T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., aloft on the shoulders of
his behemoth class-mate, Butch Brewster, was deliriously
happy. The surprise party of his campus comrades
was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize
that he had actually, by the Athletic Association
ruling, won his three B’s! How glad his
beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this
bewildering happiness. He had been so joyous,
when his sort earned the track letter, but to have
him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports—it
was almost unbelievable! And, as Dad had said—there
had been no thought of Hicks when the Advisory Board
made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to suppose it
was done just to award him his letter.
Then, Hicks remembered that rash vow, made at the
end of his Freshman year, a vow uttered with absolutely
no other thought than a desire to torment Butch Brewster,
“Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall
have won my B in three branches of sport!” Never,
not even for a moment, had the happy-go-lucky youth
believed that his wild prophecy would be fulfilled,
though he had pretended to be confident to tease his
loyal comrades; but now, at the very end of his campus
days, just before he graduated, his prediction had
come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years
before had made his rash vow, saw its realization,
and suddenly thrilled with the knowledge that he had
a golden opportunity to make Butch indignant.
“Oh, I say, Butch,” he drawled, nonchalantly,
leaning down to talk in Butch’s ear, “do
you recall that day, at the close of our Freshman year,
when I vowed to win my B in three branches of sport,
ere I bade farewell to old Bannister?”
“No, you don’t get away with that!”
exploded Butch Brewster, indignantly, lowering his
tantalizing classmate to terra firma. “Here,
Beef, Pudge, catch this wretch; he intends to swagger
and say—”
But he was too late, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., dodging
from his grasp, imitated the celebrated Charley Chaplin
strut, and satiated his fun-loving soul. After
waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth realized
an ambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled.
“Oh, just leave it to Hicks!” quoth he,
gladsomely. “I told you I’d win my
three B’s, Butch, old top, and—ow!—unhand
me, you villain, you hurt!”
CHAPTER XX
“VALE, ALMA MATER!”
“Oh, it was ‘</i>Ave</i>,
Alma Mater—’
We sang as Freshmen gay;
But it’s ‘</i>Vale</i>, Alma
Mater’ now
As our last farewells we say!”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., big Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton,
Pudge Langdon, Scoop Sawyer, and little Theophilus
Opperdyke—late Seniors of old Bannister—roosted
atop of good old Dan Flannagan’s famous jitney-bus
before Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for
the 9.30 A. M. express, but the “peace-ship”
had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking, wheezing,
and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked,
together with the Claxon, operated by Skeet Wigglesworth,
rudely interrupted the Seniors’ chant.
A vociferous protest arose above the tumult:
