Band leading them, the Gold and Green students, alumni,
Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around Bannister
Field. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound
around the gridiron, everyone who possessed a hat
flinging it over the cross-bars. The victorious
eleven, were borne by the maddened youths—Captain
Butch, Pudge, Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty,
Buster, Bunch, and—T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try
a field-goal, had been taken completely off guard.
Surprised by the daring attempt, it had succeeded
with ease, and the final score was Bannister—10;
Ballard—6!
“At last! At last!” boomed Butch
Brewster, to whom this was the happiest day of his
life. “The Championship at last. My
great ambition is realized. Old Bannister has
won the Championship, and I was the Team Captain!”
After a time, when “the shouting and the tumult
died,” or at least quieted somewhat, T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and looking down
from the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his
Dad. Mr. Hicks’ strong face was aglow with
pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son’s
hand again and again.
“I understand, Thomas!” he said, and his
words were reward enough for the youth. “It
was a big sacrifice, but you made it gladly—I
know! You gave up personal glory for the greater
goal, and—old Bannister won the Championship!
You helped win, for the winning play turned on you.
It was splendid, my son, and I am proud of you!
No matter if your sacrifice is never known to the
fellows, </i>I</i> understand.”
A moment of silence on Hicks’ part; then the
sunny youth grinned at his beloved Dad, as he responded
blithesomely: “I’m Pollyanna, that
old Bannister and </i>I</i> won out, Dad!”
HICKS HAS A “HUNCH”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores,
human beings, and—</i>Freshmen</i>!
Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic High-Jump
Champion, holder of the World’s record, and winner
at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition National
Championships, in his event, is about to high jump!
The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks
is the Herculean athlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe.”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded
in that flamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and
insane colors, that inevitably attended his athletic
efforts, shaming Joseph’s coat-of-many-colors,
gazed despairingly at his good friend, Butch Brewster,
and Track-Coach Brannigan, with a Cheshire cat grin
on his cherubic countenance.
“It’s no use, Butch, it’s no use!”
quoth he, with ludicrous indignation, as big Tug Cardiff,
the behemoth shot-putter, through a huge megaphone
imitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement
to the hilarious crowd of collegians in the stand.
“Old Bannister will never take my
athletic endeavors seriously. Here I have won
two second places, and a third, in the high-jump this
season, and have a splendid show to annex first
place and my track B in the Intercollegiates, but—hear
them!”
