“Bust the old banjo over his head, Butch!”—“Sing
to him, Beef—that’s an awful
revenge on Hicks!”—“Tie him
to the rock—make him miss his breakfast!”
“Hicks,” growled Butch, eyeing his sunny
comrade ominously, “you ought to be tarred and
feathered, and shot at sunrise! When Bannister
opens, you will be a Senior, and you’ll disgrace
’19’s dignity! This is a sample of
what we have endured at college for three years, and
the worst is yet to come! You have committed
the awful atrocity of awakening Camp Bannister at
five A. M. with your ridiculous imitation, of a Western
desperado. To dampen your ardor, we will chuck
you into the cold lake—just as you are!”
“Help! Assistance! Aid! Succor!”
shouted the happy-go-lucky Hicks, as the behemoth
Butch and Beef seized him, swinging him aloft with
ludicrous ease, “Police! Fire! Murder!
Take care of my banjo, Monty. Tell all the fellows
at old Bannister I died game, and plant Hair-Trigger
Bill with his boots on! </i>Oooo</i>, Beef, Butch,
have a heart, that water is cold!”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., relieved of banjo and revolvers,
but his shadow-like structure still clad in shoes,
trousers, with imitation “chaps” and flamboyant
red shirt, with his classic head still adorned by
the sombrero, was swung back and forth by the two bulky
football stars—once—twice—
“</i>Three</i>—Let him go!”
shouted Butch Brewster, and like a falling meteor,
the splinter-like youth, who had already fallen from
grace, shot from the rock, head-first, disappearing
with a spectacular splash in the icy waters of Lake
Conowingo. Knowing Hicks to be as much at home
in the water as a fish in an aquarium, the hilarious
squad on shore prepared to jeer his reappearance above
the water; however, their program was interrupted by
old Hinky-Dink, who stood in the cook-tent doorway,
belaboring a dishpan lustily with a soup-ladle, and
shouting:
“Breakfus’ am served; fus’ an’
las’ call fo’ breakfus; all dem what am
late don’t git no breakfus!”
“Breakfast!” exclaimed Monty Merriweather,
who, with Roddy, Butch, and Beef, remained on the
rock, despite the summons of the Cookee. “Hurry
up, Hicks, I’m ravenous. Say, Butch, suppose
all that Western regalia makes him water-logged; he’s
a terribly long while down there! Didn’t
he look like the hero in a moving-picture feature?
We’ve given him the water-cure, but he will
do that same stunt over again. That sunny-souled
Hicks is simply Incorrigible!”
A second later, the grinning, cheery countenance of
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot above the water, and
simultaneously with his appearance, just as though
he had been chanting below the surface, for the entertainment
of the finny denizens of Lake Conowingo, the irrepressible
youth roared:
“A hotter shootin’ match Last
Chance never saw—
But Sure-Shot Pete was some quicker on
the draw!”
