Part 18 (2/2)

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

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

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

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

”'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.' 'While there's life, there's hope.' 'Don't give up the s.h.i.+p.' 'Fight to the last ditch.'

'In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as ,'”

quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. ”As long as there is an infinitesimal fraction of a chance left, I repeat, just leave it to Hicks!”

”You haven't got a chance in the world!” Butch a.s.sured him, consolingly.

”You did manage to get into one football game, for a minute, and you were a 'Varsity player that long. By sticking to it, you have won your track B in the high-jump, thanks to your gra.s.s-hopper build, and we rejoice at your reward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be sensible, and cease this ridiculous talk of winning your B insports, when you can see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely impossible--”

It was not that Butch. Brewster did nothis sunny cla.s.smate to win his B in three sports, or that he would have failed to rejoice at Hicks'

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

”We never know, old top!” chuckled Hicks, though he washe could never fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of a season on both the football and the baseball teams, ”Something may show up at the last minute, and--”

At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus below, for the enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the ”Honk!

Honk!” of a Claxon was heard, ”Here he comes! All together, fellows--the Bannister yell for the nine--then for good old Dan Flannagan!”

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

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

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

”Let me check you fellows off,” said Hicks, importantly, peering into the jitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling expenses.

”Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch Brewster, Skeet Wigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane, Don Carterson; that is the regular nine, and are you five subs, present? O. K.

Skeet, climb out here a second.”

Little Skeet Wigglesworth, the brilliant short-stop, climbed out with exceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he saluted in military fas.h.i.+on. The team manager, consulting a timetable of the C. N.

&.Q. railroad, fixed him with a stern look.

”Skeet,” he spoke distinctly, ”now, --myself and eight regulars,in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for Philadelphia, and stay there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street Station for Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. Now I have a lot of unused mileage on the C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement. So, heed: you want to goBaltimore, to see your parents. You take the 9.20 P. M.

express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the morning, to Eastminster, on the C. N, & Q.--it's the only road. And take the five subs with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy bomb-proof dome?”

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

”Let's see.” T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books to the shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable. ”Oh, yes--you leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at Eastminster at noon;to make it in time for the game, so remember the hour--7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable in your pocket.”

In a few moments, the team and subst.i.tutes had been jammed into old Dan Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentrated their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning a la Ches.h.i.+re cat, climbed atop of ”The Dove,” which old Dan was having as much trouble to start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late Lord Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a Louisville Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at the irrepressible youth:

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