very good, and when he was wild, he was <i>horrid</i>!" Like
Christy Mathewson,<br>
after he had pitched a few balls, he knew whether or not he was
in<br>
shape for the game, and so did the spectators. With terrific
speed and<br>
bewildering curves, Ichabod would have made a star, but his
wildness<br>
prevented, and only on very rare days could he control the
ball.</p>

<p>Luckily for old Bannister's chances of victory and the
Championship, this<br>
was one of the elongated Ichabod's rare days. He ambled into the
box, with<br>
the bases full, and promptly struck out a batter. The next rolled
to first,<br>
forcing out the runner at home, while the third hitter under
Ichabod's<br>
r&eacute;gime drove out a long fly to center-field. Thus the game
settled to one<br>
of the most memorable contests that Ballard Field had ever
witnessed, a<br>
pitchers' battle between the awkward, bean-pole youth from
"Bedwell Center,<br>
Pa.," and Bob Forsythe, the crack Ballard twirler. It was a fight
long<br>
to be remembered, with hits as scarce as auks' eggs, and runs out
of the<br>
reckoning, for six innings.</p>

<p>At the start of the seventh, with the Ballard rooters standing
and<br>
thundering, "The lucky seventh! Ballard&mdash;win the game in the
lucky<br>
seventh!" the score was 0-0. Only two hits had been made off
Forsythe, of<br>
Ballard, whose change of pace had the Bannister nine at his
mercy, and<br>
but three off Ichabod, who had superb control of his dazzling
speed. T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., cavorting in right field, had made the only
error of<br>
the contest, dropping an easy fly that fell into his hands after
he had run<br>
bewilderedly in circles, when any good fielder could have stood
still and<br>
captured it; however, since he got the ball to second in time to
hold the<br>
runner at third, no harm resulted.</p>

<p>"Hold 'em, Bannister, <i>hold</i> 'em!" entreated Butch
Brewster, as they went<br>
to the field at their end of the lucky seventh, not having
scored. "Do your<br>
best, Hicks, old man&mdash;never mind their Jokes. If you can't
<i>catch</i><br>
the ball, just get it to second, or first, without delay! Pitch
ball,<br>
Ichabod&mdash;three innings to hold 'em!"</p>

<p>But it was destined to be the lucky seventh for Ballard. An
error on a hard<br>
chance, for Roddy Perkins, at third, placed a runner on first.
Ichabod<br>
struck out a hitter, and the runner stole second, aided somewhat
by the<br>
umpire. The next player flew out, sacrificing the runner to
third; then&mdash;an<br>
easy fly traveled toward the paralyzed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
one that<br>
anybody with the most infinitesimal baseball ability could have
corralled,<br>
as Butch said, "with his eyes blindfolded, and his hands tied
behind him!"<br>
But Hicks, who possessed absolutely <i>no</i> baseball talent,
though he made<br>
a desperate try, succeeded in doing an European juggling act for
five<br>
heartbreaking seconds, after which he let the law of gravity act
on the<br>
sphere, so that it descended to terra firma. Hence, the "Lucky
Seventh"<br>
ended with the score: Ballard, 1; Bannister, 0; and the Ballard
cohorts in<br>
a state bordering on lunacy!</p>

<p>"Oh, I've done it now&mdash;I've lost the game and the
Championship!" groaned<br>
the crushed Hicks, as he stumbled toward the Bannister bench.
"First I made<br>
that bonehead play, giving Skeet an old time-table I had on hand,
and not<br>
telling him to get one at the station. How was I to know the old
railroad<br>
would change the schedule, within two weeks of this game? And
now&mdash;I've<br>
made the error that gives Ballard the Championship. If I hadn't
pulled that<br>
boner, Skeet would be here, and the regular right-fielder would
have had<br>
that fly. What a glorious climax to my athletic career at old
Bannister!"</p>

<p>Hicks' comrades were too generous, or heartbroken, to condemn
the sorrowful<br>
youth, as he trailed to the dug-out, but the Ballard rooters had
absolutely<br>
no mercy, and they panned him in regulation style. In fact, all
through<br>
the game, Hicks expressed himself as being butchered by the fans
to make a<br>
Ballard holiday, for he struck out with unfailing regularity at
bat, and<br>
dropped everything in the field, so that the rooters jeered him,
whenever<br>
he stepped to the plate, and&mdash;it was quite different from
the good-natured<br>
ridicule of his comrades, back at old Bannister.</p>

<p>"Never mind, Hicks," said good Butch Brewster, brokenly,
seeing how<br>
sorrow-stricken his sunny classmate was, "We'll beat
'em&mdash;yet! We bat this<br>
inning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for
us, and<br>
tie the score."</p>

<p>The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green.
Monty<br>
Merriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and
advanced to<br>
third on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to
knock a<br>
home-run, struck out-&agrave; la "Cactus" Cravath in the World's
Series; but the<br>
lanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over
second,<br>
and the score was tied, though the sky-scraper twirler was caught
off base<br>
a moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of
the eighth,<br>
Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by
the<br>
strike-out route, while the third popped out to first.</p>

<p>"The <i>ninth</i> Inning!" breathed Beef McNaughton, picking
up his Louisville<br>
Slugger, as he strode to the plate. "Come on, boys&mdash;we will
win the<br>
Championship <i>right now</i>. Get one run, and Ichabod will hold
Ballard one<br>
more time!"</p>

<p>Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim attitude unnerved the
wonderful Bob<br>
Forsythe, for he passed that elephantine youth. However, he
regained his<br>
splendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three
pitched balls.<br>
After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman
drop the<br>
ball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been
thrown<br>
out with ease&mdash;with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins
made a sharp<br>
single, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the
sacks<br>
filled, and with only one out&mdash;</p>

<p>"It's all over!" mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back
and forth on<br>
the bench. "Hicks&mdash;is&mdash;at&mdash;bat!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting
in a similar<br>
fashion, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered
toward the<br>
plate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up
from the<br>
stands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet.</p>

<p>"Three pitched balls, Bob!" was the cry. "Strike him out! It's
all over but<br>
the shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe&mdash;he can't hit a
barn-door<br>
with a scatter-gun! One&mdash;two&mdash;three&mdash;out! Here's
where Ballard wins the<br>
Championship."</p>

<p>Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding
speed&mdash;twice the<br>
extremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble
Chautauqua salute<br>
at the ball he never even saw! Then&mdash;trying to "cut the
inside corner" with<br>
a fast inshoot, Forsythe's control wavered a trifle, and T.
Haviland Hicks,<br>
Jr., saw the ball streaking toward him! The paralyzed youth felt
like a man<br>
about to be shot by a burglar. He could feel the bail thud
against him,<br>
feel the terrific shock; and yet&mdash;a thought instinctively
flashed on him,<br>
he remembered, in a flash, what a tortured Monty Merriweather had
shouted,<br>
as he wobbled to bat:</p>

<p>"Get a base on balls, or&mdash;if you can't <i>make</i> a
hit&mdash;<i>get hit</i>!"</p>

<p>If he got hit&mdash;it meant a run forced in, as the bases
were full! That, in<br>
all probability, would give old Bannister the Championship, for
Ichabod was<br>
invincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all
this out, and<br>
weighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed.
The truth<br>
is, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and
that before<br>
he could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his
noble brow<br>
with a sickening impact.</p>

<p>All went black before him, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., pale and
limp, crumpled,<br>
and slid to the ground, senseless; therefore, he failed to hear
the roar<br>
from the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters
in the<br>
stands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved
later to be<br>
the winning run. He did not hear the Umpire shout: "Take your
base!"</p>

<p>  "What's the matter with our Hicks&mdash;he's all right!<br>
  What's the matter with our Hicks&mdash;he's all right!<br>
  He was never a star in the baseball game,<br>
  But he won the Championship just the same&mdash;<br>
  What's the matter with our Hicks-he's all right!"</p>

<p>"Honk! Honk!" Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, rattling up the
driveway,<br>
bearing back to the Bannister campus the victorious Gold and
Green nine,<br>
and the State Intercollegiate Baseball Championship, though the
hour was<br>
midnight, found every student on the grass before the Senior
Fence! Over<br>
three hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band,
and every<br>
known noise-making device, hailed "The Dove," as that unseaworthy
craft<br>
halted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top.
However, the<br>
terrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the
refrain<br>
from the exuberant players:</p>

<p>  "He was never a star in the baseball game&mdash;<br>
  But he won the Championship just the same&mdash;<br>
  What's the matter with our Hicks&mdash;he's all right!"</p>

<p>"Hicks did what?" shrieked Skeezicks McCracken, voicing
through a megaphone<br>
the sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed
the final<br>
score, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his
classic<br>
forehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of "The Dove,"
leaning<br>
against Butch Brewster.</p>

<p>"Fellows," shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to
his feet on the<br>
roof of the "jit."&mdash;"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the
game and the<br>
Championship! Listen&mdash;"</p>

<p>The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound,
as Captain<br>
Butch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the
game&mdash;Don Carterson's<br>
failure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors,
and&mdash;the wonderful<br>
manner in which the futile youth had won the Championship! As
little Skeet<br>
Wigglesworth and the five substitutes, who had returned that
afternoon, had<br>
spread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had
turned out to<br>
ridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they
learned that<br>
Hicks had been forced by his own mistake into the Big Game, and
had won it!<br>
Of course, his comrades knew it had been through no ability of
his, but the<br>
knowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great
speed, and<br>
had suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them.</p>

<p>"What's the matter with Hicks?" thundered Thor, he who at one
time would<br>
have called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine
had just<br>
chanted the response to this query.</p>

<p>"He's all right!" chorused the collegians, in ecstasy.</p>

<p>"Who's all right?" demanded John Thorwald, his blond head
towering over<br>
those of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about
this<br>
performance!</p>

<p>"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" came the shout, and the band fanfared,
while the<br>
exultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an
indescribable<br>
tumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the
ear-splitting<br>
din continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth,
and then<br>
it stilled so suddenly that the result was startling,
for&mdash;T. Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., swaying on his feet arose, and stood on the roof of
the "jit."</p>

<p>With that heart-warming Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic
countenance, the<br>
irrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, assumed a
Home-Run Baker<br>
batting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting
comrades:</p>

<p>"Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the
Championship for<br>
my Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score
a tie, the<br>
Ballard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the
run that<br>
won for old Ballard&mdash;now, if that wasn't
<i>headwork</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XIX</p>

<p>BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY</p>

<p>  "We have come to the close of our college days.<br>
  Golden campus years soon must end;<br>
  From Bannister we shall go our ways&mdash;<br>
  And friend shall part from friend!<br>
  On our Alma Mater now we gaze,<br>
  And our eyes are filled with tears;<br>
  For we've come to the close of our college days,<br>
  And the end of our campus years!"</p>

<p>Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., Bannister, '92; Yale, '96, and
Pittsburgh<br>
millionaire "Steel King," stood at the window of Thomas Haviland
Hicks,<br>
Jr.'s, room, his arm across the shoulders of that sunny-souled
Senior, his<br>
only son and heir. Father and son stood, gazing down at the
campus. On the<br>
Gym steps was a group of Seniors, singing songs of old Bannister,
songs<br>
tinged with sadness. Up to Hicks' windows, on the warm June:
night, drifted<br>
the 1916 Class Ode, to the beautiful tune, "A Perfect Day." Over
before the<br>
Science Hall, a crowd of joyous alumni laughed over narratives of
their<br>
campus escapades. Happy undergraduates, skylarking on the
campus,<br>
celebrated the end of study, and gazed with some awe at the
Seniors, in cap<br>
and gown, suddenly transformed into strange beings, instead of
old comrades<br>
and college-mates.</p>

<p>"'The close of our college days, and the end of our campus
years&mdash;!'"<br>
quoted Mr. Hicks, a mist before his eyes as he gazed at the
scene. "In a<br>
few days, Thomas, comes the final parting from old
Bannister&mdash;I know it<br>
will be hard, for I had to leave the dear old college, and also
Yale. But<br>
you have made a splendid record in your studies, you have been
one of<br>
the most popular fellows here, and&mdash;you have vastly pleased
your Dad, by<br>
winning your B in the high-jump."</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, last study-sprint was at an end, the
final Exams.<br>
of his Senior year had been passed with what is usually termed
flying<br>
colors; and to the whole-souled delight of the lovable youth, he
and little<br>
Theophilus Opperdyke, the Human Encyclopedia, had, as Hicks
chastely<br>
phrased it, "run a dead heat for the Valedictory!" So close had
their<br>
final averages been that the Faculty, after much consideration,
decided to<br>
announce at the Commencement exercises that the two Seniors had
tied for<br>
the highest collegiate honors, and everyone was satisfied with
the verdict.<br>
So, now it was all ended; the four years of study, athletics,
campus<br>
escapades, dormitory skylarking&mdash;the golden years of college
life, were<br>
about to end for 1919. Commencement would officially start on the
morrow,<br>
but tonight, in the Auditorium, would be held the annual
Athletic<br>
Association meeting, when those happy athletes who had won their
B during<br>
the year would have it presented, before the assembled
collegians, by<br>
one-time gridiron, track, and diamond heroes of old
Bannister.</p>

<p>And&mdash;the ecstatic Hicks would have his track B, his white
letter, won in<br>
the high-jump, thanks to Caesar Napoleon's assistance, awarded
him by his<br>
beloved Dad, the greatest all-round athlete that ever wore the
Gold and<br>
Green! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., <i>en route</i> to New
Haven and Yale in<br>
his private car, "Vulcan," had reached town that day, together
with other<br>
members of Bannister College, Class of '92. They, as did all the
old<br>
grads., promptly renewed past memories and associations by riding
up to<br>
College Hill in Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus&mdash;a youthful,
hilarious crowd of<br>
alumni. Former students, alumni, parents of graduating Seniors,
friends,<br>
sweethearts&mdash;every train would bring its quota. The campus
would again<br>
throb and pulsate with that perennial
quickening&mdash;Commencement. Three days<br>
of reunions, Class Day exercises, banquets, and other events,
then the<br>
final exercises, and&mdash;T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., would be an
alumnus!</p>

<p>"It's like Theophilus told Thor, last fall, Dad," said the
serious Hicks.<br>
"You know what Shakespeare said: 'This thou perceivest, which
makes thy<br>
love more strong; To love that well which thou must leave ere
long.' Now<br>
that I soon shall leave old Bannister, I&mdash;I wish I had
studied more, had<br>
done bigger things for my Alma Mater! And for you, Dad, too; I've
won a B,<br>
but perhaps, had I trained and exercised more, I might have
annexed another<br>
letter&mdash;still; hello, what's Butch hollering&mdash;?"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, his pachydermic frame draped in his gown,
and his<br>
mortar-board cap on his head, for the Seniors were required to
wear their<br>
regalia during Commencement week, was bellowing through a
megaphone, as he<br>
stood on the steps of Bannister Hall, and Mr. Hicks, with his
cheerful son,<br>
listened:</p>

<p>"Everybody&mdash;Seniors, Undergrads., Alumni&mdash;in the
Auditorium at eight sharp!<br>
We are going to give Mr. Hicks and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a
surprise<br>
party&mdash;don't miss the fun!"</p>

<p>"Now, just what does Butch mean, Dad?" queried the bewildered
Senior.<br>
"Something is in the wind. For two days, the fellows have had a
secret<br>
from me&mdash;they whisper and plot, and when I approach, loudly
talk of<br>
athletics, or Commencement! Say, Butch&mdash;Butch&mdash;I ain't
a-comin' tonight,<br>
unless you explain the mystery."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, you be, old sport!" roared Butch, from the campus,
employing the<br>
megaphone, "or you don't get your letter! Say, Hicks, one sweetly
solemn<br>
thought attacks me&mdash;old Bannister is puzzling <i>you</i>
with a mystery, instead<br>
of vice versa, as is usually the case."</p>

<p>"Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a
humorous, kindly<br>
smile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr.,
that<br>
greeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if
any of<br>
my old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the
Athletic<br>
Association meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I
can't imagine<br>
what this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm
us. It will<br>
surely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the
athletic letter<br>
you worked so hard to win."</p>

<p>When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm
stride<br>
echoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible
collegian, whom<br>
old Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth,
stood<br>
again by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first
time, he<br>
fully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really
is&mdash;to<br>
those who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With
almost the<br>
force of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt
to leave<br>
the well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from
those comrades<br>
of his golden years. In a day or so, he must part from good
Butch, Pudge,<br>
Beef, Ichabod, Monty, Roddy, Cherub, loyal little Theophilus and
all his<br>
classmates of '19, as well as from his firm friends of the
undergraduates.<br>
It would be the parting from the youths of his class that would
cost him<br>
the greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the
care-free<br>
campus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and
developed<br>
together, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a
love for<br>
their Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now
soon they<br>
must sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and
corridors, as<br>
Jack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done
before<br>
them.</p>

<p>Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be
alumni<br>
banquets at mid-year and Commencement, with glad class reunions
each year.<br>
They would come back for the big games of the football or
baseball season.<br>
But it would never be the same. The glad, care-free, golden years
of<br>
college life come but once, and they could never live them, as of
old.</p>

<p>"Caesar's Ghost!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., making a
dive for his<br>
beloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some
time he<br>
had been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must
maintain my<br>
blithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with
my musical<br>
ability. Here goes."</p>

<p>Assuming a striking pose, &agrave; la troubadour, at the open
window, T.<br>
Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his
splinter-structure<br>
enshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia
symbolic<br>
of dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a
ragtime<br>
accompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the
campus, as<br>
well as the wrath of 1919, he roared in his fog-horn voice:</p>

<p>  "Oh, I love for to live in the country!<br>
  And I love for to live on the farm!<br>
  I love for to wander in the grass-green fields&mdash;<br>
  Oh, a country life has the charm!<br>
  I love for to wander in the garden&mdash;<br>
  Down by the old haystack;<br>
  Where the pretty little chickens go 'Kick-Kack-Kackle!'<br>
  And the little docks go 'Quack! Quack!'"</p>

<p>From the Seniors on the Gym steps, their dignified song rudely
shattered by<br>
this rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the
unbounded<br>
delight of the alumni, watching the scene with interest, shouts,
jeers,<br>
whistles, and cat-calls greeted Hicks' minstrelsy:</p>

<p>"Tear off his cap and gown&mdash;he's a disgrace to '19!"</p>

<p>"Shades of Schumann-Heink&mdash;give that calf more rope!"</p>

<p>"Ye gods&mdash;how long must we endure&mdash;that?"</p>

<p>"Hicks, a Senior&mdash;nobody home&mdash;can that noise!"</p>

<p>"Shoot him at sunrise! Where's his Senior dignity?"</p>

<p>Big Butch Brewster, referring to his watch, bellowed through
the megaphone<br>
that it was nearly eight o'clock, and loudly suggested that they
forcibly<br>
terminate Hicks' saengerfest, and spare the town police force a
riot call<br>
to the campus, by transporting the pestiferous youth to the
Auditorium,<br>
for his "surprise party." His idea finding favor, he, with Beef
and Pudge,<br>
somewhat hampered by their gowns, lumbered up the stairway of
Bannister,<br>
and down the third-floor corridor to the offending Hicks'
boudoir, followed<br>
by a yelling, surging crowd of Seniors and underclassmen. They
invaded the<br>
graceless youth's room, much to the pretended alarm of that
torturesome<br>
collegian, who believed that the entire student-body of old
Bannister had<br>
foregathered to wreak vengeance on his devoted head.</p>

<p>"Mercy! Have a heart, fellows!" plead T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
helpless in<br>
the clutches of Butch, Beef, and Pudge, "I won't never do it no
more, no<br>
time! Say, this is too much&mdash;much too much&mdash;too much
much too much&mdash;I,<br>
Oh&mdash;<i>help&mdash;aid&mdash;succor&mdash;relief&mdash;assistance&mdash;"</i></p>

<p>"To the Auditorium with the wretch!" boomed Butch; and the
splinter-youth<br>
was borne aloft, on his broad shoulders, assisted by Beef
McNaughton. They<br>
transported the grinning Hicks down the corridor, while fifty
noisy youths,<br>
howling, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" tramped after them.
Downstairs<br>
and across the campus the hilarious procession marched, and into
the<br>
Auditorium, where the students and alumni were gathering for the
awarding<br>
of the athletic B. A thunderous shout went up, as T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
was carried to the stage and deposited in a chair.</p>

<p>"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks! We've got a surprise
for&mdash;Hicks!"</p>

<p>"Now, just what have I did to deserve all these?" grinned
that<br>
happy-go-lucky youth, puzzled, nevertheless. "Well, time will
tell, so all<br>
I can do is to possess my soul with impatience; old Bannister has
a mystery<br>
for me, this trip!"</p>

<p>In fifteen minutes, the Athletic Association meeting opened.
On the stage,<br>
beside its officers, were those athletes, including T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
who were to receive that coveted reward&mdash;their B, together
with a number of<br>
one-time famous Bannister gridiron, track, basketball, and
diamond stars.<br>
Each youth was to receive his monogram from some ex-athlete who
once wore<br>
the Gold and Green, and Hicks' beloved Dad&mdash;Bannister's
greatest hero&mdash;was<br>
to present his son with the letter.</p>

<p>There were speeches; the Athletic Association's President
explained the<br>
annual meeting, former Bannister students and athletic idols told
of past<br>
triumphs on Bannister Field; the football Championship banner,
and the<br>
baseball pennant were flaunted proudly, and each team-captain of
the year<br>
was called upon to talk. Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., a great
favorite<br>
on the campus, delivered a ringing speech, an appeal to the
undergraduates<br>
for clean living, and honorable sportsmanship, and then:</p>

<p>"We now come to the awarding of the athletic B," stated the
President. "The<br>
Secretary will call first the name of the athlete, and then the
alumnus who<br>
will present him with the letter. In the name of the Athletic
Association<br>
of old Bannister, I congratulate those fellows who are now to be
rewarded<br>
for their loyalty to their Alma Mater!"</p>

<p>Thrilled, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., watched his comrades, as
they responded<br>
to their names, and had the greatest glory, the B, placed in
their hands by<br>
past Bannister athletic heroes. Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty,
Ichabod, Biff,<br>
Hefty, Tug, Buster, Deacon Radford, Cherub, Don, Skeet, Thor, who
had<br>
won the hammer-throw. These, and many others, having earned the
award by<br>
playing in three-fourths of a season's games on the eleven or the
nine, or<br>
by winning a first place in some track event, stepped forward,
and were<br>
rewarded. Some, as good Butch, had gained their B many times, but
the fact<br>
that this was their last letter, made the occasion a sad one.
Every name<br>
was called but that of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and that perturbed
youth<br>
wondered at the omission, when the President spoke:</p>

<p>"The last name," he said, smiling, "is that of Thomas Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
and we are glad to have his father present the letter to his son,
as Mr.<br>
Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., is with us. However, we Bannister
fellows have<br>
prepared a surprise party for our lovable comrade, and I beg your
patience<br>
awhile, as I explain."</p>

<p>Graphically, Dad Pendleton described the wonderful all-round
athletic<br>
record made by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., while at old
Bannister, and<br>
sketched briefly but vividly his phenomenal record at Yale; he
told of<br>
Mr. Hicks' great ambition, for his only son, Thomas, to follow in
his<br>
footsteps&mdash;to be a star athlete, and shatter the marks made
by his Dad.<br>
Then he reminded the Bannister students of T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr.'s,<br>
athletic fiascos, hilarious and otherwise, of three years. He
explained how<br>
that cheery youth, grinning good-humoredly at his comrades'
jeers, had been<br>
in earnest, striving to realize his father's ambition. As the
spellbound<br>
collegians and grads. listened, Dad chronicled Hicks' dogged
persistence,<br>
and how he finally, in his Senior year, won his track B in the
high-jump.<br>
Then he described the biggest game of the past football season,
the contest<br>
that brought the Championship to old Bannister. The youths and
alumni heard<br>
how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., made a great sacrifice, for the
greater goal;<br>
how, after training faithfully in secret for a year, hoping
sometime to win<br>
a game for his Alma Mater, he cheerfully sacrificed his chance to
tie the<br>
score by a drop-kick, and became the pivotal part of a fake-kick
play that<br>
won for the Gold and Green.</p>

<p>"I have left Hicks' name until last," said Dad, with a smile,
"because<br>
tonight we have a surprise party for our sunny comrade, and for
his Dad. In<br>
the past, the eligibility rule, as regards the football and
baseball B, has<br>
been&mdash;an athlete must play on the 'Varsity in three-fourths
of the season's<br>
games. But, just before the Hamilton game, last fall, the
Advisory Board of<br>
the Athletic Association amended this rule.</p>

<p>"We decided to submit to the required two-thirds majority vote
of the<br>
students this plan, inasmuch as many athletes, toiling and
sacrificing all<br>
season for their college, never get to win their letter, yet
deserve<br>
that reward for their loyalty, we suggested that Bannister
imitate the<br>
universities. Anyone sent into the Yale-Harvard game, you know,
wins his<br>
H or Y. If one team is safely ahead, a lot of scrubs are run into
the<br>
scrimmage, to give them their letter. Therefore, we&mdash;the
Advisory<br>
Board&mdash;made this rule: 'Any athlete taking part, for any
period of time<br>
whatsoever, in the Ballard football or baseball game as a regular
member of<br>
the first team shall be eligible for his Gold or Green B. This
rule, upon<br>
approval of the students, to be effective from September 25!'</p>

<p>"Now," continued the Athletic Association President, "we
decided to keep<br>
this new ruling a secret until the present, for this reason: Many
good<br>
football and baseball players, not making the first teams, lack
the loyalty<br>
to stick on the scrubs, and others, not as brilliant, but with
more<br>
college spirit, give their best until the season's end. We knew
that if we<br>
announced this rule last fall, several slackers, who had quit the
squad,<br>
would come out again, just on the hope of getting sent into the
Ballard<br>
game, for their B. This would not be fair to those who loyally
stuck to the<br>
scrubs. So we did not announce the rule until the year closed,
and then a<br>
practically unanimous vote of the students made the rule
effective from<br>
September 25. So&mdash;all athletes who took part in the Ballard
football game,<br>
last fall, for any period of time whatsoever, are eligible for
the gold B,<br>
and the same, as regards the green letter, applies to the Ballard
baseball<br>
game this spring."</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., gasped. Slowly, the glorious truth
dawned on the<br>
happy-go-lucky Senior&mdash;he had been sent into the
Bannister-Ballard football<br>
game; the crucial and deciding play had turned on him, hence he
had won his<br>
gold letter! And thanks to his brilliant "mismanaging" of the
nine, losing<br>
shortstop Skeet Wigglesworth and the substitutes, he had played
the entire<br>
nine innings of the Ballard-Bannister baseball contest, and,
therefore,<br>
was eligible for his green B. In a dazed condition, he heard Dad
Pendleton<br>
saying:</p>

<p>"You remember how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was sent into the
Ballard<br>
game, and how the fake-play fooled Ballard, who believed he would
try<br>
a drop-kick? Well, knowing Hicks to be eligible for his football
B, we<br>
planned a surprise party. The Advisory Board kept the new rule a
secret,<br>
and not until this week was it voted on. Then, the required
two-thirds<br>
majority made it effective from last September&mdash;we managed
to have Hicks<br>
absent from the voting, and the fellows helped us with our
surprise! So<br>
instead of Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., presenting his son
with one<br>
B, that for track work, we are glad to hand him <i>three</i>
letters, one for<br>
football, one for baseball, and one for track, to give our own T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr. And, let me add, he can accept them with a clear
conscience, for<br>
when the rule was made by the Advisory Board, we had no idea that
Hicks<br>
would ever be eligible in football or baseball,"</p>

<p>A moment of silence, and then undergraduates and alumni,
thrilled at Dad<br>
Pendleton's announcement, arose in a body, and howled for T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad. Mr. Hicks, unable to speak,
silently<br>
placed the three monograms, gold, green, and white, in his son's
hands, and<br>
placed his own on the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, who
for once<br>
in his heedless career could not say a word!</p>

<p>"What's the matter with Hicks?" Big Butch Brewster roared, and
a terrific<br>
response sounded:</p>

<p>"He's all right! Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!"</p>

<p>For ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Then, regardless of the
fact that, in<br>
order to surprise Mr. Hicks and his son, other athletes, eligible
under the<br>
new rule, had yet to be presented with their B, the howling
youths swarmed<br>
on the stage, hoisted the grinning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and
his happy<br>
Dad to their shoulders, and started a wild parade around the
campus and the<br>
Quadrangle, singing:</p>

<p>"Here's to our own Hicks&mdash;drink it down! Drink it down!
Here's to our own<br>
Hicks&mdash;drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own
Hicks&mdash;When he<br>
starts a thing, he sticks&mdash;Drink it down&mdash;drink it
down&mdash;down! Down!<br>
Down!"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., aloft on the shoulders of his behemoth
class-mate,<br>
Butch Brewster, was deliriously happy. The surprise party of his
campus<br>
comrades was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize that
he had<br>
actually, by the Athletic Association ruling, won his three B's!
How glad<br>
his beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this bewildering
happiness.<br>
He had been so joyous, when his sort earned the track letter, but
to<br>
have him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports&mdash;it
was almost<br>
unbelievable! And, as Dad had said&mdash;there had been no
thought of Hicks when<br>
the Advisory Board made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to
suppose it was<br>
done just to award him his letter.</p>

<p>Then, Hicks remembered that rash vow, made at the end of his
Freshman year,<br>
a vow uttered with absolutely no other thought than a desire to
torment<br>
Butch Brewster, "Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall
have won<br>
my B in three branches of sport!" Never, not even for a moment,
had the<br>
happy-go-lucky youth believed that his wild prophecy would be
fulfilled,<br>
though he had pretended to be confident to tease his loyal
comrades; but<br>
now, at the very end of his campus days, just before he
graduated, his<br>
prediction had come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years
before had<br>
made his rash vow, saw its realization, and suddenly thrilled
with the<br>
knowledge that he had a golden opportunity to make Butch
indignant.</p>

<p>"Oh, I say, Butch," he drawled, nonchalantly, leaning down to
talk in<br>
Butch's ear, "do you recall that day, at the close of our
Freshman year,<br>
when I vowed to win my B in three branches of sport, ere I bade
farewell to<br>
old Bannister?"</p>

<p>"No, you don't get away with that!" exploded Butch Brewster,
indignantly,<br>
lowering his tantalizing classmate to terra firma. "Here, Beef,
Pudge,<br>
catch this wretch; he intends to swagger and say&mdash;"</p>

<p>But he was too late, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., dodging from
his grasp,<br>
imitated the celebrated Charley Chaplin strut, and satiated his
fun-loving<br>
soul. After waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth
realized an<br>
ambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled.</p>

<p>"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth he, gladsomely. "I told
you I'd win<br>
my three B's, Butch, old top, and&mdash;<i>ow</i>!&mdash;unhand
me, you villain, you<br>
<i>hurt</i>!"</p>

<p><br>
CHAPTER XX</p>

<p>"VALE, ALMA MATER!"</p>

<p>  "Oh, it was 'Ave, Alma Mater&mdash;'<br>
  We sang as Freshmen gay;<br>
  But it's 'Vale, Alma Mater' now<br>
  As our last farewells we say!"</p>

<p>"Honk-Honk! Br-r-rr-r-Bang! Honk-Monk! Br-rr-rr-r&mdash;"</p>

<p>T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., big Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton,
Pudge Langdon,<br>
Scoop Sawyer, and little Theophilus Opperdyke&mdash;late Seniors
of old<br>
Bannister&mdash;roosted atop of good old Dan Flannagan's famous
jitney-bus<br>
before Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for the 9.30 A. M.
express, but<br>
the "peace-ship" had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking,
wheezing,<br>
and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked,
together with<br>
the Claxon, operated by Skeet Wigglesworth, rudely interrupted
the Seniors'<br>
chant. A vociferous protest arose above the tumult:</p>

<p>"Oh, the little old Ford&mdash;rambled right along&mdash;like
heck!"</p>

<p>"Can that noise-we want to sing a last song, boys!"</p>

<p>"Chuck that engine, Dan, and put in an alarm clock
spring!"</p>

<p>"Christmas is coming, Dan-u-el&mdash;we've graduated you
know!"</p>

<p>"'The Dove' doesn't want us to leave old Bannister,
fellows!"</p>

<p>Commencement was ended. The night before, on the stage of
Alumni Hall,<br>
before a vast audience of old Bannister grads, undergraduates,
friends, and<br>
relatives of the Seniors, the Class of 1919 had received its
sheepskins,<br>
and the "Go forth, my children, and live!" of its Alma Mater. T,
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered
the<br>
Valedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the
lengthy<br>
Ichabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his
voice<br>
tremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time.
The Class<br>
Ode had been sung, the Class Shield unveiled, and
then&mdash;Hicks and his<br>
comrades of '19 were alumni!</p>

<p>It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There
had been<br>
scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to
come; after<br>
the memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.,<br>
and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party"
by the<br>
collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had
"sprinted with<br>
spiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed
event in<br>
bewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had
been f&ecirc;ted<br>
and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were
filled with<br>
visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad
reunions<br>
of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual
baseball<br>
game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond
stars, Class<br>
Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and
the last<br>
Class Supper; and, Commencement had come.</p>

<p>It was all ended now&mdash;the four happy, golden years of
campus life, of glad<br>
fellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T.
Haviland<br>
Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final
parting. The<br>
sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's
Commencement.<br>
Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed
farewells<br>
with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that
awakened<br>
Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the
few<br>
Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final
Beefsteak<br>
Bust downtown at Jerry's.</p>

<p>The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices
echoed in the<br>
dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths
who were<br>
leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and
little<br>
Theophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with
tears. Three<br>
times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was
forever, as<br>
collegians!</p>

<p>"I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop
Sawyer, as the<br>
jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of
Dan's<br>
cranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now&mdash;'We have
come to the end<br>
of our college days-golden campus years are at an end&mdash;!'
Say, Hicks, old<br>
man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?"</p>

<p>"Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a
fountain pen<br>
behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City
Editor, "In me<br>
you behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty&mdash;no, I
mean Irvin Cobb.<br>
I shall first serve my apprenticeship as a 'cub,' but ere many
years, I<br>
shall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to
get off."</p>

<p>"That is&mdash;If Dad says so!" chuckled Butch Brewster. "You
know, Hicks, it's<br>
the same old story&mdash;your father wants you to learn how to
own steel and<br>
iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince
Mr. Thomas<br>
Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than
Steel King!"</p>

<p>"Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of
old<br>
Bannister, as the perspiring" Dan Flannagan cranked away
futilely. "My Dad<br>
has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it
over last<br>
night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a
work that<br>
appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to
follow in his<br>
footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is
trying to<br>
get me started&mdash;read this:"</p>

<p>The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the
heading: "THE<br>
BALTIMORE CHRONICLE;" Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it,
read aloud:</p>

<p>"Baltimore, Maryland,</p>

<p>"June 12, 1919.</p>

<p>"DEAR OLD CLASSMATE:</p>

<p>"I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week,
but I can't<br>
leave the wheel of this ship, the Chronicle, for even a day. Give
my<br>
regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man.</p>

<p>"As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The Chronicle
usually takes<br>
on a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off
on<br>
vacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or
three<br>
summers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old
time's<br>
sake, I'll be glad to give your son a chance, and if he means
business,<br>
let him report for duty next Friday, at 1 P.M., to my office.<br>
Understand, Hicks, he must come here and fight his own way,
without any<br>
favor or special help from me. Were he the son of our
nation's<br>
President, I'd not treat him a whit better than the rest of the
Staff,<br>
so let him know that in advance. On the other hand, I'll develop
him all<br>
I can, and if he has the ability, the Chronicle long-room is the
place<br>
for him.</p>

<p>"Yours for old Yale,</p>

<p>"'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96,</p>

<p>"City Editor&mdash;THE CHRONICLE."</p>

<p>"Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch
finished the<br>
letter. "I am to take a summer as a cub on the Baltimore
Chronicle,<br>
making my own way, and living on my weekly salary, without
financial aid<br>
from anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen
reports that<br>
I've made good enough to be retained as a regular,
then&mdash;Yours truly for<br>
the Fourth Estate. If I fail, then I follow a course charted out
by Mr.<br>
Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.! So, it is up to me to make
good&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You&mdash;you will make good, Hicks," quavered Theophilus,
whose faith in the<br>
shadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for
I am<br>
going to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want
to become<br>
an expert stenographer, and we'll be together,"</p>

<p>"It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his
huge bulk<br>
atop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the
world, to<br>
make good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet.
We may<br>
accept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for
President<br>
of the U.S.A., provided John McGraw or Connie Mack do not sign us
up.<br>
However&mdash;"</p>

<p>At that moment, the engine of old Dan Flannagan's battered
"Dove" consented<br>
to hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to
transport<br>
Hicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled,
"All<br>
aboard!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene.</p>

<p>"We're off!" shrieked Skeet Wigglesworth, stowed away below,
as the<br>
jitney-bus moved down the driveway. "Farewell, dear old
Bannister! Run<br>
slow, Dan, we want to gaze on the campus as long as we can."</p>

<p>The youths were silent, as the 'bus rolled slowly down the
driveway and<br>
under the Memorial Arch, old Dan, sympathizing with them, and
finding he<br>
could make the express by a safe margin, allowing the jitney to
flutter<br>
along at reduced speed. From its top, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his
vision<br>
blurred with tears, gazed back with his class-mates. He saw the
campus, its<br>
grass green, with stately old elms bordering the walks, and the
golden<br>
June sunshine bathing everything in a soft radiance. He beheld
the college<br>
buildings&mdash;the Gym., the Science Hall, the Administration
Building,<br>
Recitation Hall, the ivy-covered Library; the white Chapel, and
the four<br>
dorms., Creighton, Smithson, Nordyke, Bannister. One year he had
spent in<br>
each, and every year had been one of happiness, of glad
comradeship.<br>
He could see Bannister Field, the scene of his many hilarious
athletic<br>
fiascos.</p>

<p>And now he was leaving it all&mdash;had come to the end of his
college course,<br>
and before him lay Life, with its stern realities, its grim
obstacles, and<br>
hard struggles; ended were the golden campus days, the gay
skylarking<br>
in the dorms. Gone forever were the joyous nights of entertaining
his<br>
comrades, of Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's. Silenced was his
beloved<br>
banjo, and no more would his saengerfests bother old
Bannister.</p>

<p>A turn in the street, and the campus could not be seen. As the
last vision<br>
of their Alma Mater vanished, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., smiling
sunnily<br>
through his tear-blurred eyes, gazed at his comrades of old
'19&mdash;</p>

<p>"Say, fellows&mdash;" he grinned, though his voice was shaky,
"let's&mdash;let's<br>
start in next September, and&mdash;do it all over again!"</p>







<pre>





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