T. Haviland Hicks Senior | Page 7

the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan warmed up
to his vision, "you don't want much, Coach! Why don't you ask Ted
Coy, the famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the
position for you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a fair sort
of dropkicker, to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old
Bannister! I get you, Coach--you want a fellow about the size of the
Lusitania, made of structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who
will guarantee to advance the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money
refunded!
"Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a chap who
will play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field, while
the rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while imbibing
pink tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals that
instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange with
other teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the
scores shall be."
"I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular youth.
"We should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not one
within his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of

talking seriously about it Now--"
"Now--" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach, you just
hand me the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules,
and I'll try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never
hesitate to consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to
cast aside my own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my
mental assistance, or--"
"Hicks, are you crazy?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved to excitement,
despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like that do not
grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was Ole Skjarsen, in George
Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely fictitious. We know
you have accomplished some great things by your 'inspirations,' but as
for this--"
"Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth, swaggering
toward the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that
aroused Butch to wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit
a human juggernaut like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to
round up, but, I'll have an inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old
eleven, your problem will be solved, and you will have a team that can
play fifty-seven varieties of football. Raw revolver, my comrades."
When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered gracefully out
of the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with
suppressed wrath, stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon
Radford a full minute; then he grinned,
"That--Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire to laugh.
"What a ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means
the problem goes unsolved, for though I confess he is brilliant, and his
so-called 'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to
rushing out and lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back--bah!"
Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green squad
climbed the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning
signal drill, their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in

radiant vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse--the chords of
the banjo, and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm
September air:
"Oh, father and mother pay all the bills (plunk-plunk) And we have all
the fun (plunkety-plunk) With the money that we spend in college life!"
Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled down the
bluff, and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious
silence, like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp
Bannister seemed deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as
cheerily as ever, but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable
loneliness, a sense of tremendous loss.
"Hicks!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering the
stillness. "Hicks--ahoy! I say, Hicks--"
Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the cook-tent
toward them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning
deprecatingly at the squad:
"Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib me
fo' bits to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo'
Philadelphy! Heah am a letter what he lef'--"
Big Butch Brewster, to whom the billet-doux was addressed in T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and
while the squad listened, he read aloud the message left by that
sunny-souled youth;
"DEAR BUTCH:
"Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on! I'm
called away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow
it in the room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next