“‘Oh, just leave it to Hicks!’ Remember
this, Butch, before I graduate from old Bannister,
I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!”
Butch had snorted incredulously. To win the football
or the baseball B, the gold letter for the former,
and the green one for the latter sport, an athlete
had to play in three-fourths of the season’s
games, on the “’Varsity”; to gain
the white track letter, one had to win a first place
in some event, in a regularly scheduled track meet
with another team. And now, Butch’s skepticism
seemed confirmed, for at the start of his last year
at college, Hicks had not annexed a single B, though
he bade fair to corral one in the spring in the high-jump.
“Heigh-ho!” chuckled Hicks, at length.
“Here I am threatening to get gloomy again!
Well I’ll sure train hard to win my track letter,
and that seems all I can do! I’d like to
win my three B’s, and jeer at Butch, next June,
but—it can’t be did!
I shall now twang my trusty banjo, and drive dull
care away.”
Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the
corridor, and of Butch Brewster’s request for
quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out his beloved
banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared:
“Fifteen men sat on the dead man’s
chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the—”
“</i>Hicks</i>!” Big Butch Brewster crashed
across the corridor, both doors being open. “Is
this how you maintain a quiet? I’m going
to call Thor over and make him sit down on you!
Why, you—”
“Have mercy!” plead the grinning Hicks.
“Honest, Butch, I didn’t go to bust up
the league—I—I heard you talk
about your B’s, and I got to thinking that </i>I</i>
have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here’s
proof—read these letters I was perusing—”
Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in
the May of their Freshman year; Hicks had received
it before the class track meet, and, as chronicled,
he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it impelled
the splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister
believed him to enter them for fun. The letter
was post-marked “Pittsburgh, Pa.,” and
it read:
Your last term’s report gratified me immensely,
and I am proud of your class record, and scholastic
achievements. Pitch in, and lead your class,
and make your Dad happy.
But there is something else of which I want to write,
Thomas. As you must know, it has always been
a cause of keen regret to me that you have never seemed
to care for athletics of any sort; you appear to be
too indolent and ease-loving to sacrifice, or to endure
the hardships of training. I suppose it is because
of my athletic record both at Bannister and at old
Yale that I am so eager to see you become a star;
in fact, it is my life’s most cherished ambition
to have you become as famous as your Dad.
