From the grinning Dan Flannagan’s jitney-bus,
like a Russian bear charging from its den, lumbered
a being whose enormous bulk fairly astounded the speechless
youths; Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Tug Cardiff,
Bunch Bingham, Buster Brown, and Pudge Langdon were
popularly regarded as the last word in behemoths,
but this “Thor” dwarfed them, towered above
them like a Colossus over Lilliputians. He was
a youth, and yet a veritable Hercules. Over six
feet he stood, with a massive head, covered with tousled
white hair, a powerful neck, broad shoulders, a vast
chest. To a judge of athletes, he would tip the
scales at a hundred and ninety pounds, all solid muscle,
for that superb physique held not an ounce of superfluous
flesh.
“Hicks,” said Head Coach Patrick Henry
Corridan, gazing at the mountain of muscle, “if
size means anything, you have brought old
Bannister an entire football squad! What splendid
material to train for the Big Games, why—he
will be irresistible!”
QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER’S LETTER
“I didn’t raise my </i>Ford</i>
to be a jitney—
To run the streets, and stay out late
at night!
Who dares to put a jitney sign, upon it—
And send my peace-ship out
for fares to fight?”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., standing by his open window
at 3 P. M. one afternoon a week after his sensational
return to Bannister College, with the “Prodigious
Prodigy” in tow, indulged in the soul-satisfying
pastime of twanging his banjo, and roaring, in his
subterranean voice, a parody on “I Didn’t
Raise My Boy to be a Soldier.” It was actually
the first Caruso-like outburst of the pestersome youth
that year, but his saengerfest brought vociferous
howls of protest from campus and dormitories:
“</i>Bow-wow-wow</i>! The Grand Opery season
is starting!”
“Sing some records for a talking-machine company,
Hicks!”
“Kill that tom-cat! Listen to the back-fence
musicale!”
“Say, Hicks—we’ll take your
word for that noise!”
On the Gym. steps, loafing a few moments before jogging
out to Bannister Field for a strenuous scrimmage under
the personal supervision of Slave-Driver Corridan,
the Gold and Green football squad had gathered.
It was from these stalwart gridiron gladiators that
the caustic criticism of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.’s,
vocal atrocities emanated, and the imitation of a
mournful hound by “Ichabod,” the skyscraping
Senior, was indeed phenomenal. Added to the howls,
whistles, jeers, and shouts of the squad, were like
condemnations from other collegians, sky-larking on
the campus, or in the dorms.
“At that,” grinned Captain Butch Brewster
happily, “it surely makes me feel jubilant to
hear Hicks’ foghorn voice shattering the echoes,
with his banjo strumming disturbing the peace—for
which offense it shall soon be arrested. We can
truly say that old Bannister is now officially opened
for another year, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., has
performed his annual rite—”
