T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., peering cautiously from the
Gym. basement doorway, in quest of the tardy Theophilus,
who was to have accompanied him on a clandestine journey
to Bannister Field, obeyed the summons. Bewildered,
and gradually guessing the explanation from the shivering
little boner’s alarmed expression, the gladsome
youth approached the stern Butch Brewster, who was
about to condemn him for his silence. “Don’t
be angry with me, Hicks, please!”
pled Theophilus, pathetically fearful that he had
offended his comrade, “I—I just had
to tell, for it was positively your last chance, and—and
old Bannister needs your sure drop-kicking! I
never promised not to tell. You never made me
give my word, so—”
“It was Theophilus’ duty to tell!”
spoke Butch, hiding a grin, for the grind was so frightened,
“and yours, Hicks, knowing as you do how we need
you, with Thor hurt! You graceless wretch, you
aren’t usually so like ye modest violet!
Why didn’t you inform us, then swagger and say,
’Oh, just leave it to Hicks, he’ll win
the game with a drop-kick?’ Now, you come with
me, and I’ll look over your samples. If
you’ve got the goods, it’s highly probable
you’ll get your chance, in the Ballard game;
and I’m glad, old man, for your
sake. I know what it would mean, if you win it!
But—now that the ‘mystery’
is solved, what’s that about your being a ‘Class
Kid,’ of Yale, ’96?”
“That’s easy!” grinned T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., his arm across Theophilus’ shoulders,
“I was the first boy born to any member of Yale,
’96; it is the custom of classes graduating
at Yale to call such a baby the class kid! Naturally,
the members of old Eli, Class of 1896, are vastly interested
in me. Hence, my Dad wrote they’d be tickled
if I won a big game for Bannister with a field-goal!”
A moment of silence, Theophilus Opperdyke, gathering
from Hicks’ arm, across his shoulders, that
the cheery youth was not so awfully wrathful at his
base betrayal, adjusted his big-rimmed spectacles,
and stared owlishly at Hicks.
“Hicks, you—you are not angry?”
he quavered. “You are not sorry. I—I
told—”
“</i>Sorry</i>?” quoth T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., “Class Kid,” of Yale, ’96, with
a Cheshire cat grin, “sorry?
I should say not—I wanted it
to be known to Butch, and Coach Corridan, but I got
all shivery when I tried to confess, and I—couldn’t!
Nay, Theophilus, you faithful friend, I’m so
glad, old man, that beside yours truly,
the celebrated Pollyanna resembles Niobe, weeping
for her lost children.”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a cumbersome Gold
and Green football blanket, and crouching on the side-line,
like some historic Indian, felt a thrill shake his
splinter-structure, as the yell of “old Eli”
rolled from the stand, across Bannister Field.
In the midst of the Gold and Green flags and pennants,
fluttering in the section assigned the Bannister cohorts,
he gazed at a big banner of Blue, with white lettering:
