T. Haviland Hicks Senior | Page 6

out for that nail, you inhuman elephant--"
Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had effectively
terminated it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting
comrade by the scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the
window-ledge, into the grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan
and Deacon Radford. Strenuous objection was registered, both by the
futilely struggling Hicks, and a nail projecting from the sill, which
caught in the Palm Beach trousers and ripped a long rent in them;
fortunately, Hicks' anatomy escaped a similar fate.
"A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like a
contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello, what have
we here?--the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the Prophet!
I bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No, that's
a mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up
yon hill to thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock
of aeroplanes and Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is
shooting Russian caviare at--"
"Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's
indignation, "you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by
your marvelous 'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating
searchlight of your colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister
must solve, to produce a championship eleven!"
It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a baffling
situation, or what the French call an "impasse" presented itself, to state
with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" On most
occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a swaggering
braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster wrathful,
the happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the
problem was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then

trusted to his needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the
Bannister campus well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing
question by an inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of
a satisfactory solution seemed dead.
For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader, James
Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a
bulwark at right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and
organized a Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister
football by refusing to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless
their demands were granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote
him, smashed the Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy,
Futilely racking his brain for a counter-attack, having blithely told the
troubled campus, "Just leave it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and
then the inspiration had come, By The Big Brotherhood of Bannister
giving the upper-classmen full government over Freshmen, a scheme
successfully carried through, the peril had been thwarted.
"I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat irrelevantly,
considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said--"
"'--Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon Radford,
humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my steel
mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.' Say, Hicks,
seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan
should do."
While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the
paralyzed oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny
youth knew football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team
worked out with success, and his suggestions were always weighed
carefully by the football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid
scarf at the correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the
sunshiny Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and
gave heed to the Coach.
[Illustration A: 'Here's the problem, Hicks']

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