Part 22 (1/2)
”Can that noise-we want to sing a last song, boys!”
”Chuck that engine, Dan, and put in an alarm clock spring!”
”Christmas is coming, Dan-u-el--we've graduated you know!”
”'The Dove' doesn't want us to leave old Bannister, fellows!”
Commencement was ended. The night before, on the stage of Alumni Hall, before a vast audience of old Bannister grads, undergraduates, friends, and relatives of the Seniors, the Cla.s.s of 1919 had received its sheepskins, and the ”Go forth, my children, and live!” of its Alma Mater. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered the Valedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the lengthy Ichabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his voice tremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time. The Cla.s.s Ode had been sung, the Cla.s.s s.h.i.+eld unveiled, and then--Hicks and his comrades of '19 were alumni!
It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There had been scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to come; after the memorable Athletic a.s.sociation meeting, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful ”surprise party” by the collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had ”sprinted with spiked shoes,” as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed event in bewildering fas.h.i.+on. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had been feted and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were filled with visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad reunions of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual baseball game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond stars, Cla.s.s Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and the last Cla.s.s Supper; and, Commencement had come.
It was all ended now--the four happy, golden years of campus life, of glad fellows.h.i.+p with each other; like those who had gone before, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final parting. The sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's Commencement.
Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed farewells with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the undercla.s.smen, with that awakened Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the few Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final Beefsteak Bust downtown at Jerry's.
The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices echoed in the dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths who were leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and little Theophilus Opperd.y.k.e's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with tears. Three times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was forever, as collegians!
”I don't care if we miss the old train!” declared Scoop Sawyer, as the jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of Dan's cranking. ”Just think, fellows, it's all over now--'We have come to the end of our college days-golden campus years are at an end--!' Say, Hicks, old man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?”
”Journalism!” announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a fountain pen behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City Editor, ”In me you behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty--no, I mean Irvin Cobb.
I shall first serve my apprentices.h.i.+p as a 'cub,' but ere many years, I shall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to get off.”
”That is--If Dad says so!” chuckled Butch Brewster. ”You know, Hicks, it's the same old story--your father wants you to learn how to own steel and iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than Steel King!”
”Nay, nay-say not so!” responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of old Bannister, as the perspiring” Dan Flannagan cranked away futilely. ”My Dad has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it over last night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a work that appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to follow in his footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is trying to get me started--read this:”
The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the heading: ”THE BALTIMORE CHRONICLE;” Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it, read aloud:
”Baltimore, Maryland,
”June 12, 1919.
”DEAR OLD CLa.s.sMATE:
”I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week, but I can't leave the wheel of this s.h.i.+p, the Chronicle, for even a day. Give my regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man.