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T. Haviland Hicks, Senior

by James Raymond Elderdice · English · Gutenberg #8550 · 383,002 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: T. Haviland Hicks, Senior

Author: James Raymond Elderdice


        
Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8550]
                Most recently updated: August 22, 2014

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
        Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK T. HAVILAND HICKS, SENIOR ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team










T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR

BY J. RAYMOND ELDERDICE



TO MASTER LLOYD ELDERDICE



CONTENTS


     I. HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN
    II. "LEAVE IT TO HICKS"
   III. HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY
    IV. QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER
     V. HICKS MAKES A DECISION
    VI. HICKS MAKES A SPEECH
   VII. HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY
  VIII. COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN
    IX. THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK
     X. THOR'S AWAKENING
    XI. "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"
   XII. THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS
  XIII. HICKS--CLASS KID--YALE '96
   XIV. THE GREATER GOAL
    XV. HICKS HAS A "HUNCH"
   XVI. THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON
  XVII. HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY
 XVIII. T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.'S HEADWORK
   XIX. BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY
    XX. "VALE, ALMA MATER!"






T. HAVILAND HICKS, SENIOR




CHAPTER I

HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN


  "Oh, a bold, bad man was Chuckwalla Bill--
  An' he lived in a shanty on Tom-cat Hill;
  Ten notches on the six-gun he toted on his hip--
  For he'd sent ten buckos on the One-way Trip!"

Big Butch Brewster, captain and full-back of the Bannister College football
squad, his behemoth bulk swathed in heavy blankets and crowded into a
narrow bunk, shifted his vast tonnage restlessly. He was dreaming of the
wild and woolly West, and like a six-reel Western drama thrown on the
screen in a moving-picture show, he visioned in his slumbers a vivid and
spectacular panorama.

The first lurid scene was the Deserted Limited held up at a tank station in
the great Mojave Desert by a lone, masked bandit who winged the dreaming
Butch in the shoulder, the latter being an express guard who resisted.
After the desperado, Two-Gun Steve, had forced the engineer to run the
train back to a siding, he had ordered Butch to vamoose. Quite naturally,
then, the collegian next found himself staggering across the arid expanse,
until at last, half dead from a burning thirst, seeking vainly for a
water-hole, the vast stretch of sandy, sagebrush-studded wastes shimmered
into a gorgeous ocean of sparkling blue waters. Then, as he collapsed on
the scorching-hot sand, helpless, the cool water so near, suddenly the
scene shifted.

In quick and vivid succession, Butch Brewster beheld a burning stockade
besieged by howling Indians, and a frontier town shot up by recklessly
riding cowboys on a jamboree. Then he became a tenderfoot, badgered by
yelling, shooting roisterers, and later a sheriff, bravely leading his
posse to a sensational battle with that same Two-Gun Steve and his gang,
entrenched in a rock-bound mountain defile.

Finally, he stood with hands above his head in company with other
passengers of the Sagebrush Stagecoach, while a huge, red-shirted Westerner
with a fierce black mustache and a six-shooter in each hand belching
bullets at Butch's dancing feet, roared out huskily: "Oh--I'm a ring-tailed
roarer (_bang-bang_)! I'm a rip-snortin', high-falutin', loop-the-loopin'
_bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I'm wild an' woolly, an' full o' fleas, an' hard
to curry below the knees--I'm a roarin' wild-cat, an' it's my night to howl
(_bang-bang_)! Yip-yip-yip-_yeee_!"

Big Butch, opening his eyes and starting up, gazed about him in sheer
surprise; for an instant, in that state of bewilderment that comes with
sudden awakening, he almost believed himself in a Western ranch bunkhouse,
and that some happy cowboy outside roared a grotesque ballad. He gazed at
the interior of a rough shack built of pine boards, with bunks constructed
in tiers on both sides. There were figures in them--Western cowboys,
perhaps. Then it seemed, somehow, that the voice drifting from the outside
was strangely familiar. Back at Bannister College, where he remembered he
had gone in the dim and dusty past, he had often heard that same fog-horn
voice, roaring songs of a less blood-curdling character, and accompanied by
that same banjo twanging, which tortured the campus, and bothered would-be
studious youths!

"I'm not in a moving-picture show," Butch informed himself, as he donned
khaki trousers, football sweater, and heavy shoes. "I'm not on a Western
ranch, either. I'm in the sleep-shack of Camp Bannister, the football
training-camp of the Bannister College squad! Those fellows in the bunks
are not cowboys, Indians, and bandits--they are my teammates! I did dream
stuff that would shame a Wild West scenario, but I understand it all
now--my dreams were influenced by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!"

At that dramatic moment, to substantiate his statement, the raucous voice,
accompanied by resounding chords strummed on a banjo, sounded again. The
vocal and instrumental chaos was frequently punctured by revolver reports,
as the torturesome Caruso outside roared:

  "Oh, Chuckwalla Bill thought life was sweet--
  Till he met up with Sure-shot Pete;
  A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw--
  But Sure-shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!"

The pachydermic Butch, fully dressed--and awake, raging in his wrath like
an active volcano, glanced at his watch, and discovered that it was exactly
five A.M.! Intensely pacified by this knowledge, he lumbered toward the
bunkhouse door and flung it open, determined to crush the pestersome youth
who thus unfeelingly disturbed the quietude of Camp Bannister at such an
unearthly hour! However, his grim purpose was temporarily thwarted--before
him spread a beautiful panorama, a vast canvas painted in rich hues and
colors, that indescribably charming masterpiece of nature, entitled dawn.

Butch, gazing from the bunkhouse doorway toward the pebbly shore of the
placid lake stretching out for two miles before him, beheld Old Sol,
blood-red, peeping above the wooded hills on the far-off, opposite strand
of Lake Conowingo; the luminous orb laid a flaming pathway across the
shimmering waters, and golden bars of light, like gleaming fingers
outstretched, fell athwart the tall pines that towered on the high bluff
back of the camp. The glorious sunshine, succeeding a flood of rosy color,
inundated the scene; it bathed in a gorgeous radiance the early autumn
woods, it illumined the bunkhouse, and another rude shanty known to the
squad as the grub-shack, it poured down on old Hinky-Dink, the ancient
negro cookee, setting the breakfast tables just outside the canvas
cook-tent.

"Deed, cross mah heart, Mistah Butch," grinned old Hinky-Dink, seeing, as
a motion picture director would express it, "Wrath registered on the
countenance" of Butch Brewster, "Ah done tole dat young Hicks dat a bird
what cain't sing an' will sing mus' be made _not_ to sing! Ah done info'med
him dat yo'-all was layin' fo' him, cause he done bus' up yo' sleep!"

A jay bird, a flashing bit of vivid blue, shot from a tall pine, jeering
shrilly at Butch; out on the lake, a trout leaped above the water for an
infinitesimal second, its shining scales gleaming in the sunshine. From the
cook-tent, where old Hinky-Dink grumbled at the frying pan, the appetizing
odor of frying fish assailed the football captain, softening his wrath.

High above the shanties, on a tall flagpole made from a straight young
pine, floated a big gold and green banner, its bright colors gleaming in
the sunshine; it bore the words:

    CAMP BANNISTER
    TRAINING CAMP
    THE FOOTBALL SQUAD
    BANNISTER COLLEGE

Head Coach Corridan, smashing the precedent that had made former Gold and
Green squads have their training camp at Bannister College, had brought
the Varsity and second-string stars to this camp on the shore of Lake
Conowingo, in the Pennsylvania mountains. For two weeks, one of which had
passed, they were to train at Camp Bannister, until college officially
opened; swimming, hunting, cross-country runs, and a healthful outdoor
existence would give the athletes superb condition, and daily scrimmages on
the level field back of the bluff rounded out an eleven that promised to be
the strongest in Bannister history.

As big, good-natured Butch Brewster stood in the bunkhouse doorway, his
wrath at the pestiferous Hicks forgotten, in his rapture at the glorious
dawn, he saw something that showed why his dreams had been of the wild
West! The expression of indignation, however, yielded to one of humorous
affection, as he gazed toward the shore.

"I can't be angry with Hicks!" breathed Butch, beholding a spectacle more
impressive than dawn. "So, the irrepressible wretch has Coach Corridan's
revolvers, used in starting our training sprints, and a lot of blank
cartridges! He is giving an imitation of a Western bad man. No wonder
I dreamed of Indians, cowboys, and hold-ups; I'll have revenge on the
heartless villain, routing me out at five!"

He saw a massive rock, rising thirty feet in air, its sheer walls scaled
only by a rope-ladder the collegians had rigged up on one side. Atop of
"Lookout There!" as the campers humorously designated the rock, roosted
a youth who possessed the colossal structure of a splinter, and whose
cherubic countenance was decorated with a Cheshire cat grin. Quite unaware
that his riotous efforts had brought out the wrathful Butch Brewster,
the youthful narrator of Chuckwalla Bill's stormy career continued his
excessively noisy séance.

His costume was strictly in character with his song. He wore a sombrero,
picked up on his Exposition trip the past vacation, a lurid red
outing-shirt, and he had wrapped a blanket around each locomotive limb to
imitate a cowboy's chaps. Two revolvers suspended from a loosened belt, _à
la_ wild West, and as Butch stared, the embryo Western bad man twanged a
banjo noisily, and roared the concluding stanza of his desperado hero's
history:

  "Said Chuckwalla Bill, 'Oh, boys, plant me
  With my boots on--on the wide prair-eee'--
  Where the coyotes howl, they planted Bill--
  An' so far as _I_ know, he's sleepin' there still!"

"Here they come," grinned Butch, hearing a tumult in the bunkhouse, and
a confused Babel of voices. "Hicks has awakened the camp. Now watch the
fellows wreak summary vengeance on his toothpick frame!"

From the sleep-shack, aroused at that weird hour by the clamor of the
irrepressible youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., tumbled others of the squad,
in varying stages of _déshabille_; big Beef McNaughton, right half-back,
Roddy Perkins, the Titian-haired right-end, Pudge Langdon, a ponderous
tackle, and Monty Merriweather, a clean-cut, aggressive candidate for left
end. From within, other wrathy youths howled vociferous protests at their
tormentor:

"Stop that noise; put your muzzle on again, Hicks!"--"Where's the fire?
Say, Hicks, muffle your exhaust!"--"Say, Coach, must we endure this day and
night?"

The bunkhouse fairly erupted angry collegians, boiling out like bees
swarming from a disturbed hive; Hefty Hollingsworth, the Herculean
center-rush. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, Bunch Bingham, Tug Cardiff,
and Buster Brown, three huge last-year substitutes; second-string players,
Don Carterson, Cherub Challoner, Skeet Wigglesworth, and Scoop Sawyer. A
dozen others, from sheer laziness, hugged their bunks devotedly, despite
the terrific turmoil outside.

"It's a disgrace, a _howling_ shame!" exploded Beef, his elephantine frame
swathed in blankets to conceal a lack of vestiture, "Last night, until
midnight, that graceless wretch roosted on 'Lookout There' and because the
glorious moonlight made him sentimental and slushy, he twanged his banjo
and warbled such mushy stuff as 'My Love is young and fair. My Love has
golden hair!' When does he expect us to sleep?"

"He doesn't!" explained Monty Merriweather, with succinct lucidity,
grinning at his comrades. "Say, fellows, you know how Hicks dreads a cold
shower-bath; well, some of you rage at him from the other side of the rock,
while _I_ climb up the rope-ladder and close with him! Then some of you
prehistoric pachyderms ascend, and we'll chuck that pestersome insect into
the cold, cold lake--"

"Done!" chuckled Butch Brewster, delightedly. So, while he, Beef
McNaughton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and others beguiled the jeering Hicks,
expressing in dynamic, red-hot sentences their exact opinions of his
perfidy, the athletic Monty imitated a mountain-scaling Italian soldier.
He climbed stealthily up the swaying rope-ladder; nearer and nearer to the
unsuspecting youth he crept, while the cherubic Hicks, to tantalize the
group below, again burst forth:

"_Whoop-eee_! I'm a bold, _bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I got ten notches on my
ole six-gun--I'm a _killer_. I wings a man before breakfast every day! I
got a private burying-ground, where I plants my victims (_bang-bang_)!
Yip-yip-yip-_yee_! Oh, I'm a--_Ouch_, Monty--leggo me--Oh, I'll be
good--why didn't I pull that rope-ladder up here? Don't bust my
banjo--don't let Butch get me--"

Monty Merriweather, reaching the flat top of the rock, had courageously
flung himself, without regard for the Bad Man's desperate record, on the
startled Hicks, whose first thought was for his beloved banjo. While he
held the blithesome tormentor helpless, Butch, Beef, and Roddy Perkins
climbed the rope-ladder, and the grinning youth was soon in their clutches,
while the collegians below, like a Roman, mob aroused by the oratory of Mr.
Mark Antony, howled for revenge:

"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! _Oooo_, 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--

"_Three_--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!"






CHAPTER II

"LEAVE IT TO HICKS"


Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, known to toil-tortured Gold and Green
football squads from time immemorial as "the Slave-Driver," Captain Butch
Brewster, and serious Deacon Radford, the star Bannister quarter-back,
foregathered around a table in the Camp Bannister grub-shack.

It was ten-thirty of the morning whose dawn T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had
blithesomely hailed with an impromptu musicale and saengerfest on "Lookout
There!" rock, and the football triumvirate were in togs. The squad, over in
the bunkhouse, noisily donned gridiron armor for the morning practice, and
the pestiferous Hicks was maintaining a mysterious silence, somewhere.

This football trio, on whom rested the responsibility of rounding out a
winning Bannister eleven, vastly resembled a coterie of German generals,
back of the trenches, studying a war-map. Before them was spread what
seemed to be a large checker-board. It was a miniature gridiron, with the
chalk-marks painted in white; there were thumb-tacks stuck here and there,
some with flat tops painted green and gold, others, representing the enemy,
were solid red. The former had names printed on them, Butch, Roddy,
Beef, and so on. By sticking these on the board, the three directors of
Bannister's football destiny could work out new plays, and originate
possible winning lineups.

"We've just got to win the State Championship this season, Coach!" declared
Butch, banging the table emphatically, as he stated a self-evident fact.
"It's my last year for Old Bannister, and so with Beef and Pudge. I'll give
every ounce of strength I possess In every game, to make that pennant float
over Bannister Field!"

"Bannister _will_ win it!" vowed the behemoth Beef, his good-natured
countenance grim, and his jaw set. "Not for five years has a Gold and Green
team won the Championship--not since the year before Butch and I were
Freshmen! We've got a splendid bunch of material to build a team with,
and--"

"Our biggest problem is this," spoke Coach Corridan, as with a phenomenal
display of strength he took Beef McNaughton between thumb and forefinger
and placed him on the field. "We must strengthen both line and backfield,
for we lost by graduation Babe McCabe, Heavy Hughes, and Jack Merritt. Now,
to replace that lost power--"

Just then, from directly beneath the open window by which they had
gathered, like the midnight serenade of a romantic lover, sounded
the well-known foghorn voice of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as to the
plunkety-plunk of a banjo accompaniment, he warbled melodiously:

  "Gone are the days--I used to spend with Car-o-li-nah!
  She had the sunshine in her laughter (_plunkety-plunk_)
  Just like that state they named her after--"

"_Hicks_!" announced Butch, stealthily approaching the window, and
beckoning his companions. "Easy--look at him, Deke, there he is, Hicks,
the irrepressible! We might as well attempt to stab a rhinocerous to death
with a humming-bird's feather, as to try and reform _him_!"

Arrayed like a lily of the field, a model of sartorial splendor, Hicks
occupied a chair beneath the window, tilted back gracefully against the
side of the grub-shack. He had decked his splinter-structure with a
dazzling Palm Beach suit, and a glorious pink silk shirt, off-set by a
lurid scarf. A Panama hat decorated his head, white Oxfords and flamboyant
hosiery adorned his feet, while the inevitable Cheshire cat grin beautified
his cherubic countenance. A latest "best seller" was propped on his knees,
and as he perused its thrilling pages, he carelessly strummed his beloved
banjo, and in stentorian tones chanted a sentimental ballad:

  "Gone are the days--the golden days I'm dreaming of,
  I think I hear her softly calling (plunkety-plunk)
  'Will you be back? Will you be back? (plunk-plunk)
  Back to the Car-o-li-nah you love?'"(plunkety-plunk),

For three golden campus years T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had gayly pursued the
even tenor (or _basso_, since he possessed a foghorn, subterranean voice)
of his Bannister career. He absolutely refused to take life seriously, and
he was forever arousing the wrath--mostly pretended, for no one could be
really angry with the genial youth--of his comrades, by twanging his banjo
and roaring out rollicking ballads at all hours. He was never so happy
as when entertaining a crowd of happy students in his cozy quarters,
or escorting a Hicks' Personally Conducted expedition downtown for a
Beef-Steak Bust, at his expense, at Jerry's, the rendezvous of hungry
collegians.

However, despite his butterfly existence, Hicks, possessed of a
scintillating mind, always set the scholastic pace for 1919, by means of
occasional study-sprints, as he characteristically called them. But when it
came to helping his beloved Dad realize a long-cherished ambition to behold
his only son and heir shatter Hicks, Sr.'s, celebrated athletic records, it
was a different story. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ever since he committed
the farcical _faux pas_ of running the wrong way with the pigskin in
the Freshman-Sophomore football contest of his first year, had been a
super-colossal athletic joke at old Bannister.

His record to date, beside that reverse touchdown that won for the
Sophomores, consisted of scoring a home-run with the bases congested, on a
strike-out; of smashing hurdles and cross-bars on the track; endangering
his heedless career with the shot and hammer; and making a ridiculous farce
of every event he entered, to the vast hilarity of the students, who, with
the exception of Butch Brewster, had no idea his ridiculous efforts were in
earnest. In the high-jump, however, Hicks had given considerable promise,
which to date the grasshopper collegian had failed to keep.

Hicks, the lovable, impulsive, and irrepressible, with his invariable sunny
disposition, his generous nature, and his democratic, loyal comradeship
for everybody, was loved by old Bannister. The students forgave him his
pestersome ways, his frequent torturing of them with banjo-twanging and
rollicking ballads. His classmates idolized him, Juniors and Sophomores
were his true friends, and entering Freshmen always regarded this
happy-go-lucky youth as a demigod of the campus.

Big Butch Brewster, who was forever futilely lecturing the heedless Hicks,
thrust his head from the grub-shack window, fought down a grin, and sternly
arraigned his graceless comrade:

"Hicks, you frivolous, campus-cluttering, infinitesimal atom of nothing,
you labor under the insane delusion that college life is a continuous
vaudeville show. You absolutely refuse to take your Bannister years
seriously, you banjo-thumping, pillow-punishing, campus-torturing
nonentity. You will never grasp the splendid opportunities within your
reach! You have no ambition but to strum that banjo, roar ridiculous songs,
fuss up like a tailor's dummy, and pester your comrades, or drag them down
to Jerry's for the eats! You won't be earnest, you Human Cipher, Before you
entered Bannister, you formed your ideas and ideals of campus life from
colored posters, moving-pictures, magazine stories, and stage dramas like
'Brown of Harvard'; you have surely lived up, or down, to those ideals,
you--"

"Them's harsh words, Butch!" joyously responded the grinning Hicks,
unchastened, for he knew good Butch Brewster would not, for a fortune, have
him forsake his care-free nature. "Thou loyal comrade of my happy campus
years, what wouldst thou of me?--have me don sack-cloth and ashes, strike
'The Funeral March' on my golden lyre, and cry out in anguish, _'ai! ai_!
'Nay, nay, a couple of nays; college years are all too brief; hence I
shall, by my own original process, extract from them all the sunshine and
happiness possible, and by my wonderful musical and vocal powers, bring joy
to my colleagues, who--_Ouch_, Butch--look out for that nail, you inhuman
elephant--"

Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had effectively terminated
it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting comrade by the
scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the window-ledge, into the
grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan and Deacon Radford.
Strenuous objection was registered, both by the futilely struggling Hicks,
and a nail projecting from the sill, which caught in the Palm Beach
trousers and ripped a long rent in them; fortunately, Hicks' anatomy
escaped a similar fate.

"A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like a
contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello, what have we
here?--the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the Prophet! I
bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No, that's a
mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up yon hill to
thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock of aeroplanes and
Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is shooting Russian caviare
at--"

"Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's indignation,
"you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by your marvelous
'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating searchlight of your
colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister must solve, to produce
a championship eleven!"

It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a baffling
situation, or what the French call an "_impasse_" presented itself, to
state with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" On
most occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a swaggering
braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster wrathful, the
happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the problem
was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then trusted to his
needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the Bannister campus
well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing question by an
inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of a satisfactory
solution seemed dead.

For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader, James
Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a bulwark at
right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and organized a
Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister football by refusing
to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless their demands were
granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote him, smashed the
Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy, Futilely racking his brain
for a counter-attack, having blithely told the troubled campus, "Just leave
it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and then the inspiration had come, By
The Big Brotherhood of Bannister giving the upper-classmen full government
over Freshmen, a scheme successfully carried through, the peril had been
thwarted.

"I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat irrelevantly,
considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said--"

"'--Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon Radford,
humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my steel
mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.' Say, Hicks,
seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan should
do."

While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the paralyzed
oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny youth knew
football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team worked out
with success, and his suggestions were always weighed carefully by the
football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid scarf at the
correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the sunshiny
Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and gave heed to
the Coach.

[Illustration A: 'Here's the problem, Hicks']

"Here's the problem, Hicks," said the Slave-Driver, indicating the
Bannister eleven, represented by the gold and green topped thumb-tacks.
"From the line we lost Babe, a tackle, Heavy, a guard, and Jack Merritt, a
star end. Now, Monty Merriweather will hold down Jack's place O. K.--I can
shift Beef from right half to guard, and put Butch at right-half, while
Bunch Bingham can take care of Babe's old berth at tackle. But I have no
one to shoot in at full-back, when I shift Butch; you see, Hicks, my plan
is to build an eleven that can execute old-time, line-smashing football,
and up-to-date open play as well; I want fast ends and halves, with a
snappy quarter, and I have them; also, the backfield is heavy enough for
line-bucking, if I get my beefy full-back. I must have a big, heavy, fast
player, a giant who simply can't be stopped when he hits the line. With
Butch and Biff at halves, Deke at quarter. Roddy and Monty ends, and my
heavy line--why, a ponderous, irresistible Hercules at full-back will--"

"Say!" grinned the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan warmed up to
his vision, "you don't want _much_, Coach! Why don't you ask Ted Coy, the
famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the position for
you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a _fair_ sort of dropkicker,
to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old Bannister! I get
you, Coach--you want a fellow about the size of the _Lusitania,_ made of
structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who will guarantee to advance
the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money refunded!

"Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a chap who will
play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field, while the
rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while imbibing pink
tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals that
instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange with other
teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the scores
shall be."

"I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular youth. "We
should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not one within
his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of talking
seriously about it Now--"

"Now--" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach, you just hand me
the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules, and I'll
try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never hesitate to
consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to cast aside my
own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my mental assistance,
or--"

"Hicks, are you _crazy_?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved to excitement,
despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like that do
not grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was _Ole Skjarsen_, in
George Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely fictitious. We
know you have accomplished some great things by your 'inspirations,' but as
for this--"

"Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth, swaggering toward
the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that aroused Butch to
wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit a human juggernaut
like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to round up, but, I'll have an
inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old eleven, your problem will be
solved, and you will have a team that can play fifty-seven varieties of
football. _Raw revolver_, my comrades."

When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered gracefully out of
the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with suppressed wrath,
stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon Radford a full minute;
then he grinned,

"That--Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire to laugh. "What a
ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means the problem
goes unsolved, for though I confess he _is_ brilliant, and his so-called
'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to rushing out and
lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back--_bah_!"

Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green squad climbed
the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning signal drill,
their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in radiant
vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse--the chords of the banjo,
and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm September air:

  "Oh, father and mother pay all the bills (_plunk-plunk_)
  And we have all the fun (_plunkety-plunk_)
  With the money that we spend in college life!"

Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled down the bluff,
and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious silence,
like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp Bannister seemed
deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as cheerily as ever,
but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable loneliness, a sense
of tremendous loss.

"_Hicks_!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering the
stillness. "Hicks--ahoy! I say, Hicks--"

Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the cook-tent toward
them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning deprecatingly
at the squad:

"Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib me fo' bits
to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo' Philadelphy!
Heah am a letter what he lef'--"

Big Butch Brewster, to whom the _billet-doux_ was addressed in T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and while the squad
listened, he read aloud the message left by that sunny-souled youth;


"DEAR BUTCH:

"Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on! I'm called
away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow it in the
room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next century.
Give my _adieux_ to Coach Corridan and the squad.

"Yours truthfully,

"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.

"P.S.: Tell Coach Corridan he should worry--_not_! I'm hot on the trail of
a fullback that will make Ted Coy at his coyest look like the paralyzed
inmate of an old man's home. Just leave it to Hicks!"






CHAPTER III

HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY


  "Has anybody here seen our Hicks?
  _H-i-c-k-s_!
  Has anybody here seen our Hicks?
  If you've seen him, answer, 'Yes!'
  He's tall and slim, and he wears a grin,
  And his banjo-thumping is a sin.
  Has _anybody_ here seen our Hicks--
  Hicks--and his old banjo?"

Captain Butch Brewster, big Beef McNaughton, the Phillyloo Bird--that
flamingo-like Senior--and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous boner
whom Bannister College called the "Human Encyclopedia," roosted on the
sacred Senior Fence, between the Gymnasium and the Administration Building.
A gloomy silence, like a somber mantle, enshrouded the four members of '19,
as they listened to a rollicking parody on, "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?"
chanted by some Juniors in Nordyke, with T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the
object of solicitude. Nor did the melancholy youths respond to the queries
hurled down at them from the dormitories' windows:

"Say, Butch Brewster, where is that crazy Hicks?"

"Beef, ain't our Hicks a-comin' back here no more?"

"Hello, Phillyloo, any word from our Hicks yet?"

"Ahoy there, Theophilus, where is Hicks, the Missing?"

The seven-thirty study-hour bell was ringing, its mellow chimes sounding
from the Administration Building tower. From the windows of the dormitories
gleams of light shot athwart the darkness. Over in Creighton Hall, the
abode of Freshmen, a silence reigned, but in Smithson, where the Sophomores
roomed, Nordyke, home of the Juniors, and Bannister, haunt of the solemn
Seniors, pandemonium obtained. In these dorm. rooms and corridors that
night, just as in the class-rooms, or on the campus, and Bannister Field
that day, there was but one topic. Whenever two students met, came the
query inevitable:

"Where is Hicks? Isn't Hicks coming back this year?"

The Freshmen, bewildered, quite naturally, at the furore made over
one missing student, asked, "Who is Hicks?" Seeking information from
upper-classmen they received innumerable tales, in the nature of Iliad
and Odyssey, concerning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; they heard of his campus
exploits, such as his originating The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, and
they laughed, at recitals of his athletic fiascos. They were told of his
inevitably sunny nature, his loyal comradeship, his generous disposition,
and as a result, the Freshmen, too, became intensely interested in the
all-important campus problem: "Where is T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.?"

Little Theophilus Opperdyke, whose big-rimmed spectacles, high forehead,
and bushy hair gave him an intensely owlish appearance, sighed
tremendously, stared solemnly at his class-mates, and became the author of
a most astounding statement: "I--I can't study," quavered the "boner,"
he whose tender devotion to his books was a campus tradition, and whose
loyalty to his firm friend, the blithesome Hicks, was as that of Damon
to Pythias, "I just _can't_ care about my studies, without Hicks here!
Somehow, it--it doesn't seem like old times, on the campus."

"I should say not!" ejaculated the Phillyloo Bird, sepulchrally, his
string-bean length draped with extreme decorative effect on the Senior
Fence, "Life at old Bannister without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is about as
interesting as 'The Annual Report of the Department of Agriculture!'
Prexy thought he started the college on its Marathon three days ago, but
Bannister will not be officially opened until Hicks stands by his window
some study-hour, twangs that old banjo, and shatters the campus quietude
with a ballad roared in his fog-horn voice!"

Big Butch Brewster, enshrouded in melancholy, instinctively gazed up at the
windows of the room T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had reserved on the third floor
of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., as if he fully expected to behold
the missing youth materialize. There, in lonely grandeur, waited the
sunny-souled Senior's vast aggregation of trunks, crates, and packing
boxes, together with Hicks' baggage brought down from Camp Bannister. The
bothersome banjo had disappeared at the same time the youthful Caruso
imitated the Arabs, folding his figurative tent, and stealing away.

"It's a strange paradox," boomed Butch Brewster, finding that no Hicks
appeared at the window, "but for three years Bannister has stormed at Hicks
for bothering us during study-hour, or at midnight, with his saengerfest,
and now I'd give anything to see him up there, and to hear that banjo, and
his songs! It is just as if the sun doesn't shine on the campus, when T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., is away!"

Bannister College had been running for three days "on one cylinder," as
the Phillyloo Bird quaintly phrased it, on account of the gladsome Hicks'
mysterious absence. Not a word had the Head Coach, Captain Brewster, the
football squad, or any of the collegians received from the blithesome
youth, since the _billet-doux_ he left with old Hinky-Dink at Camp
Bannister. Old students, returning to the campus for another golden year,
invaded Hicks' room in Bannister, ready to enjoy the cozy den of that
jolly Senior, but they encountered silence and desolation. No one had the
slightest knowledge of where the cheery Hicks could be; they missed his
singing and banjo strumming, his pestersome ways, his cheerful good nature,
his cozy quarters always open house to all, and his Hicks' Personally
Conducted tours downtown to Jerry's for those celebrated Beefsteak Busts.

A telegram to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in Pittsburgh, sent by the
worried Butch Brewster, had brought this concise response:

No knowledge of Thomas' whereabouts. He should be at Bannister.

"Queer," reflected Beef McNaughton, shifting his bulk on the protesting
fence. "We know Hicks will be back, for all his luggage is stowed away
in his room, and we are sure he is giving us all this mystery just for a
joke--he dearly loves to arrange a sensational and dramatic climax--but
we just can't get used to his not being on the campus. When Theophilus
Opperdyke can't study, it's high time the S.O.S. signal was sent to T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr."

"That is not the worst of it," growled Captain Butch Brewster, his arm
across little Theophilus' shoulders. "The football squad misses Hicks,
Beef. For the past two seasons he has sat at the training-table, his
invariable good-humor, his Cheshire cat grin, and his sunny ways have kept
the fellows in fine mental trim so they haven't worried over the game. But
now, just as soon as he left Camp Bannister, the barometer of their spirits
went down to zero and every meal at training-table is a funeral. Coach
Corridan can't inject any pep into the scrimmages, and he says if Hicks
doesn't return soon, Bannister's chances of the Championship are gone."

"As Theophilus says," responded the gloomy Beef, "we just can't get used
to his not being here. We miss his good-nature, his sunny smile, the jolly
crowds in his cozy quarters--why, the campus is talking of nothing but
Hicks--and I don't know what Bannister will do after Hicks graduates--shut
down, I suppose!"

"Well, you know," grinned the Phillyloo Bird, his cadaverous structure
humped over like a turkey on the roost, "our Hicks hath sallied forth on
the trail of a full-back, a Hercules who will smash the other elevens to
infinitesimal smithereens! He told the squad to just leave it to Hicks,
so don't be surprised if he is making flying trips to Yale, Harvard, and
Princeton, striving to corral some embryo Ted Coy. Remember how Hicks often
fulfills his rash prophecies!"

"A Herculean full-back--_Bah_!" fleered Butch, for all the campus knew of
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, extremely rash vow to unearth a "phenom." "The
truth of it is, fellows. Hicks has failed to locate such a wonder as Coach
Corridac outlined, for there ain't no such animal! He doesn't like to
come back to Bannister without having made good his promise, without that
Gargantuan giant he vowed to round up for the Gold and Green."

Just then, as if to substantiate Butch's jeering statement, a youth wearing
the uniform and cap of The Western Union Telegraph Company and
advancing across the campus at that terrific speed always exhibited by
messenger-boys, appeared in the offing. Periscoping the four Seniors on the
fence, he navigated his course accordingly and pulling a yellow envelope
from his cap, he queried, in charmingly chaste English:

"Say, kin youse tell me where to find a feller name o' Brewster, wot's
cap'n o' de football bunch?"

"Right here, Little Nemo," advised the Phillyloo Bird, solemnly. "Hast thou
any messages from New York for me? John D. Rockefeller promised to wire me
whether or not to purchase war-stocks."

The Phillyloo Bird, at this stage of his monologue, was interrupted by a
yell that would have caused a full-blooded Choctaw Indian to turn pale.
This came from good Butch Brewster, who, having signed for the message,
and imagined all manner of catastrophes, from world-wars, earthquakes,
pestilence and loss of wealth, down to bad news from Hicks, after the
fashion of those receiving telegrams but seldom, had scanned the yellow
slip. Never before, or afterward, not even when the luckless Butch fell in
love, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., assisted Cupid, did the pachydermic Butch
act so insanely as on this occasion.

"Whoop-_eee! Yee-ow! Wow-wow-wow_!" howled the supposedly solemn Senior,
tumbling from the Senior fence and rolling on the campus like a decapitated
rooster. "Hip-hip-_hooray_! Ring the bell, Beef, get the fellows out, have
the Band ready, Oh, where is Coach Corridan? Read it, Beef, Theophilus,
Phillyloo. Oh, Hicks is _coming_ and he's got--"

It is possible that little Theophilus, who firmly believed that big Butch
Brewster had gone emotionally insane, would have fled for help, but at that
juncture members of the Gold and Green football squad, with Head Coach
Patrick Henry Corridan, appeared, marching funereally toward the Gym.,
where a signal quiz was booked for seven forty-five. Beholding the
paralyzing spectacle of their captain apparently in paroxysms on the grass,
Hefty Hollingsworth, Biff Pemberton, Monty Merriweather and Pudge Langdon
hurled themselves on his tonnage, while Roddy Perkins sat on his head, and
wrested the telegram from his grasp,

"Call up Matteawan," shouted Roddy, unfolding the slip, "Butch is getting
barmy in the dome, he--Oh, Coach, fellows--_great joy_! Just heed."

James Roderick Perkins, as excited as a Senator about to make his first
speech, read aloud the telegram, on which the heedless Hicks had triple
rates:


"BUTCH:

"Coming 8.30 P. M. express today. Discharge entire eleven--got whole team
in one. Knock out partitions between five rooms. Make space for Thor, the
Prodigious Prodigy! Leave it to Hicks!

"T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR."


"_Hicks is coming_!" shrieked the Phillyloo Bird, soaring down from the
Senior Fence like a condor. "He will be here in less than an hour; he sent
this wire just before his train left Philadelphia. Money is no object, when
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wants to mystify old Bannister."

"'Discharge entire eleven,'" quoth Butch Brewster, having somewhat subdued
his frenzy. "'Got whole team in one--knock out partitions between _five_
rooms--make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy!' Now, what in the world
has that lunatical Hicks done? Who can Thor be?"

Tug Cardiff, Buster Brown, Bunch Bingham, Scoop Sawyer, little Skeet
Wigglesworth, Don Carterson, and Cherub Challoner, not having given their
brawn to the subduing of Butch, now kindly donated their brain, in all
manner of weird suggestions. According to their various surmises, T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., had lured the Strong Man away from Barnum and Bailey's
Circus, had in some way reincarnated the mythical Norse god, Thor, had
hired some Greco-Roman wrestler, or by other devices too numerous and
ridiculous to mention, had produced a full-back according to Coach
Corridan's blue-prints and specifications.

Big Beef McNaughton, seized with an inspiration that supplied
locomotive-power to his huge frame, lumbered into the Gym., and soon
appeared with monster megaphones, used in "rooting" for Gold and Green
teams, which he handed out to his comrades. Then the riotous squad, at his
suggestion, sprinted for the Quad., that inner quadrangle or court around
which the four class dormitories, forming the sides of a square, were
built; anyone desiring an audience could be sure of it here, since the
collegians in all four dorms. could rush to the Quadrangle side and look
down from the windows. In the Quadrangle, under the brilliant arc-lights,
the exuberant youths paused,

"One--two--three--let 'er go!" boomed Beef, and the football squad, in
_basso profundo_, aided by the Phillyloo Bird's uncertain tenor, and
Theophilus' quavery treble, roared in a tremendous vocal explosion that
shook the dormitories:

"Hicks is coming! Hicks is coming! Everybody out on the campus! Get ready
to welcome our T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! Hicks is bringing Bannister's
full-back--a _Prodigious Prodigy_!"

Windows rattled up, heads were thrust out, a fusillade of questions
bombarded the squad in the Quadrangle below; from the three upper-class
dormitories erupted hordes of howling, shouting youths, and soon the Quad.
was filled with a singing, yelling, madly happy crowd. The Bannister Band,
that famous campus musical organization, following a time-honored habit of
playing on every possible occasion, gladsomely tuned up and soon the
noise was deafening, while study-hour, as prescribed by the Faculty, was
forgotten.

"Everybody on the campus, at once!" Butch Brewster, Master-of-Ceremonies,
boomed through his megaphone, having aroused excitement to the highest
pitch by reading Hicks' telegram. "Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus will soon
heave into sight. Let the Band blare, make a _big noise_. Let's show Hicks
how glad we are to have him back to old Bannister."

It is historically certain that Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte returning from Jena
and Austerlitz, Mr. Julius Caesar, home at Rome from his Conquests, or Mr.
Alexander the Great (Conqueror, not National League pitcher) never received
such a welcome as did T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., from his Bannister comrades
that night. To the excited students, massed on the campus before the Gym.
awaiting his arrival, every second seemed a century; everybody talked at
once until the hubbub rivaled that of a Woman's Suffrage Convention. Thomas
Haviland Hicks, Jr., was actually returning to old Bannister; and he was
bringing "The Prodigious Prodigy," whatever that was, with him. Knowing the
cheery Senior's intense love of doing the dramatic and his great ambition
to startle his Alma Mater with some sensational stunt, they could hardly
wait for old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus to roll up the driveway,

"Here he comes!" shrieked, little Skeet Wigglesworth, an excitable Senior,
who had climbed a tree to keep watch. "Here comes our Hicks!"

"Honk--Honk!" To the incessant blaring of a raucous horn, old Dan
Flannagan's jitney-bus moved up the driveway. The genial Irish Jehu, who
for over twenty years had transported Bannister collegians and alumni
to and from College Hill in a ramshackle hack drawn by Lord Nelson, an
antiquated, somnambulistic horse, had yielded to modern invention at
last. Lord Nelson having become defunct during vacation, Old Dan, with
a collection taken up by several alumni at Commencement, had bought a
battered Ford, and constructed therewith a jitney-bus. This conveyance was
fully as rattle-trap in appearance as the traditional hack had been, but
the returning collegians hailed it with glee.

"All hail Hicks!" howled Butch Brewster, beside himself with joy,
"Altogether--the Bannister yell for--_Hicks_!"

With half the collegians giving the yell, a number shouting
indiscriminately, the Bannister Band blaring furiously, "Behold, The
Conquering Hero Comes," with the youths a yelling, howling, shrieking,
dancing mass, old Dan Flannagan, adding his quota of noises with the
Claxon, brought his bus to a stop. This was a hilarious spectacle in
itself, for on its sides the Bannister students had painted:

    HENRY FORD'S "PIECE-OF-A-SHIP," _THE DOVE_! ALL RIDING IN THIS JIT DO
    SO AT THEIR OWN RISK! TEN CENTS FOR A JOY-RIDE TO COLLEGE HILL! YES,
    IT'S A _FORD_! WHAT DO YOU CARE? GET ABOARD!

On the roof of "The Dove," or "The Crab," as the collegians called it when
it skidded sideways, perched precariously that well-known, beloved youth,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. He clutched his pestersome banjo and was vigorously
strumming the strings and apparently howling a ballad, lost in the
unearthly turmoil. As the jitney-bus stopped, the grinning Hicks arose, and
from his lofty, position made a profound bow.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" A mighty shout arose, and Hicks raised his hand
for silence, which was immediately delivered to him.

"Fellows, one and all," he shouted, a mist before his eyes, for his
impulsive soul was touched by the ovation, "I--I am _glad_ to be back!
Say--I--I--well, I'm glad to be back--that's all!"

At this masterly oration, which, despite its brevity, contained volumes of
feeling, the Bannister students went wild--for a longer period than any
political convention ever cheered a nominated candidate, they cheered T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Roar--roar--roar--_roar_!" in deafening sound-waves,
the noise swept across the campus; never had football idol, baseball hero,
or any athletic demigod, in all Bannister's history, been accorded such a
tremendous ovation.

"Fellows," called T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., climbing down from his precarious
perch, "stand back; I have brought to Bannister the 'Prodigious Prodigy.'
I have rounded up a full-back who will beat Ballard all by himself. Behold
the new Gold and Green football eleven, 'Thor'!"

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!"






CHAPTER IV

QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER


  "I didn't raise my _Ford_ 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:

"_Bow-wow-wow_! 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--"

"Right--!" scoffed big Pudge Langdon, indignantly, as he gazed up at the
happy-go-lucky youth, at the window of his room on the third-floor, campus
side, of Bannister Hall, "Hicks ought to be tarred and feathered; there is
_nothing right_ in the way he has acted since his return to college! He
struts around like Herman, the Master-Magician, and all the fellows fully
expect to see him produce white rabbits from his cap, or make varicolored
flags out of his handkerchief."

"We ought to toss him in a blanket," stormed Beef McNaughton, in ludicrous
rage. "Ever since he mystified Bannister by going out and corralling a
Hercules who is an entire eleven in himself, Hicks has maintained that
sphinx-like silence as to how he achieved the feat, and he swaggers around,
enshrouded in _mystery_! All we know is that 'Thor' is John Thorwald, of
Norwegian descent. If we ask _him_ for information, that wretch Hicks has
him trained to say, 'Ask the little fellow, Hicks!'"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in truth, had acted in a most reprehensible manner
since that memorable night when he brought "Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy,"
to the campus. Not that he ceased to be the same sunny-souled, popular and
friendly youth. The collegians, happy at finding his room open-house again,
flocked to his cozy quarters, Freshmen _fell_ under the spell of his
generous nature, his Beef-Steak Busts, down at Jerry's were nightly
occurrences, and he was the same Hicks as of old. But, after the dramatic
manner in which Hicks had mysteriously made good the rash vow uttered at
Camp Bannister and had brought to Coach Corridan a blond-haired giant who
seemed destined to perform prodigies at full-back, the sunny Senior had
evidently labored under the delusion that he was "Kellar, The Great
Magician."

Instead of relieving the tortured curiosity of the students, wild to know
how and where Hicks had unearthed this physical Hercules, who in every way
filled the details of Head Coach Corridan's "blue-prints," T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., enjoying to the full this novel method of torturing his
comrades, made a baffling mystery of the affair, much to the indignation of
his friends.

_"Just leave it to Hicks,"_ he would say, when the Bannister youths
cajoled, implored, threatened, or argued. "Thor is eligible to play four
years of football at old Bannister. I call him Thor, after the great Norse
god, Thor; he is of Norwegian descent. That is all of the Billion-Dollar
Mystery I can disclose; ten thousand dollars offered for the correct
solution."

"Here comes Scoop Sawyer," said Monty Merriweather, as that Senior, waving
his arms in air, catapulted from Bannister Hall, and strode toward the
squad on the Gym. steps; his appearance registered wrath, in photo-play
parlance, and on reaching his comrades he immediately acquainted them with
its cause.

"Listen to that Hicks!" he exploded, gesticulating with a sheaf of papers.
"Hicks, the mocking-bird! He is mocking _us_--with his 'Billion-Dollar
Mystery!' Say--here I am writing to Jack Merritt; he played football four
years for old Bannister; he was captain of the Gold and Green eleven; last
Commencement he graduated, and the last thing he said to me was, 'Scoop,
old pal, write to me next fall, tell me everything about the football
season; keep me posted as to new material!' _Everything_--keep him posted
as to new material--_Bah_! If I write that Hicks has brought a fellow he
calls 'Thor,' who spreads the regulars over the field, Jack will want
to know the details, and--that villainous Hicks won't divulge his dread
secret!"

At this moment, Scoop Sawyer, so-called because he was ambitious to be a
newspaper reporter, after graduation, and for his humorous articles in the
_Bannister Weekly_, had his intense wrath soothed by that which has
"power to soothe the savage breast"; T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., displaying a
wonderful originality by composing, then chanting, his parody, concluded
the chorus roaring lustily, to a rollicking banjo accompaniment:

  "If street car companies gave seats to all patrons
  The strap-hangers in jitneys would not ride.
  There'd be no jits. today
  If Ford owners would say,
  I didn't raise my Ford to be a--jitney!"

"That is too much!" raged Captain Butch Brewster, facing his excited
colleagues. "Come on, fellows, we'll invade Hicks' room, read him Scoop's
letter to Jack Merritt, and _make_ him solve the Mystery! We're done with
diplomacy; now, we'll deliver the ultimatum; when the squad returns from
scrimmage, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will tell us all about Thor, or be
tossed in a blanket! Are you with me?"

"We are _ahead_ of you!" howled Roddy Perkins, leading a wild charge for
the entrance to Bannister Hall. Following him up the two flights of stairs
with thunderous tread came Butch, Beef, Monty, Biff, Hefty, Pudge, Tug,
Ichabod, Bunch, Buster, Bus Norton, and several second-team players,
Cherub, Chub Chalmers, Don, Skeet, and Scoop Sawyer with his letter. With
a terrific, blood-chilling clatter, and hideous howls, the Hicks-quelling
Expedition roared down the third corridor of Bannister, and surged into the
room of that tantalizing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!

"Safety first!" shrieked that cheery collegian, stowing his banjo in the
closet and making a strenuous but futile effort to dive head-first beneath
the bed, being forcibly restrained by Beef, who clung to his left ankle.
"Say, to what am I indebted for the honor of this call? Why, when I got
back to Bannister, you fellows gushed, 'Oh, we're _so_ glad you're back,
Hicks, old top; we missed even your saengerfests,' and when I start one--"

"Hicks," pronounced Butch Brewster grimly, holding the genial offender
by the scruff of the neck, "you tantalizing, aggravating, irritating,
lunatical, conscienceless degenerate! You assassin of Father Time, you
disturber of the peace, _heed_! Scoop Sawyer is writing to Jack Merritt, to
tell about the football team, and Bannister's chances of the Championship;
he wants to tell Jack all about this Thor! Now, you have acted like
Herman-Kellar-Thurston long enough, and hear our final word. Read Scoop's
letter, and if when you finish its perusal you fail to give us full
information, and answer all questions about Thor--"

"The football team will toss you in a blanket until you do!" finished Monty
Merriweather, "We intended to wait until after the scrimmage, but Butch
evidently believes we should end your bothersome mystery as once, and--"

"'Curiosity killed the cat!'" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; then seeing
the avenues and boulevards of escape were closed, but fighting for time,
"let me peruse said missive indited by our literarily overbalanced Scoop. I
am reluctant to dispel the clouds of mystery, but--"

Scoop Sawyer thrust the typewritten pages of the letter--composed on
the battered old typewriter in the editorial sanctum of the _Bannister
Weekly_--into Hicks' grasp and with a grin, that blithesome youth read:


Bannister College, Sept, 27.

DEAR OLD JACK:

There is so _much_ to tell you, old pal, that I scarcely know where to
start, but you want to know about the football eleven, so I'll write about
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery,' as he calls it;
about Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. You well know what a scatter-brained
wretch Hicks is, and how he dearly loves to plot dramatic climaxes--to
mystify old Bannister. Just now Hicks has the campus as wrathful as it is
possible to be with that lovable youth; he has originated a great mystery,
and achieved a seemingly impossible feat, and instead of explaining it, he
swaggers around like a Hindoo mystic enshrouded in mystery and the fellows
are wild enough to tar and feather the incorrigible villain!

To get off to a sprint-start, up in Camp Bannister, before college opened,
when the squad was in training camp, Butch Brewster says that Coach
Corridan one day, before Hicks, expressed a fervid ambition to find a huge,
irresistible fullback--


Here the chronicle must hang fire, while T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning
at the wrath his mysterious behavior aroused, peruses those sections of
Scoop Sawyer's epistle telling of two scenes already described; first,
the one in the Camp Bannister grub-shack, where Head Coach Corridan
blue-printed the Gargantuan athlete he desired, and the blithesome Hicks
confidently requested that the Herculean task be left to him; second, the
scene of intense excitement on the campus the night that the missing Hicks
returned personally conducting that mountain of muscle, the blond-haired
Thor.

Having grinned at these descriptions, the pestiferous Hicks scanned a
picturesque description by Scoop of the events that transpired between that
memorable night and the present invasion of the sunny Senior's room by the
indignant squad.

--Naturally, Jack, old Bannister was intensely curious to know who this
"Thor" could be, and how Hicks unearthed such a giant. But, instead of
swaggering a trifle, as he inevitably does, and saying, 'Oh, I told you
just to leave it to Hicks!' then telling all about it, after accomplishing
what everyone believed a ridiculously impossible quest, he maintains that
provokingly mysterious silence, and John Thorwald (we know his name,
anyway) stolidly refers us to Hicks. So where Thor originated or how under
the sun Hicks got on his trail, after making his rash vow to corral a
mighty fullback, is a deep, dark mystery.

Now for Thor himself. Words cannot describe that Prodigious Prodigy; he
must be seen to be believed! We do know that he is John Thorwald, and of
distinctly Norwegian descent, so that calling him after the mythic Norse
god is extremely appropriate. And he is reminiscent of the great Thor, with
his vast strength and prowess. Thanks to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, love of
mystery, and of tantalizing old Bannister, we know nothing of Thorwald's
past, but we are sure he has lived and toiled among _men_, to possess
that powerful build. I can't describe him, old man, without resorting to
exaggeration, for ordinary words and phrases are utterly inadequate with
Thor! Conjure up a vision of Gulliver among the Lilliputians and you can
picture him towering over us. He is a Viking of old, with his fair features
and blond hair. Probably twenty-five years old, he has a powerful frame and
prodigious strength, he dwarfs such behemoths as Butch and Beef, and makes
such insignificant mortals as little Theophilus and myself seem like
insects!

Thor is so _big_, Jack, that when he gets in a room, he crowds everyone
into the corridor, and fills it alone. No wonder Hicks telegraphed to knock
out the partitions between five rooms to make space for Thor! When he
stands on the campus he blots out several sections of scenery, and the
college disappears, giving the impression he has swallowed it. Thor is a
slow-minded being, but possessed of a grim determination. To get an idea
into his mind requires a blackboard and Chautauqua lecturer, but once he
masters it, he never lets go; so it will be with football signals, once let
him grasp a play, he will never be confused. He is simply a huge, stolid
giant. He has a bulldog purpose to get an education, and nothing else
matters. As for college spirit, the glad comradeship of the campus, he has
no time for it; he pays no attention to the fellows at all, only to Hicks.

His devotion to that wretch is pathetic! He follows Hicks around like a
huge mastiff after a terrier, or an ocean leviathan towed by a tug-boat; he
seems absolutely helpless without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and so we have
a daily Hicks' personally conducted tour of Thor to interest us. Briefly,
Jack, John Thorwald is a slow-moving, slow-minded, grimly bulldog giant,
who has come to Bannister to study, and as for any other phase of campus
existence, he has never awakened to it!

Now for the football story: Well, the day after Hicks' sensational arrival,
which I described, Coach Corridan, Captain Butch Brewster, Beef, Buster,
Pudge, Monty, and Roddy with yours truly, went to Thor's room in Creighton
just before football practice. We found that Colossus, who had matriculated
as a Freshman, aided by Hicks, patiently masticating mental food as served
by Ovid. Coach Corridan said, 'Come on, Thorwald, over to the Gym.; we'll
fix you out with togs, if we can get two suits big enough to make one for
your bulk! Ever play the game?' 'I play some,' rumbled Thor stolidly, never
raising his eyes from his Latin. 'Don't bother me, I want to _study._
I have not time for such foolishness. I am here to study, to get an
education!' 'But,' urged the coach earnestly, 'you _must_ play football for
your Alma Mater, for old Bannister. Why, you--you _must_, that's all!' Thor
gazed at Hicks questioningly--I forgot to add that insect's name--and
asked, 'Is it so, Hicks? I _got_ to play for the college?' And when Hicks
grinned, '_Sure_, Thor, it must be did. Bannister expects you to smear the
other teams over the landscape,' that blond Norwegian Viking said, 'Well,
then, I play.'

All Bannister turned out to behold the "Prodigious Prodigy" on the football
field. Somewhere--Hicks won't divulge where--Thor has learned the rudiments
of the game. With that bulldog tenacity of his, he has learned them well.
Hence he was ready for the scrubs, and in the practice game it was a
veritable slaughter of the innocents. The 'Varsity could not stop Thor.
Remember 'Ole' Skjarsen, the big Swede of George Fitch's 'Siwash College'
tales? Thor, after the ten minutes required to teach him a play, would take
the ball and just wade through the regulars for big gains. The only way to
stop him was for the entire eleven to cling affectionately to his bulk,
and then he transported them several yards. He is a phenom, a veritable
Prodigious Prodigy, and maybe old Bannister isn't _wild_ with enthusiasm.
His development will be slow but sure, and by the time the big games for
the championship come, he will be a whole team in himself. Right now he
goes through daily scrimmage as solemnly as if performing a sacred rite. He
doesn't thrill with college spirit, but as for football--

Leaving Hicks to read the rest of Scoop Sawyer's long missive, terminating
with indignant condemnation of the sunny youth's love of mystery, the
terrific enthusiasm roused at old Bannister by the daily appearance on
Bannister Field of Thor, and his irresistible marches through the 'Varsity,
must be chronicled and explained.

Not for five seasons, not since the year before Hicks, Pudge, Butch, Beef
and the others of 1919 were Freshmen, had the Gold and Green corraled that
greatest glory, The State Intercollegiate Football Championship! In Captain
Butch's Sophomore year, he had flung his bulk into the fray, training,
sacrificing, fighting like a Trojan, only to see the pennant lost by a
scant three inches, as Jack Merritt's forty-yard drop-kick for the goal
that would have won the Championship struck the cross-bar and bounded back
into the field. And the past season-old Bannister could still vision that
tragic scene of the biggest game.

The students could picture Captain Brewster, with the Bannister eleven a
few yards from Ballard's goal-line, and the touchdown that would give the
Gold and Green that supreme glory. One minute to play; Deacon Radford had
given Butch the pigskin, and like a berserker, he fought entirely through
the scrimmage. But a kick on the head had blinded him, in the _mêlée_--free
of tacklers, with the goal-line, victory, and the Championship so near, he
staggered, reeled blindly, crashed into an upright, and toppled backward,
senseless on the field, while the Referee's whistle announced the end of
the game, and glory to Ballard. Even then, after the first terrible shock
of the loss, of the cruel blow fate dealt the Gold and Green two
successive seasons, the slogan was: "_Next year_--Bannister will win the
Championship--_next year_!"

It was now "next year!" Losing only Jack Merritt, Babe McCabe and Heavy
Hughes from the line-up, and having Monty Merrlweather and Bunch Bingham,
fully as good, Coach Corridan's Gold and Green eleven, before the season
started, seemed a better fighting machine than even the one of the year
before. But when the irrepressible T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in some
mysterious fashion making good his rash vow to produce a smashing full-back
that can't be stopped, towed that stolid, blond Colossus, Thor, to old
Bannister, enthusiasm broke all limits!

Mass-meetings were held every night. Speeches by Coaches, Captain, players,
Faculty, and students, aroused the campus to the highest pitch; every day,
the entire student-body, with The Bannister Band, turned out on Bannister
Field to cheer the eleven, and to watch the Prodigious Prodigy perform
valorous deeds, like the god Thor. "Bannister College--State Championship!"
was the cry, and with the giant Thor to present an irresistible catapulting
that could not be stopped, the Gold and Green exultantly awaited the big
games with Hamilton and Ballard.

And yet, the stolid, unemotional, unawakened Thor, on whom every hope of
the Championship was based, whom all Bannister came out to watch every day,
practiced as he studied, doggedly, silently. It was evident to all that
he hated the grind, that he wanted to quit, that his heart was not in the
game, but for some cause, he drove his Herculean body ahead, and could not
be stopped!

"Now, you abandoned wretch," said Butch Brewster grimly, as the
happy-go-lucky Hicks finished Scoop's letter, and glanced about him wildly
seeking a way of escape, "in one minute you will tell us all about John
Thorwald, alias 'Thor,' or be tossed sky-high in a blanket by the football
squad, and please believe me, you'll break all altitude records!"

"Spare me, you banditti!" pleaded Hicks, reluctant to cease torturing
Bannister with his Billion-Dollar Mystery, yet equally unwilling to aviate
from a blanket heaved by the husky athletes. "Why seek ye to question the
ways of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.? You have your Prodigious Prodigy--your
smashing full-back is distributing the 'Varsity over the scenery with
charming nonchalance that promises dire catastrophe for other teams, once
he makes the regulars, so--"

At that dramatic moment, just as Butch Brewster glanced at Hicks'
alarm-clock, to start the minute of grace, a startling interruption saved
the gladsome youth from having to make a decision. A heavy, creaking tread
shook the corridor, and the squad beheld, looming up in the doorway, Thor.
He was not in football togs, and as he started to speak his fair face as
stolid and expressionless as that of a sphinx, Captain Butch Brewster
stepped toward him.

"Thor!" he exclaimed, seizing the blond Colossus by the arm, "You aren't
ready for the scrimmage; hustle over to the Gym. and get on your suit."

But John Thorwald, as passive of feature as though he announced something
of the most infinitesimal importance, and were not hurling a bomb-shell
whose explosion, was to shake old Bannister terrifically, spoke in a
matter-of-fact manner: "I shall not play football--any more."

"_What_!" Every collegian in Hicks' room, including that dazed producer
of the Prodigious Prodigy, chorused the exclamation; to them it was as
stunning a shock as the nation would suffer if its President calmly
announced, "I'm tired of being President of the United States. I shall not
report for work tomorrow." Bannister College, ever since the night that
Thor arrived on the campus, had talked or thought of nothing but how this
huge, blond-haired Hercules would bring the Championship to the Gold and
Green; his prodigies on the gridiron, his ever-increasing prowess, had
aroused enthusiasm to fever heat, and now--

"I was told wrong," said Thor, shifting his vast tonnage awkwardly from one
foot to the other, and evidently bewildered at the consternation caused by
what he believed a trifling announcement, "I understood that I _had_ to
play football, that the Faculty required it of me, and the students let me
think so. I have just learned from Doctor Alford that such is not true,
that I do not have to play unless I choose, hence, I quit. I came to
college to study, to gain an education. I have toiled long and hard for
the opportunity, and now I have it, I shall not waste my time on such
foolishness."

Then, utterly unconscious that he had spoken sentences which would create
a mighty sensation at old Bannister, that might doom the Gold and Green
to defeat, lose his Alma Mater the Championship, and bring on himself the
cruel ostracism and bitter censure of his fellows, John Thorwald lumbered
down the corridor. A moment of tense silence followed and then Captain
Butch Brewster groaned.

"It's all over, it's all over, fellows!" he said brokenly, "Bannister loses
the Championship! We know it is impossible to move Thor on the football
field, and now that he has said 'No!' to playing football, dynamite can not
move him from his decision."

Then, crushed and disconsolate, the football squad filed silently from the
room, to break the glad news to Coach Corridan, and to spread the joyous
tidings to old Bannister. When they had gone, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
staring at the figurative black cloud that lowered over his Alma Mater,
strove to find its silver lining, and at last he partially succeeded.

"Anyway," said Hicks, with a lugubrious effort to grin, "Thor's
announcement shocked the squad so much that I was not forced to explain my
Billion-Dollar Mystery!"






CHAPTER V

HICKS MAKES A DECISION


"In the famous words of Mr. Somebody-Or-Other," quoth T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., "something has _got_ to be did, and immediately to once!"

Big Butch Brewster nodded assent. So did Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan,
Beef McNaughton, Team Manager Socks Fitzpatrick, Monty Merriweather, Dad
Pendleton, President of the Athletic Association, and Deacon Radford,
quarter-back, also Shad Fishpaw, who, being Freshman Class-Chairman,
maintained a discreet silence. Instead of the usual sky-larking, care-free
crowd that infested the cozy quarters of the happy-go-lucky Hicks, every
collegian present, except the ever-cheerful youth, seemed to have lost his
best friend and his last dollar at one fell swoop!

"Oh, yes, something has got to be did!" fleered Beef McNaughton, the
davenport creaking under the combined tonnage of himself and Butch
Brewster, "But who will do it? Where's all that Oh-just-leave-it-to-Hicks
stuff you have pulled for the past three years, you pestiferous insect?
_Bah_! You did a lot; you dragged a Prodigious Prodigy to old Bannister,
enshrouded him in darkest mystery, and now, when he pushed the 'Varsity off
the field and promised to corral the Championship, single-handed, he puts
his foot down, and says, '_No_--I will not play football!' Get busy, Little
Mr. Fix-It."

"Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" accommodated that blithesome Senior, with a
cheeriness he was far from feeling. "You all do know why Thor won't
play football; it is not like last season, when Deke Radford, a star
quarter-back, refused either to play, or to explain his refusal. Let me
get an inspiration, and then Thor will once again gently but firmly thrust
entire football elevens down the field before him!"

As evidence of how intensely serious was the situation, let it be
chronicled that, for the first time in his scatter-brained campus career,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., did not dare strum his banjo and roar out ballads
to torture his long-suffering colleagues. Popular and beloved as he was,
the gladsome youth hesitated to shatter the quietude of the campus with
his saengerfest, knowing as he did what a terrible blow Thor's utterly
astounding announcement had been to the college.

It was nine o'clock, one night two weeks after the day when John Thorwald,
better known as Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, so mysteriously produced by
Hicks, had stolidly paralyzed old Bannister by unemotionally stating his
decision to play no more football. Since then, to quote the Phillyloo Bird,
"Bannister has staggered around the ring like a prizefighter with the
Referee counting off ten seconds and trying to fight again before he takes
the count." In truth, the students had made a fatal mistake in building
all their hopes of victory on that blond giant, Thor; seeing his wonderful
prowess, and beholding how, in the first week of the season, the Norwegian
Colossus had ripped to shreds the Varsity line which even the heavy Ballard
eleven of the year before could not batter, it was but natural that the
enthusiastic youths should think of the Championship chances in terms of
_Thor_. For one week, enthusiasm and excitement soared higher and higher,
and then, to use a phrase of fiction, everything fell with a dull,
sickening thud!

In vain did Coach Corridan, the staff of Assistant Coaches, Captain Butch
Brewster, and others strive to resuscitate football spirit; nightly
mass-meetings were held, and enough perfervid oratory hurled to move a
Russian fortress, but to no avail. It was useless to argue that, without
Thor, Bannister had an eleven better than that of last year, which so
nearly missed the Championship. The campus had seen the massive Thor's
prodigies; they knew he could not be stopped, and to attempt to arouse the
college to concert pitch over the eleven, with that mountain of muscle
blotting out vast sections of scenery, but not in football togs, was not
possible.

"One thing is sure," spoke Dad Pendleton seriously, gazing gloomily from
the window, "unless we get Thor in the line-up for the Big Games, our last
hope of the Championship is dead and interred! And I feel sorry for the big
fellow, for already the boys like him just about as much as a German
loves an Englishman; yet, arguments, threats, pleadings, and logic have
absolutely no effect on him. He has said 'No,' and that ends it!"

"He doesn't understand things, fellows," defended T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
with surprising earnestness. "Remember how bewildered he seemed at our
appeal to his college spirit, and his love for his Alma Mater. We might as
well have talked Choctaw to him!"

Butch Brewster, Socks Fitzpatrick, Dad Pendleton, Beef McNaughton, Deacon
Radford, Monty Merriweather, and Shad Fishpaw well remembered that night
after Thor's tragic decision, when they--part of a Committee formed of the
best athletes from all teams, and the most representative collegians of old
Bannister, had invaded Thor's room in Creighton Hall, to wrestle with the
recalcitrant Hercules. Even as Hicks spoke, they visioned it again.

A cold, cheerless room, bare of carpet or pictures, with just the
study-table, bed, and two chairs. At the study-table, his huge bulk
sprawling on, and overflowing, a frail chair, they had found the massive
John Thorwald laboriously reading aloud the Latin he had translated,
literally by the sweat of his brow. The blond Colossus, impatient at the
interruption, had shaken his powerful frame angrily, and with no regard for
campus tradition, had addressed the upperclassmen in a growl: "Well, what
do you want? Hurry up, I've got to study."

And then, to state it briefly, they had worked with (and on) the stolid
Thorwald for two hours. They explained how his decision to play no more
football would practically kill old Bannister's hopes of the Championship,
would assassinate football spirit on the campus, and cause the youths to
condemn Thor, and to ostracise him. Waxing eloquent, Butch Brewster had
delivered a wonderful speech, pleading with John Thorwald to play the
game. He tried to show that obviously uninterested mammoth that, like the
Hercules he so resembled, he stood at the parting of the ways.

"You are on the threshold of your college career, old man!" he thundered
impressively, though he might as well have tried to shoot holes in a
battleship with a pop-gun, "What you do now will make or break you. Do you
want the fellows as friends or as enemies; do you want comradeship, or
loneliness and ostracism? You have it in your power to do two _big_ things,
to win the Championship for your Alma Mater, and to win to yourself the
entire student-body, as friends; will you do that, and build a firm
foundation for your college years, or betray your Alma Mater, and gain the
enmity of old Bannister!"

Followed more fervid periods, with such phrases as, "For your Alma Mater,"
"Because of your college spirit," "For dear old Bannister," and "For
the Gold and Green!" predominating; all of which terms, to the stolid,
unimaginative Thorwald being fully as intelligible as Hindustani. They
appealed to him not to betray his Alma Mater; they implored him, for his
love of old Bannister; they besought him, because of his college spirit;
and all the time, for all that the Prodigious Prodigy understood, they
might as well have remained silent.

"I will tell you something," spoke Thor, at last, with an air of impatient
resignation, "and don't bother me again, please! I have come to Bannister
College to get an education, and I have the right to do so, without being
pestered. I pay my bills, and I am entitled to all the knowledge I can
purchase. I look from my window, and I see boys, whose fathers are toiling,
sacrificing, to send them here. Instead of studying, to show their
gratitude, they loaf around the campus, or in their rooms, twanging banjos
and guitars, singing silly songs, and sky-larking. I don't know what all
this rot is you are talking of; 'college spirit,' 'my Alma Mater,' and so
on. I do not want to play football; I do not like the game; I need the time
for my study, so I will not play. Both my father and myself have labored
and sacrificed to send me to college. The past five years, with one great
ambition to go to college and learn, I have toiled like a galley-slave.

"And now, when opportunity is mine, do you ask me to _play_? You want me to
loaf around, wasting precious time better spent in my studies. What do I
care whether the boys like me, or hate me? Bah! I can take any two of you,
and knock your heads together! Their friendship or enmity won't move me. I
shall study, learn. I will not waste time in senseless foolishness, and I
_won't_ play football again."

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. was silent as he stood by the window of his room,
gazing down at the campus where the collegians were gathering before
marching to the Auditorium for the nightly mass-meeting that would vainly
strive to arouse a fighting spirit in the football "rooters." That
blithesome, heedless, happy-go-lucky youth was capable of far more serious
thought than old Bannister knew; and more, he possessed the rare ability
to read character; in the case of Thor, he saw vastly deeper than his
indignant comrades, who beheld only the surface of the affair. They knew
only that John Thorwald, a veritable Colossus, had exhibited football
prowess that practically promised the State Championship to old Bannister,
and then--he had quit the game. They understood only that Thor refused to
play simply because he did not want to, and as to why their appeals to his
college spirit and his love for his Alma Mater were unheeded they were
puzzled.

But the gladsome Hicks, always serious beneath his cheerful exterior, when
old Bannister's interests were at stake, or when a collegian's career
might be blighted, when the tragedy could be averted, fully understood. Of
course, as originator of the Billion-Dollar Mystery, and producer of the
Prodigious Prodigy, he knew more about the strange John Thorwald than did
his mystified comrades. He knew that Thor, as he named him, was just a vast
hulk of humanity, stolid, unimaginative of mind, slow-thinking, a dull,
unresponsive mass, as yet unstirred by that strange, subtle, mighty thing
called college spirit. He realized that Thor had never had a chance to
understand the real meaning of campus life, to grasp the glad fellowship of
the students, to thrill with a great love for his Alma Mater. All that must
come in time. The blond giant had toiled all his life, had labored among
men where everything was practical and grim. Small wonder, then, that he
failed utterly to see why the youths "loafed on the campus, or in their
rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and skylarking."

"I must save him," murmured Hicks softly, for the others in his room were
talking of Thor. "Oh, imagine that powerful body, imbued with a vast love
for old Bannister, think of Thor, thrilling with college spirit. Why,
Yale's and Harvard's elevens combined could not stop his rushes, then. I
must save him from himself, from the condemnation of the fellows, who just
don't understand. I must, some way, awaken him to a complete understanding
of college life in its entirety, but how? He is so different from Roddy
Perkins, or Deke Radford."

It seemed that the lovable Hicks was destined to save, every year of his
campus career, some entering collegian who incurred the wrath, deserved or
otherwise, of the students. In his Freshman first term, T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., indignant at the way little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous,
nervous "grind," had been alarmed at the idea of being hazed, had by a
sensational escape from a room locked, guarded, and filled with Sophomores,
gained immunity for himself and the boner for all time, thus winning the
loyal, pathetic devotion of the Human Encyclopedia. As a Sophomore, by
crushing James Roderick Perkins' Napoleonic ambition to upset tradition,
and make Freshmen equal with upperclassmen, Hicks had turned that
aggressive youth's tremendous energy in the right channels, and made him a
power for good on the campus.

And, a Junior, he had saved good Deacon Radford. When that serious youth, a
famous prep. quarter, entered old Bannister, the students were wild at the
thought of having him to run the Gold and Green team, but to their dismay,
he refused either to report for practice or to explain his decision. Hicks,
promising blithely, as usual, to solve the mystery and get Deke to play,
discovered that the youth's mother, called "Mother Peg" by the collegians,
was head-waitress downtown at Jerry's and that she made her son promise
not to own the relationship, and that while she worked to get him through
college, Deacon would not play football. The inspired Hicks had gotten
Mother Peg to start College Inn, and board Freshmen unable to get rooms
in the dormitories, and Deacon had played wonderful football. For this
achievement, the original youth failed to get glory, for he sacrificed it,
and swore all concerned to secrecy.

"But Roddy and Deke were different," reflected Hicks, pondering seriously.
"Both had been to Prep. School, and they understood college life and campus
spirit. It was Roddy's tremendous ambition that had to be curbed, and Deke
was the victim of circumstances. But Thorwald--it is just a problem of how
to awaken in him an understanding of college spirit. The fellows don't
understand him, and--"

A sudden thought, one of his inspirations, assailed the blithesome Hicks.
Why not make the fellows understand Thor? Surely, if he explained the
"Billion-Dollar Mystery," as he humorously called it, and told why
Thorwald, as yet, had no conception of college life, in its true meaning,
they would not feel bitter against him; perhaps, instead, though regretful
at his decision not to play the game, they would all strive to awaken the
stolid Colossus, to stir his soul to an understanding of campus
tradition and existence. But that would mean--"I surely hate to lose my
Billion-Dollar Mystery!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., remembering
the intense indignation of his comrades at his Herman-Kellar-Thurston
atmosphere of mystery, "It is more fun than, my 'Sheerluck Holmes'
detective pose or my saengerfests. Still, for old Bannister, and for Thor."

It would seem only a trifle for the heedless Hicks to give up his mystery,
and tell Bannister all about Thor; yet, had the Hercules reconsidered, and
played football, the torturesome youth would have bewildered his colleagues
as long as possible, or until they made him divulge the truth. He dearly
loved to torment his comrades, and this had been such an opportunity for
him to promise nonchalantly to produce a Herculean full-back, then, to
return to the campus with the Prodigious Prodigy in tow, and for him to
perform wonders on Bannister Field, naturally aroused the interest of the
youths, and he had enjoyed hugely their puzzlement, but now--

"Say, fellows," he interrupted an excited conversation of a would-be
Committee of Ways and Means to make Thor play football, "I have an
announcement to make."

"Don't pester us, Hicks!" warned Captain Butch Brewster, grimly. "We love
you like a brother, but we'll crush you if you start any foolishness,
and--"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with the study-table between himself and his
comrades, assumed the attitude of a Chautauqua lecturer, one hand resting
on the table and the other thrust into the breast of his coat, and
dramatically announced:

"In the Auditorium--at the regular mass-meeting tonight--T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., will give the correct explanation of Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and
will solve the Billion-Dollar Mystery!"






CHAPTER VI

HICKS MAKES A SPEECH


The announcement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had practically the same
effect on Head Coach Corridan and the cheery Senior's comrades as a German
gas-bomb would have on the inmates of an Allied trench. For several seconds
they stared at the blithesome youth, in a manner scarcely to be called
aimless, since their looks were aimed with deadly accuracy at him, but in
general, with the exception of Hicks, those in the room resembled vastly
some of the celebrated Madame Tussaud's wax-works in London.

"Oh," breathed Monty Merriweather, with the appearance of dawning
intelligence, "that's so, Coach, Hicks never has disclosed the details of
his achievement; we were about to extort a confession from him, when Thor
broke up the league with his announcement, and since then, Bannister has
been too worried over Thorwald to trifle with Hicks!"

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Coach Corridan, who had been remarkably
silent, for him, pondering the football crisis, "Hicks can make his
explanation at the regular mass-meeting tonight, in the Auditorium. I'll
post an announcement of his purpose, and you fellows spread the news among
the students, stating that Hicks will tell how he rounded up Thor. Some
have shirked these meetings since Thorwald quit the game, and this will
bring them out, so maybe we can arouse the fighting spirit again!"

So well did Butch, Beef, Socks, Monty, Dad, Deacon, and Shad tell the news,
that when the bell in the Administration Hall tower rang at ten o'clock it
was ascertained by score-keepers that every youth at Bannister, Freshmen
included, except that Hercules, Thor, had assembled in the Auditorium. That
stolid behemoth, who regarded the football mass-meeting as foolishness, was
reported as boning in his cheerless room, fulfilling the mission for which
he came to college, namely, to get his money's worth of knowledge, which he
evidently regarded as some commodity for which Bannister served merely as a
market.

Big Butch Brewster, on the stage of the Auditorium, the big assembly-hall
of the college, along with Coach Corridan, several of the Gold and Green
eleven, two members of the Faculty, several Assistant Coaches, and T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., stepped forward and stilled the tumult of the excited
youths with upraised hand.

"We have with us tonight," he spoke, after the fashion of introducing
after-dinner speakers, "Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the celebrated
Magician and Mystifier, who will present for your approval his world-famous
Billion-Dollar Mystery, and give the correct solution to Thor, the problem
no one has been able to solve. I take great pleasure in introducing to you
this evening, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr."

The collegians, firmly believing it was another of the pestiferous Hicks'
jokes, and wholly unaware of the deep purpose of the sunny-souled,
irrepressible youth's speech, went into paroxysms of glee, as the
shadow-like Hicks stepped forward. For several minutes, the hall echoed
with jeers, shouts, groans, whistles, and sarcastic comments:

"Hire a hall, Hicks; tell it to Sweeney!"--"Bryan better look out. Hicks,
the _Chau-talker;_"--"Spill the speech, old man; spread the oratory!"--"Oh,
where are my smelling-salts? I know I shall faint!"--"You'd better play a
banjo-accompaniment to it, Hicks!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his campus career, fervidly wished he
had not been such a happy-go-lucky, care-free collegian, for now, when he
was serious, his comrades refused to believe him to be in such a state.
However, quiet was obtained at last, thanks to the fact that the youths
possessed all the curiosity of the proverbial cat who died thereby, and the
sunny Senior plunged earnestly into his famous speech, that was destined,
at old Bannister, to rank with that of Demosthenes "On The Crown," or any
of W. J, Bryan's masterpieces.

"Fellows," began Hicks, without preface, "I know I've built myself the
reputation of being a scatterbrained, heedless nonentity, and it's too late
to change now. But tonight, please believe me to be thoroughly in earnest.
Bannister faces more than one crisis, more than one tragedy. It is true
that the football eleven is crippled by the defection of Thor, that we
fellows have somewhat unreasonably allowed his quitting the game to shake
our spirit, but there is more at stake than football victories, than even
the State Intercollegiate Football Championship! The future of a student,
of a present Freshman, his hopes of becoming a loyal, solid, representative
college man, a tremendous power for good, at old Bannister, hang in the
balance at this moment! I speak of John Thorwald. You students have it in
your power to make or break him, to ruin his college years and make him a
recluse, a misanthrope, or to gradually bring him to a full realization of
what college life and campus tradition really mean."

"I have made a great mystery of Thor, just for a lark, but the enmity and
condemnation of the campus for him because he quit football suddenly, shows
me that the time for skylarking is past. For his sake, I must plead. He is
not to blame, altogether, for quitting. Myself, and you fellows, gave him
the impression that it was a Faculty requirement for him to play football,
for we feared he would not play, otherwise; when he learned that it was not
a Faculty rule, he simply quit."

Here T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., seeing that at last he had convinced the
collegians of his earnestness, though they seemed fairly paralyzed at the
phenomenon, paused, and produced a bundle of papers before resuming.

"Now, I'll try to explain the 'mystery' as briefly and as clearly as
possible. Up at Camp Bannister, before college opened, Coach Corridan, as
you know, outlined to Butch, Deke, and myself, his dream of a Herculean,
irresistible full-back; I said, 'Just leave It to Hicks!' and they believed
that I, as usual, just made that remark to torment them. But such was not
the case. When I joined them, I remarked that I had a letter from my Dad;
Deke made some humorous remarks, and I forgot to read it aloud, as I
intended. Then, after Coach Corridan blue-printed his giant full-back, I
kept silent as to Dad's letter, for reasons you'll understand. But, after
all, there was no mystery about my leaving Camp Bannister, after making a
seemingly rash vow, and returning to college with a 'Prodigious Prodigy'
who filled specifications, In fact, before I left Camp Bannister, at the
moment I made my rash promise--I had Thor already lined up!"

"I shall now read a dipping or two, and a letter or two from my Dad. The
clippings came in Dad's letter to me at Camp Bannister, the letter I
intended to read to Coach Corridan, Deke, and Butch, but which I decided to
keep silent about, after the Coach told of the full-back he wanted, for
I knew I had him already! First, a clipping from the _San Francisco
Examiner_, of August 25:

MAROONED SAILOR RESCUED--TEN YEARS ON SOUTH SEA ISLAND! SOLE SURVIVOR OF
ILL-FATED CRUISE OF THE ZEPHYR

"The trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, Captain Martin Bascomb, skipper,
put into San Francisco yesterday with a cargo of copra from the South Sea
Islands. On board was John Thorwald, Sr., who for the past ten years
has been marooned on an uninhabited coral isle of the Southern Pacific,
together with 'Long Tom' Watts, who, however, died several months ago.
Thorwald's story reads like a thrilling bit of fiction. He was first mate
of the ill-fated yacht _Zephyr_, which cleared from San Francisco ten years
ago with Henry B. Kingsley, the Oil-King, and a pleasure party, for a
cruise under the southern star. A terrific tornado wrecked the yacht, and
only Thorwald and 'Long Tom' escaped, being cast upon the coral island,
where for ten years they existed, unable to attract the attention of the
few craft that passed, as the isle was out of the regular lanes. Only when
Captain Martin Bascomb, in the trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, touched
at the island, hoping to find natives with whom to trade supplies for
copra, were they found, and 'Long Tom' had been dead some months."

"Despite the harrowing experiences of his exile, Thorwald, a vast hulk of a
stolid, unimaginative Norwegian, who reminds one of the Norse god, 'Thor,'
intends to ship as first mate on the New York-Christiania Steamship Line.
It is said that Thorwald has a son, at this time about twenty-five years of
age, somewhere In this country, whom he will seek, and--"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., at this juncture, terminated the newspaper story,
and finding that his explanation held his comrades spellbound, he produced
a letter, and drew out the message, after stating the youths could read the
entire news-story of John Thorwald, Sr., later.

"This is the letter I received from my Dad," he explained to the intensely
interested Bannister youths, who were giving a concentrated attention that
members of the Faculty would have rejoiced to receive from them. "Up at
Camp Bannister--I was just about to read it to Coach Corridan, Butch, and
Deke Radford, when Deke chaffed me, and then the Coach outlined the mammoth
full-back he desired, so I kept quiet. I'll now read it to you:


"Pittsburgh, Pa., Sept, 17.

"DEAR SON THOMAS:

"Read the inclosed clipping from the _San Francisco Examiner_ of August 25,
and then pay close attention to the following facts: At the time of this
news-story I was in 'Frisco on business, as you will recall, and for
reasons to be outlined, when I read of the _Southern Cross_ finding the
marooned John Thorwald, and bringing him to that city, I was particularly
interested, so much so that I at once looked up the one-time first mate of
the ill-starred _Zephyr_ and brought him to Pittsburgh in my private car.
My reason was this; in my employ, in the International Steel Combine's
mill, was John Thorwald's son, John Thorwald, Jr.

"To state facts as briefly as possible, almost a year ago, as I took some
friends through the steel rolling mill, I chanced to step directly beneath
a traveling crane, lowering a steel beam; seeing my peril, I was about to
step aside when I caught my foot and fell. Just then a veritable giant,
black and grimy, leaped forward, and with a prodigious display of strength,
placed his powerful back under the descending weight, staving it off until
I rolled over to safety!

"Well, of course, I had the fellow report to my office, and instinctively
feeling that I wanted to show my gratitude, without being patronizing, he
responded to my question as to what I could do to reward him, by asking
simply that I get him some job that would allow him to attend night school.
He stated that, owing to the fact that he worked alternate weeks at night
shift he was unable to do so. Questioning him further, I learned the
following facts:

"He was John Thorwald, Jr., only son of John Thorwald, Sr., a Norwegian;
his mother was also a Norwegian, but he is a natural born American.
Realizing the opportunities for an educated young man in our land,
Thorwald's parents determined that he should gain knowledge, and until he
was fifteen years old, he attended school in San Francisco. When he was
fifteen, his father signed as first mate on the yacht _Zephyr_, going with
the oil-king, Henry B. Kingsley, on a pleasure cruise in the Southern
Pacific; Thorwald, Sr.'s, story you read in the paper. Soon after the news
of the _Zephyr's_ wreck, with all on board lost, as was then supposed,
Thorwald's mother died. Her dying words (so young Thorwald told me, and I
was moved by his simple, straightforward tale) were an appeal to her
boy. She made him promise, for her sake, to study, study, study to gain
knowledge, and to rise in the world! Thorwald promised. Then, believing
both his parents dead, the young Norwegian, a youth of fifteen without
money, had to shift for himself.

"Thomas, Jack London could weave his adventures into a gripping
masterpiece. Starting in as cabin-boy on a freighter to Alaska, young
Thorwald, in the past ten years, has simply crowded his life with
adventure, thrill, and experience, though thrills mean nothing to him. He
was in the Klondike gold-fields, in the salmon canneries, a prospector, a
lumber-jack in the Canadian Northwest, a cowboy, a sailor, a worker in the
Panama Canal Zone, on the Big Ditch, and too many other things to remember.
Finally, he drifted to Pittsburgh, where his prodigious strength served him
in the steel-mills, and, let me add, served _me_, as I stated.

"And ever, no matter where he wandered, or what was his toil, whenever
possible, Thorwald studied. His promise to his mother was always his goal,
and in the cities he studied, or in the wilds he read all the books he
could find. The past year, finding he had a good-pay job in Pittsburgh, he
settled to determined effort, and by sheer resolution, by his wonderful
power to grasp facts and ideas for good once he gets them, he made great
progress in night school, until he was shifted, a week before he saved my
life, to work that required him to toil nightly, alternate weeks. So, for a
year, Thor has had every possible advantage, some, unknown to him, I paid
for myself; I got him clerical work, with shorter hours, he went to night
school, and I employed the very best tutor obtainable, letting Thorwald
pay him, as he thought, though his payments wouldn't keep the tutor in
neckties. The gratitude of the blond giant is pathetic, and suspecting that
I paid the tutor something, he insisted on paying all he could, which I
allowed, of course.

"Well, in August, a year after Thorwald rescued me from serious injury,
perhaps death, I was in 'Frisco, and read of Thorwald, Sr.'s rescue and
return. Overjoyed, I took the father to Pittsburgh, to the son. I witnessed
their meeting, with the father practically risen from the dead, and all
those stolid, unimaginative Norwegians did was to shake hands gravely!
Young Thorwald told of his mother's last words, and of his promise, of his
having studied all the years, and of his late progress, so that he was
ready to enter college. His father, happy, insisted that he enter this
September, and he would pay for his son's college course, to make up for
the years the youth struggled for himself--Kingsley's heirs, I believe,
gave Thorwald, Sr., five thousand dollars on his return. So, though
grateful to me for the aid I offered, they would receive no financial
assistance, for they want to work it out themselves, and help the youth
make good his promise to his dying mother.

"Much as I love old Bannister, my Alma Mater, I would not have tried to
send Thorwald there, had I not deemed it a good place for him. However,
since it is a liberal, not a technical, education he wants, it is all
right; and that prodigious strength will serve the Gold and Green on the
football field. Now, Thomas, I want you to meet him in Philadelphia, and
take him to Bannister, look out for him, get him started O. K., and do all
you can for him. Get him to play football, if you can, but don't condemn
if he refuses. Remember, his life has been grim and unimaginative; he has
toiled and studied, it is probable he will not understand college life at
first."


"That's all I need to read of Dad's letter, fellows," concluded T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr. "After I got it, and Coach Corridan, Butch, and Beef heard my
seemingly rash vow to round up a giant full-back, I made a mystery of it; I
loafed in Philadelphia and Atlantic City until I met Thor, and brought him
here. You have all the data regarding Thor, 'The Billion-Dollar Mystery.'"

The students, almost as one, drew a deep breath. They had been enthralled
by the story, and their feeling toward Thor had undergone a vast change.
Stirred by hearing of his promise to his dying mother, thrilled at the way
the stolid, determined Norwegian had ceaselessly studied to make something
of himself for the sake of his mother's sacred memory, the Bannister youths
now thought of football, of the Championship, as insignificant, beside the
goal of Thorwald, Jr. The blond Colossus, whom an hour ago all Bannister
reviled and condemned for not playing the game, who was a campus outcast,
was now a hero; thanks to the erstwhile heedless Hicks, whose intense
earnestness in itself was a revelation to the amazed collegians, Thor stood
before them in a different light, and the impulsive, whole-souled, generous
youths were now anxious to make amends.

_"Thor! Thor! Thor!"_ was the thunderous cry, and the Bannister yell for
the Prodigious Prodigy shattered the echoes. Then T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
ecstatically joyous, again stilled the tumult, and spoke in behalf of John
Thorwald.

"We all understand Thor now, fellows," he said, beaming on his comrades.
"We want him to play football, and we'll keep after him to play, but we
won't condemn him if he refuses. At present, Thor is simply a stolid,
unimaginative, dull mass of muscle. As you can realize, his nature, his
life so far have not tended to make him appreciate the gayer, lighter side
of college life, or to grasp the traditions of the campus. To him, college
is a market; he pays his money and he takes the knowledge handed out. We
can not blame him for not understanding college existence in its entirety,
or that the gaining of knowledge is a small part of the representative
collegian's purpose.

"Now, boys, here's our job, and let's tackle it together: To awaken in
Thor a great love for old Bannister, to cause college spirit to stir his
practical soul. Let every fellow be his friend, let no one speak against
him, because of football. We must work slowly, carefully, gradually making
him grasp college traditions, and once he awakens to the real meaning of
campus life, what a power he will be in the college and on the athletic
field! Maybe he will not play football this season, but let us help him to
awaken!"

With wild shouts, the aroused collegians poured from the Auditorium, an
excited, turbulent mass of youthful humanity, a tide that swept T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., on the shoulders of several, out on the campus. Massed beneath
the window of John Thorwald's room, in Creighton Hall, the Bannister
students, now fully understanding that stolid Hercules, and stirred to
admiration of him by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, great speech, cheered the
somewhat mystified Thor again and again; in vast sound waves, the shouts
rolled up to his open window:

"Rah! Rah! Rah-rah-rah! _Thor! Thor! Thor_!" Captain Brewster, through a
big megaphone, roared; "Fellows--What's the matter with _Thor_?"

And in a terrific outburst which, as the Phillyloo Bird afterward said,
"Like to of busted Bannister's works!" the enthusiastic collegians
responded:

"_He's_--all--right!"

Then Butch, apparently in quest of information, persisted:

"_Who's_ all right?"

To which the three hundred or more youths, all seemingly equipped with
lungs of leather, kindly answered:

"Thor! Thor! Thor!"

Still, though the Phillyloo Bird declared that this vocal explosion caused
the seismographs as Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and in Salt Lake
City, Utah, to register an earthquake somewhere, it had on the blond
Freshman a strange effect. The vast mountain of muscle lumbered heavily
across the room, gazed down at the howling crowd of collegians without
emotion, then slammed down the window, and returned to study.

"_Good night_" called Hicks. "The show is over! Let him have another yell,
boys, to show we aren't insulted; then we'll disband!"

Considering Thorwald's cool reception of their overtures, which some youth
remarked, "Were as noisy as that of a Grand Opera Orchestra," it was quite
surprising to the students, in the morning, when what occurred an hour
after their serenade was revealed to them. As the story was told by those
who witnessed the scene, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, Beef, Monty, Pudge,
Roddy, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, and Coach Corridan after the commotion
subsided, retired to the sunny Hicks' quarters, where the football
situation was discussed, along with ways and means to awaken Thor, when
that colossal Freshman himself loomed up in the doorway.

As they afterward learned, several excited Freshmen had dared to invade
Thor's den, even while he studied, and give him a more or less correct
account of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s masterly oration in his defense. Out of
their garbled descriptions, big John Thorwald grasped one salient point,
and straightway he started for Hicks' room, leaving the indignant Freshmen
to tell their story to the atmosphere.

"Hicks," said Thor, not bothering with the "Mr." required of all Freshmen,
as his vast bulk crowded the doorway, "is it true that Mr. Thomas Haviland
Hicks, Sr., wants me to play football? He has been very kind to me, and
has helped me, and so have you, here at college. After a year of study, I
should have had to stop night-school, but for him--instead, I got another
year, and prepared for Bannister. I did not know that _he_ desired me to
play, but if he does, I feel under obligation to show my great gratitude,
both for myself and for my father."

A moment of silence, for the glorious news could not be grasped in a
second; those in the room, knowing Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.'s, brilliant
athletic record at old Bannister, and understanding his great love for
his Alma Mater, knew that Hicks, Sr., had sent Thor to Bannister to play
football for the Gold and Green, though, as he had written his son, he
would not have done so had he honestly believed that another college would
suit the ambitious Goliath better.

"Does he?" stammered the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while the others
echoed the words feebly, "Yes, I should say he _does_!"

For a second, the ponderous young Colossus hesitated, and then, as calmly
as though announcing he would add Greek to his list of studies, and wholly
unaware that his words were to bring joy to old Bannister, he spoke
stolidly.

"Then I shall play football."






CHAPTER VII

HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY.


  "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest--
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
  Drink and the Devil had done for the rest--
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

T HAVILAND HICKS, JR., his chair tilted at a perilous angle, and his feet
thrust gracefully atop of the study-table, in his cozy room, one Friday
afternoon two weeks after John Thorwald's return to the football squad, was
fathoms deep in Stevenson's "Treasure Island." As he perused the thrilling
pages, the irrepressible youth twanged a banjo accompaniment, and roared
with gusto the piratical chantey of Long John Silver's buccaneer crew;
Hicks, however, despite his saengerfest, was completely lost in the
enthralling narrative, so that he seemed to hear the parrot shrieking,
"Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and the wild refrain:

  "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest--
  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

He was reading that breathlessly exciting part where the cabin-boy of the
_Hispaniola_, and Israel Hands have their terrible fight to the death, with
the dodging over the dead man rolling in the scuppers, the climbing up the
mast, and the dirk pinning the boy's shoulder, before Hands is shot and
goes to join his mate on the bottom; just at the most absorbing page, as he
twanged his beloved banjo louder, and roared the chantey, there sounded,
"Tramp--tramp--tramp!" in the corridor, the heavy tread of many feet
sounded, coming nearer. Instinctively realizing that the pachydermic parade
was headed for _his_ room, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., rushed to the closet,
murmuring, "Safety first!" as usual, and stowed away his banjo. He was just
in the nick of time, for a second later there crowded into his room Captain
Butch, Pudge, Beef, Hefty, Biff, Monty, Roddy, Bunch, Tug, Buster, Coach
Corridas, and Thor, the latter duo bringing up the rear.

"Hicks, you unjailed public nuisance!" said Butch Brewster, affectionately.
"We, whom you behold, are going for to enter into that room across the
corridor from your boudoir, and hold a football signal quiz and confab. We
should request that you permit a thunderous silence to originate in your
cozy retreat, for the period of at least a hour! A word to the _wise_ is
sufficient, so I have spoken several, that even you may comprehend my
meaning."

"I gather you, fluently!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., taking up
"Treasure Island" and his graceful pose once more. "Leave me to peruse the
thrilling pages of this classic blood-and-thunder book, and I'll cause a
beautiful serenity to obtain hither."

"See that you do, you pestiferous insect!" threatened Beef McNaughton,
ominously. "Come on, fellows, Hicks can't escape our vengeance, if
he bursts into what he fatuously believes is song. Just let him act
hippicanarious, and--"

When the Gold and Green eleven, half of which, to judge by size, was
Thor, had gone with Coach Corridan into the room across from that of the
blithesome Hicks, the sunny-souled Senior tried to resume his perusal of
"Treasure Island," but somehow the spell had been broken by the invasion of
his cozy quarters. So, after vainly essaying to take up the thread of the
story again, Hicks arose and stood by the window, gazing across the campus
to Bannister Field, deserted, since the football team rested for the game
of the morrow. As he stood there, the gladsome Hicks reflected seriously.
He thought of "Thor," and decided sorrowfully that the problem of awakening
that stolid Colossus to a full understanding of campus life was as unsolved
as ever.

"But I _won't_ give it up!" declared Hicks, determinedly. "I have always
been good at math, and I won't let this problem baffle me."

Since the night, two weeks back, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had made his
memorable speech, explaining to his fellow-students the "Billon-Dollar
Mystery," and arousing in them a vast admiration for the slow-minded,
plodding John Thorwald, every collegian had done his best to befriend the
big Freshman. Upperclassmen helped him with his studies. Despite his almost
rude refusal to meet any advances, the collegians always had a cheery
greeting for him, and his class-mates, in fear and trembling, invaded
his den at times, to show him they were his friends. Yet, despite these
whole-hearted efforts, only two of old Bannister did the silent Thor
seem to desire as comrades: the festive Hicks, for reasons known,
and--remarkable to chronicle--little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous,
studious "Human Encyclopedia."

"Colossus and Lilliputian!" the Phillyloo Bird quaintly observed once when
this strangely assorted duo appeared on the campus. "Say, fellows--some
time Thor will accidentally sit on Theophilus, and we'll have another
mystery, the disappearance of our boner!"

The generous Hicks, longing for Thor's awakening to come, was not in the
least jealous of his loyal little friend, Theophilus. In fact, he was
sincerely delighted that the unemotional Hercules desired the comradeship
of the grind, and he urged the Human Encyclopedia to strive constantly to
arouse in Thor a realization of college existence, and a true knowledge of
its meaning. At least one thing, Theophilus reported, had been achieved by
Hicks' defense of Thorwald, and the subsequent attitude of the collegians--
the colossal Freshman was puzzled, quite naturally. When over three hundred
youths criticized, condemned, and berated him one night, and the next, even
before he reconsidered his decision about football, came under his window
and cheered him, no wonder the young Norwegian was bewildered.

On the football field, with his dogged determination, his bulldog way of
hanging on to things until he mastered them, big Thor progressed slowly,
and surely; the past Saturday, against the heavy Alton eleven, the blond
Freshman had been sent in for the second half, and, to quote an overjoyed
student, he had "busted things all up!" It seemed simply impossible to stop
that terrible rush of his huge body. Time after time he plowed through the
line for yards, and old Bannister, visioning Thor distributing Hamilton and
Ballard over the field, in the big games, literally hugged itself.

And yet, despite Thorwald's invincible prowess, despite the vast joy of
old Bannister at the chances of the Championship, some intangible
shadow hovered over the campus. It brooded over the training-table, the
shower-rooms after scrimmage, on Bannister Field during practice; as yet,
no one had dared to give it form, by voicing his thought, but though no
youth dared admit it, something was wrong, there was a defective cog in the
machinery of that marvelous machine, the Gold and Green eleven.

"'Oh, just leave it to Hicks," quoth that sunny youth, at length, turning
from the window; "I'll solve the problem, or what is more probable,
Theophilus may stir that sodden hulk of humanity, after awhile. I won't
worry about it, for that gets me nothing, and it will all come out O.K.,
I'm positive!"

At this moment, just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., picked up "Treasure Island"
again, he heard drifting across the corridor from the room opposite, in
Butch Brewster's familiar voice:

"--Yes, I'll win three more Bs'--one each in football, baseball and track;
next spring, I'll annex my last B at old Bannister, fellows--"

His _last_ B--The words struck the blithesome Hicks with sledge-hammer
force. Big Butch Brewster was talking of his last B, when he, T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., had never won his first; with a feeling almost of alarm, the
sunny youth realized that this was his final year at old Bannister, his
last chance to win his athletic letter, and to make happy his beloved Dad,
by helping him to realize part of his life's ambition--to behold his son
shattering Hicks, Sr.'s, wonderful record. His final chance, and outside of
his hopes of winning the track award in the high-jump, Hicks saw no way to
win his B.

Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., as has been chronicled, the beloved Dad of the
cheery Senior, a Pittsburgh millionaire Steel King, was a graduate of old
Bannister, Class of '92. While wearing the Gold and Green, he had made
an all-round athletic record never before, or afterward, rivaled on
the campus. At football, basketball, track, and baseball, he was a
scintillating star, annexing enough letters to start an alphabet, had they
been different ones. Quite naturally, when the Doctor, speaking anent
the then infantile Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., said, "Mr. Hicks, it's a
boy!"--the one-time Bannister athlete straightway began to dream of the day
when his only son and heir should follow in his Dad's footsteps, shattering
the records made at Bannister, and at Yale, by Hicks, _père_.

However, to quote a sporting phrase, the son of the Steel King "upset the
dope!" At the start of his Senior year, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had not
annexed a single athletic honor, nor did the signs point to any records
being in peril of getting shattered by his prowess; as Hicks himself
phrased it, "Dame Nature was _some stingy_ when she handed out the Hercules
stuff to me!" The happy-go-lucky youth, when he matriculated as a Freshman
at Bannister College, was builded on the general lines of a toothpick, and
had he elected to follow a pugilistic career, a division somewhat lighter
than the tissue paperweight class would have had to be devised to
accommodate the splinter-student. A generous, sunny-souled, intensely
democratic collegian, despite his father's wealth, the festive Hicks, with
his room always open-house to all; his firm friendship for star athlete
or humble boner, his never-failing sunny nature, together with his famous
Hicks Personally Conducted Expeditions downtown to the Beef-Steak Busts he
had originated, in his three years at old Bannister, had made himself the
most popular and beloved youth on the campus, but, he had not won his B!

And he had tried. With a full realization, of his Dad's ambition, his
life-dream to behold his son a great athlete, the blithesome Hicks had
tried, but with hilariously futile results. Nature had endowed him, as he
told his loyal comrade, Butch Brewster, with "the Herculean build of a
Jersey mosquito," and his athletic powers neared zero infinity. In his
Freshman year, he inaugurated his athletic career by running the wrong way
in the Sophomore-Freshman football game, scoring a touchdown that won for
the enemy, and naturally, after that performance, every athletic effort was
greeted with jeers by the students.

"I _have_ tried!" said Hicks, producing two letters from the study-table,
"But not like I should have tried. I could never have played on the eleven,
or on the nine, but I have a chance in the high-jump. I know I've been
indolent and care-free, and I ought to have trained harder. Well, I just
must win my track B this spring, but as to keeping the rash promise I made
to Butch as a Freshman--not a chance!"

It had been at the close of his Freshman year, after Hicks, in the
Interclass Track Meet, had smashed hurdles, broken high-jumping cross-bars,
finished last in several events, and jeopardized his life with the shot and
hammer, that he made the rash vow to which he now had reference. Butch,
believing his sunny friend had entered all the events just to entertain the
crowd, in his fun-loving way, was teasing him about his ridiculous fiascos,
when Hicks had told him the story--how his Dad wanted him to try and be a
famous athlete; he showed Butch a letter, received before the meet, asking
his son to try every event, and to keep on training, so as to win his B
before he graduated. Butch, great-hearted, was surprised and moved by the
revelation that the gladsome youth, even as he was jeered by his friendly
comrades, who thought he performed for sport, was striving to have his
Dad's dream come true; he had sympathized with his classmate, and then his
scatter-brained colleague had aroused his indignation by vowing, with a
swaggering confidence:

"'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--"

"_Hicks_!" 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_ 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:


DEAR SON THOMAS:

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.

However, I realize that my fond dream can never come true. Nature has not
made you naturally strong and athletic, and what athletic success you may
gain, must come from long and hard training and practice. If you can only
win your college letter, your B, Thomas, while at Bannister, I shall be
fully content.

I said nothing when you failed even to try for the teams at your
Preparatory School, but I did hope that at Bannister, under good coaches
and trainers, you would at least endeavor to win your letter. I must admit
that I am disappointed, for you have not even made an earnest effort to
find your event. Often, by trying everything, especially in a track meet, a
fellow finds his event, and later stars in it.

I really believe that if you would start in now to develop yourself by
regular, systematic gymnasium work, and if you would only try, in a year
or so you could make a Bannister team. Theodore Roosevelt, you know, was a
puny, weakly boy, but he built himself up, and became an athlete. If you
want to please me, start now and find your event. Attempt all the sports,
all the various track and field events, and always build yourself up by
exercise in the Gym.

And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after conscientious
effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your college
and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember, the fellow
who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good enough to give
the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first track squad
a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister.

I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will make me happy
just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the scrubs, just to
hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in that humble
unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you _can_ win
your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take until your
Senior year, but once you start, _stick_.

Your loving

DAD.


"Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a hail of, "Oh,
you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet Wigglesworth's
abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness. Don't wait
for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking football."

Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that had known
and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that his athletic
efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because of a
great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second letter,
dated a few days before:


DEAR SON THOMAS:

You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your final chance
to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if you win your
letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for nature
gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up to you.
Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your track B,
and I'll rest content!

Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the top in your
studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak highly of you.
Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud of you.
Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those sons of old
Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win your gold B
by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get in a big
game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan
about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades--they just don't
know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma Mater
to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the goods! Your
peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs it this
season, I hear--


There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as the behemoth
Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks, Sr.,
mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get
confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe it to your
Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you have the
goods--" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., possessed no more
football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet--

"Another Hicks mystery," groaned Butch, holding the two letters
thoughtfully. "And father and son are in it, But if Hicks don't get his B,
it will be a shame. _Say, I know--_"

A few moments later, good-hearted Butch Brewster, in the behalf of his
sunny comrade, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was making to the Gold and Green
eleven and Coach Corridan, as eloquent a speech as that blithesome youth,
two weeks before, had made in defense of the condemned and ostracized Thor!
He read them the two letters of Hicks' beloved Dad, and told how the cheery
collegian wanted to win his B for his father's sake; graphically, he
related Hicks, Sr.'s, great ambition, and how Hicks, Jr., for three years
had vainly tried to make good at some athletic sport, and to win his
letter. Big Butch, warming to his theme, spoke of how T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., letting the students believe that he entered every event in the track
meet of his Freshman year just for fun, had been trying to find his event,
and train for it; he explained that the festive youth, ever sunny-natured,
under the good-humored jeers of his comrades, who did not know his real
purpose, really yearned to win his B.

"You fellows, and you, Coach," he thundered, "all know how Hicks, unable
to make the 'Varsity, has always done humble service for old Bannister,
cheerfully, gladly; how he keeps the athletes in good spirits at the
training-table, and is always on hand after scrimmage to rub them out. He
is chock-full of college spirit, and is intensely loyal to his Alma Mater.
Why, look how he rounded up Thor--he ought to have his B for that!"

Thanks to Butch's speech, the Gold and Green football stars, most of whom
were Hicks' closest friends, saw the scatter-brained, happy-go-lucky
youth in a new light; his eloquent defense of John Thorwald had shown old
Bannister that he could be serious, but the knowledge that T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., even as he made a ridiculous farce in athletics, was ambitious
to win his B, just to make his Dad happy, stunned them. For three years,
the sunny Hicks' appearance on old Bannister Field, to try for a team, had
meant a small-sized riot of jeers and good-natured ridicule at his expense;
but Hicks had always grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat,--and no one but good
Butch Brewster, all the time, had known how in earnest the lovable
collegian was.

"Now," concluded Butch, "Hicks _may_ win a B in track work, if he gets a
first place in the high-jump, and if so, O.K., but if he does not--"

"You mean--" Monty Merriweather--understood, "if he fails, then the
Athletic Association ought to--"

"Present him with a B!" said Butch, earnestly, "as a deserved reward for
his faithful loyalty and service to old Bannister's athletic teams. Don't
let him graduate without gaining his letter, and making his Dad realize a
part of his ambition--a two-thirds vote of the Athletic Association can
award him his letter, and when all the students know the truth about his
ridiculous fiasco on Bannister Field, and realize the serious purpose
beneath them all, they--"

"_We'll give him his B_!" shouted Beef, loudly, "If he fails in track work
next spring, we'll vote him his letter, anyway!"

Out in the corridor, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., returning from Skeet
Wigglesworth's room and entering his own cozy quarters, could not help
hearing the conversation, as the doors of both his den and the room across
the corridor were open. A great love for his comrades came to his impulsive
heart, and a mist before his eyes, as he heard how they wanted to vote him
his B in case he failed to win it in track work; he thrilled at Butch's
speech, but--

[Illustration B: 'Fellows,...I--I thank you from the bottom of my heart']

"Fellows," he startled them by appearing in the doorway, "I--I thank you
from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't help hearing, you know--I _do_
appreciate your generous thoughts, but--I can't and won't accept my B
unless I win it according to the rule of the Athletic Association."

A silence, and then Butch Brewster, gripping his comrade's hand
understandingly, held out to him the two letters.

"Forgive me, old man," he breathed, "for reading them aloud, but I wanted
the fellows to know, to appreciate you! And say, Hicks, what does your Dad
mean by saying that you are the _'Class Kid'_ of Yale, '96, and that those
sons of old Eli want you to win your letter? And what does he mean by
saying that you may get in a _big game_--may _win_ it--that you have
the goods in football, but lack the confidence to announce it to Coach
Corridan? Also that old Bannister needs just the peculiar brand you
possess?"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his sunny, Cheshire cat grin illuminating his
cherubic countenance, beamed on the eleven and Coach Corridan a moment.

"Oh, that's a _mystery_," he said, cheerfully. "If I _do_ gain the courage
and confidence, I'll explain, but unless I do--it remains a--_mystery_!"






CHAPTER VIII

COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN


"ALL MEMBERS OF THE FIRST ELEVEN ARE URGENTLY REQUESTED TO BE PRESENT IN
THE ROOM OF T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.--AT EIGHT P. M. TONIGHT; YOU WILL BE
DETAINED ONLY A FEW MINUTES, BUT LET EVERY PLAYER COME, AS A MATTER OF
EXTREME IMPORTANCE WILL BE PRESENTED. PATRICK HENRY COERIDAN, HEAD-COACH."

"Now, what do you suppose is up Coach Corridan's sleeve?" demanded T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., cheerfully. "Has Ballard learned our signals, or some
Bannister student sold them to a rival team, as per the usual football
story? Though the notice doth not herald it, I am to be present, for my
room is to be used, and the Coach gave me a special invitation to cut the
Gordian knot with my keen intellect."

The sunny Hicks, with Butch, Beef, Tug, and Monty, had just come from
"Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, after supper; they had paused
before the Bulletin Board at the Gymnasium entrance, where all college
notices were posted, and the Coach's urgent request had caught their gaze.
The announcement had caused quite a stir on the campus. The Bannister
youths stood in excited groups talking of it, and in the dormitories it
superseded all thought of study; however, there seemed little chance that
any but the "'Varsity" and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who was always consulted
in football problems, would know what took place in this meeting.

"There is only one way to find out, Hicks," responded big Butch Brewster,
his arm across his blithesome comrade's shoulders, "and that is, attend
the meeting! You can wager that every member of the eleven will be there,
except Thor--he regards it as 'foolishness,' I suppose, and he won't spare
that precious time from his studies."

At five minutes past eight, Butch's prophecy was fulfilled, for every
member of the eleven _was_ in Hicks' cozy room, except Thor, the Prodigious
Prodigy, whose presence would have caused a mild sensation. It was an
extremely quiet and orderly gathering, for Coach Corridan, who had the
floor, was so grave that he impressed the would-be sky-larking youths.
Having their undivided attention, he proceeded to make a speech that, to
all intents and purposes, had much the same effect on the team and Hicks as
a Zeppelin's bombs on London:

"Boys," he spoke, in forceful sentences, driving straight to the point,
"I am going to take the eleven, and Hicks, whose suggestions are always
timely, into my confidence, in the hope that we, working together, may
carry out an idea of mine for the awakening of Thor to a realization
of things! I ask you not to let what I shall tell you be known to the
student-body, but you fellows play with Thor every day, and you will
understand the crisis, and appreciate _why_ it is done, if I decide it
necessary to drop John Thorwald from the football squad."

"Drop Thor from the squad!" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., staggered, and
then pandemonium broke loose among the players. Drop the Prodigious Prodigy
from the squad, why, what _could_ the Slave-Driver be thinking of? Why,
look how Thorwald, on the scrubs, tore through the heavy 'Varsity line for
big gains. He was simply unstoppable; and yet, almost on the eve of the big
game that old Bannister depended on Thor to win by his splendid prowess, he
might be dropped from the squad! Excited exclamations sounded from Captain
Butch Brewster, Beef, and the others of the Gold and Green eleven:

"Why not give the big games to Ballard and Ham, Coach?"

"Say, shoot Theophilus Opperdyke in at full-back!"

"Good-by, championship! No hopes now, fellows!"

"If Thor doesn't play in the Big Games--good night!"

A greater sensation could not have been caused even had kindly white-haired
Prexy announced his intention of challenging Jess Willard for the World's
Heavy-Weight Championship. Dropping that human battering-ram, Thor, from
the football, squad was something utterly undreamed-of. Coach Corridan
raised his hand for silence, and the youths subsided.

"Hear me carefully, boys," he urged, "I know that old Bannister has come to
regard John Thorwald as invincible, to use his vast bulk as a foundation
on which to build hopes of the Championship, which is a bad policy, for no
team can be a _one-man_ team and win. I realize that as a football player,
Thor hasn't an equal in the State today, and if he had the right spirit, he
would have few in the country. It would be ridiculous to decry his prowess,
for he is a physical phenomenon. But you remember T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s,
splendid defense of Thor, a week or so ago? Hicks gave you a full and clear
explanation of the big fellow, and showed you _why_ he does not know what
college spirit is, what loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater mean! His
masterly speech changed your attitude toward Thor, and even before he
decided to play football, for Mr. Hicks' sake, you admired him, because
of his indomitable purpose, his promise to his dying mother. Now _I_ am
telling you why he may be dropped from the squad, because I want you
fellows to give Thor a square deal, to remember what Hicks told you of him,
and to keep on striving to awaken him to the true meaning of campus years,
to make him realize that college life is more than a mere buying of
knowledge. I want to keep him on the squad, if humanly possible, and I
shall outline my plot later.

"Tomorrow we play Latham College. It is the last game before the big games
for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Saturday after this,
we play Hamilton, and the following week Ballard, the Champions! The eleven
I send in against those teams must be a solid unit, _one_ in spirit and
purpose--every member of the Gold and Green team must be welded with his
team-mates, and they must forget everything but that their Alma Mater must
win the Championship! With no thought of self-glory, no other purpose in
playing than a love for old Bannister, every fellow must go into those
games to fight for his Alma Mater! Now, as for Thor, I need not tell you
that he is not in sympathy with our ambition; he simply does not understand
campus tradition and spirit. He is as yet not possessed of an Alma Mater;
he plays football only because of gratitude to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks,
Sr., and he hates to lose the time from his studies for the practice.
The football squad knows that his presence is a veritable wet blanket on
enthusiasm and the team's fighting spirit."

It was true. That intangible shadow of something wrong, brooding over
training-table, shower-room, and Bannister Field, that self-evident
truth which almost every collegian had for days confessed to himself yet
hesitated to voice, had been given definite form by Coach Corridan talking
to the eleven. The good that Thorwald might do for the team by his superb
prowess and massive bulk was more than offset and nullified by his
attitude.

To the blond Colossus, daily practice was unutterable mental torture. His
mind was on his studies, to which his bulldog purpose shackled him; he
begrudged the time spent on Bannister Field; he was stolid, silent, aloof.
He scarcely ever spoke, except when addressed. He reported for practice at
the last second, went through the scrimmage like a great, dumb, driven ox,
doing as he was ordered; and when the squad was dismissed he hurried to his
room. He was among the squad, but not of them; he neither understood nor
cared about their love for old Bannister, their vast desire to win for
their Alma Mater; he played football because he was grateful to Hicks, Sr.,
for helping him to get started toward his goal, but as Coach Corridan now
told the 'Varsity, he killed the squad's enthusiasm,

"All of this cannot fail to damage the _esprit de corps_, the _morale_, of
the eleven," declared Coach Corridan, having outlined Thor's attitude. "I
know that every member of the squad, if Thor played the game because of
college spirit, for love of old Bannister, would rejoice at his prowess.
But as it is they are justly resentful that he is not in the spirit of the
game. What we may gain by his playing, we lose because the others cannot do
their best with his example to hurt their fighting spirit. I do not want,
nor will I have on my eleven, any player who plays for other reasons than a
love for his Alma Mater, be he a Hogan, Brickley, Thorpe, or Mahan. I have
waited, hoping Thorwald would be awakened, as Hicks explained, but now I
must act. Tomorrow's game with Latham must see Thor awakened, or I must,
for the sake of the eleven, drop him from the squad for the rest of the
season.

"Yet I beg of you, in case the plan I shall propose fails, remember Hicks'
appeal! Do not condemn or ostracize John Thorwald in any degree. He has
three more seasons of football, so let us keep on trying to make him
understand campus life, college tradition. Be his friends, help him all you
can, and sooner or later he will awaken. Something may suddenly shock him
to a true understanding of what old Bannister means to a fellow. Or perhaps
the awakening will be slow, but it must come. And Bannister can win without
Thor, don't forget that! We'll make one final effort to awaken Thor, and
if it fails, just forget him, boys, so far as football goes, and watch the
Gold and Green win that championship."

"What is your scheme, Coach?" questioned Captain Butch Brewster, his honest
countenance showing how heavily the responsibility of team-leader weighed
upon him. "You are right; as Thor is now, he is a handicap to the eleven,
but--"

"My idea is this," explained the Slave-Driver earnestly. "Select some
student to go to Thorwald and try to show him that unless he gets into the
game and plays for old Bannister, he will be dropped from the squad. If
possible, let the fellow make him understand that, in his case, it will be
a shame and a dishonor. Now, Butch, you and Hicks can probably approach
Thor, or perhaps you know of someone who--"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cherubic countenance showed the light of dawning
inspiration, and Coach Corridan paused, as the sunny youth exhibited a
desire to say something, with him not by any means a phenomenal
happening; given the floor, the blithesome youth burst forth excitedly:
"Theophilus--Theophilus Opperdyke is the one! He has more influence over
Thor than any other student, and the big fellow likes the little boner.
Thor will at least listen to Theophilus, which Is more than any of us can
gain from him."

After the meeting had adjourned, and the last inspection had been made in
the other dorms, the Seniors being exempt, several members of the Gold and
Green team--Captain Butch, Beef, Pudge, Monty, Roddy, and Bunch, together
with little Theophilus Opperdyke, dragged from his studies--foregathered in
the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; those who had heard the
coach's talk were still stunned at the ban likely to be placed on the
Brobdingnagian Thor. On the campus outside Creighton Hall, a horde of
Bannister youths, incited by Tug Cardiff, who gave them no reason for his
act, were making a strenuous effort to awaken the Prodigious Prodigy,
evidently depending on noise to achieve that end, for a vast sound-wave
rolled up to Hicks' windows--"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor!
He's--all--right!"

"Listen!" exploded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignantly. "You and I,
Theophilus, would give a Rajah's ransom just to hear the fellows whoop it
up for us like that, and it has no more effect on that sodden hulk of a
Thor than bombarding an English super-dreadnaught with Roman candles!
Howsomever, Coach Corridan exploded a shrapnel bomb on old Bannister's
eleven tonight."

Then Hicks carefully outlined to the dazed little boner the substance of
the coach's talk to the team, and Theophilus was alarmed when he thought of
Thor's being dropped from the squad. When Captain Butch had outlined the
Slave-Driver's plot for striving to awaken the Colossus to a realization of
what a disgrace it would be to be sent from the gridiron, though he did not
announce that the Human Encyclopedia had been elected to carry out Coach
Corridan's last-hope idea, Theophilus sat on the edge of the chair,
blinking owlishly at them over his big-rimmed spectacles.

"After all, fellows," quavered Theophilus nervously, "Coach Corridan, if he
drops Thor from the squad, won't create such a riot on the campus as you
might expect. You see, the students, even as they built and planned on
Thor, gradually came to know that there is vastly more to be considered
than physical power. That great bulk actually acts as a drag on the eleven,
because Thor isn't in sympathy with things! Still, if he could only be
aroused, awakened, wouldn't the team play football, with him striving for
old Bannister, and not because he thinks he ought to play, for Hicks' dad?
Oh, I _do_ hope the Coach's plan succeeds, and he awakens tomorrow; I
know the boys won't condemn him, if he doesn't, but--I--I want him to
understand!"

"It's his last chance this season," reflected T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
enshrouded in a penumbra of gloom. "I made a big boast that I would round
up a smashing full-back. I returned to Bannister with the Prodigious
Prodigy. I made a big mystery of him, and then--biff!--Thor quit football.
Then I explained the mystery, and got the fellows to admire him, and when
Thor decided to play the game I thought 'All O.K.; I'll just wait until
he scatters Hamilton and Ballard over Bannister Field, then I'll swagger
before Butch and say, "Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!"' But now
Thor has spilled the beans again."

"I--I hope that the one you have chosen to appeal to Thor--" spoke
Theophilus timorously, "will succeed, for--Oh, I _don't_ want him to be
dropped from the squad, and--"

Big Butch Brewster, who had been gazing at little Theophilus Opperdyke with
a basilisk glare that perturbed the bewildered Human Encyclopedia, suddenly
strode across the room and placed his hand on the grind's thin shoulders.

"Theophilus, old man, it's up to you!" he said earnestly. "Thor has a
strong regard for you; in fact, outside of his good-natured tolerance
for Hicks, you alone have his friendship. Now I want you to go to him,
Theophilus, and make a last appeal to Thor. Try to awaken him, to make him
understand his peril of being dropped from the squad, unless he plays
the game for his college! It's for old Bannister, old man, for your Alma
Mater--"

"Go to it, Theophilus!" urged Beef McNaughton. "Coach Corridan said Thor
might be suddenly awakened by a shock, but no electric battery can shock
that Colossus, and, besides, miracles don't happen nowadays. Yes, it's up
to you, old man."

For a moment little Theophilus, his big-rimmed spectacles falling off
as fast as he replaced them, and his puny frame tense with excitement,
hesitated. Sitting on the extreme edge of the chair, he surveyed his
comrades solemnly and was convinced that they were in earnest. Then, "I--I
will _try_, sir!" exclaimed Theophilus, who would _never_ forget his
Freshman training. "I'm _sure_ Hicks, or somebody, could do It better than
I; but--I'll try!"






CHAPTER IX

THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK


  "College ties can ne'er be broken--
  Loyal will remain each heart;
  Though the last farewell be spoken--
  And from Bannister we part!

  "Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!
  Echoes softly from each heart;
  We'll be ever loyal to thee--
  Till we from life shall part!"

Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, intensely studious Human Encyclopedia,
stood at the window of John Thorwald's study room. That behemoth, desiring
quiet, had moved his study-table and chair to a vacant room across the
second-floor corridor of Creighton, the Freshman dormitory, when the
Bannister youths cheered him, and he was still there, so that Theophilus,
on his mission, had finally located him by his low rumblings, as he
laboriously read out his Latin. The little Senior was gazing across the
brightly lighted Quadrangle. He could see into the rooms of the other
class dormitories, where the students studied, skylarked, rough-housed,
or conversed on innumerable topics; from a room in Nordyke, the abode of
care-free Juniors, a splendidly blended sextette sang songs of their
Alma Mater, and their rich voices drifted across the Quad. to Thor and
Theophilus:

  "Though thy halls we leave forever
  Sadly from the campus turn;
  Yet our love shall fail thee never
  For old Bannister we'll yearn!
    Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!"

Theophilus turned from the window, and looked despairingly at that young
Colossus, Thor. The behemoth Norwegian, oblivious to everything except the
geometry problem now causing him to sweat, rested his massive head on his
palms, elbows on the study-table, and was lost in the intricate labyrinth
of "Let the line ABC equal the line BVD." The frail chair creaked under his
ponderous bulk. On the table lay an unopened letter that had come in the
night's mail, for, tackling one problem, the bulldog Hercules never let go
his grip until he solved it, and nothing else, not even Theophilus, could
secure his attention. Hence the Human Encyclopedia, trembling at the
terrific importance of the mission entrusted to him, waited, thrilled by
the Juniors' songs, which failed to penetrate Thor's mind.

"Oh, what _can_ I do?" breathed Theophilus, sitting down nervously on the
edge of a chair and peering owlishly over his big-rimmed spectacles at the
stolid John Thorwald. "I am sure that, in time, I can help Thor to--to know
campus life better; but--_tomorrow_ is his last chance! He will be dropped
from the squad, unless--"

As Thor at last leaned back and gazed at his little comrade, just then, to
the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," an augmented chorus drifted across the
Quadrangle:

  "And we'll sing one song
  For the college that we love--
  For our dear old Bannister--good-by"

To the Bannister students there was something tremendously queer in the
friendship of Theophilus and Thor. That the huge Freshman, of all the
collegians, should have chosen the timorous little boner was most puzzling.
Yet, to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a keen reader of human nature, it was
clear; Thorwald thought of nothing but study, Theophilus was a grind,
though he possessed intense college spirit, hence Thor was naturally drawn
to the little Senior by the mutual bond of their interest in books, and
Theophilus, with his hero-worshiping soul, intensely admired the splendid
purpose of John Thorwald, toiling to gain knowledge, because of the promise
of his dying mother. The grind, who thought that next to T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., Thor was the "greatest ever," as Hicks phrased it, had been, doing
what that care-free collegian termed "missionary work," with the stolid,
unimaginative Prodigious Prodigy for some weeks. Thrilled with the thought
that he worked for his Alma Mater, he quietly strove to make Thorwald
glimpse the true meaning and purpose of college life and its broadness of
development. The loyal Theophilus lost no opportunity of impressing his
behemoth friend with the sacred traditions of the campus, or of explaining
why Thor was wrong in characterizing all else than study as foolishness and
waste of time.

"Thor," began Theophilus timidly yet determinedly, for he was serving old
Bannister now, "old man, do you feel that you are giving the fellows at
Bannister a square deal?"

John Thorwald, slowly tearing open the letter that had come that night,
and had lain, unnoticed, on the study-table while he wrestled with his
geometry, turned suddenly. The Human Encyclopedia's vast earnestness and
the strange query he had fired at Thor, surprised even that stolid mammoth.

"Why, what do you mean, Theophilus?" spoke Thor slowly. "A square deal?
Why, I owe them nothing! I sacrifice my time for them, leaving my studies
to go out and waste precious time foolishly on football. Why--"

"I mean this," Theophilus kept doggedly on, his earnest desire to stir Thor
conquering his natural timidity. "You were brought to old Bannister by
Hicks, who made a great mystery of you, so we knew nothing of you; but the
fellows all thought you were willing to play football. Then, after they
got enthused, and builded hopes of the championship on _you_, came
your quitting. Hicks defended you, Thor, and changed the boys' bitter
condemnation to vast admiration, by telling of your life, your father's
being a castaway, your mother's dying wish, your toil to get learning, and
your inability to grasp college life. Then from gratitude to Mr. Hicks you
started to play again--naturally, the students waxed enthusiastic, when you
ripped the 'Varsity to pieces, but now you may be dropped by the coach,
after tomorrow, because you don't play for old Bannister, and your
indifference kills the team's fighting spirit. You do not care if you are
dropped; it will give you more time to study, and relieve you of your
obligation, as you so quixotically view it, to play because Mr. Hicks will
be glad; but--think of the fellows.

"They, Thor, disappointed in you, their hopes of your bringing by your
massive body and huge strength the Championship to old Bannister shattered,
are still your friends--they of the eleven, I mean especially, for, as yet,
the rest do not know you may be dropped. And the fellows came beneath your
window tonight to cheer you; they will do so, Thor, even if you are dropped
and they know that you will not use that prodigious power for their Alma
Mater in the big games; they will stand by you, for they understand! Just
think, old man; haven't the fellows, despite your rude rebuffs, _tried_
to be your comrades? Haven't they helped you to get settled to work and
assisted you with your studies? Why, you have been a big boor, cold and
aloof, you have upset their hopes of you in football, and yet they have no
condemnation for you, naught but warm friendliness.

"You are not giving them or yourself a square deal, Thor! You won't even
_try_ to understand campus life, to grasp its real purpose, to realize what
tradition is! The time will come, Thor, when you will see your mistake; you
will yearn for their good fellowship, you will learn that getting knowledge
is not all of college life. You will know that this 'silly foolishness' of
singing songs and giving the yell, of rooting for the eleven, of loyalty
and love for one's Alma Mater, is something worth while. And you may find
it out too late. Oh, if you could only understand that it isn't what you
take from old Bannister that makes a man of you, it is what you give to
your college--in athletics, in your studies, in every phase of campus life;
that in toiling and sacrificing for your Alma Mater you grow and develop,
and reap a rich reward!"

Could T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch Brewster, and the Gold and Green eleven
have heard little Theophilus' fervent and eloquent appeal to John Thorwald,
they would have felt like giving three cheers for him. They loved this
pathetic little boner, who, because of his pitifully frail body, could
never fight for old Bannister on gridiron, diamond, or track, and they
tremendously admired him for working for his college and for the redemption
of Thor. Timorous and shrinking by nature, whenever his Alma Mater, or a
friend, needed him the Human Encyclopedia fought down his painful timidity
and came up to scratch nobly.

It was Theophilus whose clear logic had vastly aided T. Haviland Hicks,
Jr., to originate The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, in 1919's Sophomore
year, and quell Roddy Perkins' Freshman Equal Rights campaign. In fact, it
had been the boner's suggestion that gave Hicks his needed inspiration.
And, a Junior, Theophilus had been elected business manager of the
_Bannister Weekly_, with Hicks as editor-in-chief as a colossal joke. The
entire burden of that almost defunct periodical had been thrust on those
two, and, thanks to the grind's intensely humorous "copy," the _Weekly_ had
been revived and rebuilt. And Theophilus, in writing the humorous articles,
had been moved by a great ambition to do something for old Bannister.

"Look at me, Thor!" continued Theophilus Opperdyke, his puny body dwarfed
as he faced the colossal Prodigious Prodigy. "A poor, weak, helpless
nothing! I'd cheerfully sacrifice all the scholastic honor or glory I ever
won, or shall win, just to make a touchdown for the Gold and Green, just to
win a baseball game, or to break the tape in a race for old Bannister!
And you--_you_, with that tremendous body, that massive bulk, that vast
strength--you won't play the game for your Alma Mater, you won't throw
that big frame into the scrimmage, thrilled with a desire to win for your
college! Oh, what wonderful things you _could_ do with your powerful build;
but it means nothing to you, while _I--_ Oh, you don't care, you just won't
awaken; and, unless you do, in tomorrow's game you'll be dropped from the
squad, a disgrace."

John Thorwald-Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, that Gargantuan Freshman of
whom Bannister said he possessed no soul--stirred uneasily, shifted his
vast tonnage from one foot to the other, and stared at little Theophilus
Opperdyke. That solemn Senior, who had not seen the slightest effect his
"Missionary Work" was having on the stolid Thor, was in despair; but he did
not know the truth. As Hicks had once said, "You don't know nothing what
goes on in Thor's dome. There's a wall of solid concrete around the
machinery of his mind, and you can't see the wheels, belts, and cogs at
work!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with all his keen insight into human nature, had
failed utterly to diagnose Thor's case, had not even stumbled on the true
cause of that young giant's aloofness. The truth was unknown to anyone,
but there was one natural reason for John Thorwald's not mingling with his
fellows of the campus-the blond Colossus was inordinately bashful! From his
fifteenth year, Thor had seen the seamy side of life, had lived, grown and
developed among men. In his wanderings in the Klondike, the wild Northwest,
in Panama, his experiences as cabin-boy, miner, cowboy, lumber-jack, and
Canal Zone worker, he had existed where everything was roughness and
violence, where brawn, not brain, usually held sway, where supremacy was
won, kept, and lost by fists, spiked boots, or guns! In his adventurous
career, young Thorwald had but seldom encountered the finer things of life,
and his nature, while wholesome, was sturdy and virile, not likely to be
stirred by sentiment; so that now, among the good-natured, friendly boys of
old Bannister, he, accustomed to rude surroundings and rough acquaintances,
was bashful.

And Theophilus, as well as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot far wide of the
mark in believing that the big Hercules had no power to feel; he possessed
that power, but, with it the ability to conceal his feelings. They thought
nothing appealed to him, had stirred his soul, at college, but they were
wrong; true, Thor was unable to understand this new, strange life; he was
puzzled when the collegians condemned and ostracized him at first, when
he quit football because it was not a Faculty rule to play, but he was
grateful when Hicks defended him, and the admiration of the student-body
was welcome to him. He had thought he was doing all they desired of him,
when he went back to the game, and now--when Theophilus told him that he
might be dropped from the squad, he was bewildered. He could not understand
just why this could be, when he was reporting for scrimmage every day!

But the friendliness of the youths, their kind help with his studies,
the assistance of the genial Hicks, and, more than all, above even
the admiration of the Freshmen for his promise and purpose, the daily
missionary work of little Theophilus, for whom the massive Thor felt a real
love, had been slowly, insidiously undermining John Thorwald's reserve. No
longer did he condemn what he did not understand. At times he had a vague
feeling that all was not right, that, after all, he was missing something,
that study was not all; and yet, bashful as he was, fearing to appear
rough, crude, and uncouth among these skylarking youths, Thor kept on his
silent, lonely way, and they thought him untouched by their overtures. Of
late, when unobserved, the big Freshman had stood by the window, watching
the collegians on the campus, listening to their songs of old Bannister,
and yet because he felt embarrassed when with them, he gave no sign that he
cared.

Now, however, the splendid appeal of loyal, timorous Theophilus stirred
Thor, and yet he could not break down the wall of reserve he had builded
around himself. He had deluded himself that this comradeship was not for
him, that he could never mingle with these happy-go-lucky youths, that
he must plod straight ahead, and live to himself, because his past had
roughened him.

"You are a Freshman!" spoke Theophilus, unaware that forces were at work on
Thor, and making a last effort. "You stand on the very threshold of your
campus years; everything is before you. I am at the journey's end--very
nearly, for in June I graduate from old Bannister. I never had the chance
to fight for my Alma Mater on the athletic field, and you--Oh, think of
what you can do! About to leave the campus, I, and my class-mates, realize
how dear our college has become to us. If _you_ could just know that
Bannister means something to you, even now, if you only felt it, you
could make your years mean great things to you. Thor, could you leave old
Bannister tomorrow without regret, without one sigh for the dear old place?
We, who soon shall leave it forever, fully understand Shakespeare, when in
a sonnet he wrote:

  "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong--
  To love that well which thou must leave ere long!"

There was a silence, and then Thor slowly drew out a letter from its
envelope, scanning the scrawl across its pages. A few moments, while its
meaning seemed to seep into his slow-acting mind, and then a look of
helpless bewilderment, as though the stolid Freshman just could not
understand at all, came to his face; a minute John Thorwald stood, as in a
trance, staring dully at the letter.

"Thor! Thor! What's the matter? What's wrong?" quavered the alarmed
Theophilus, "Have you gotten bad news?"

"Read it, read it," said the big Freshman lifelessly, extending the letter
to the startled Senior. "It's all over, I suppose, and I've got to go to
work again. I've got to leave college, and toil once more, and save. My
promise to my mother can't be fulfilled--yet. And just as I was getting
fairly started."

Theophilus Opperdyke hurriedly perused the message, which had come to Thor
in that night's mail but which the blond giant had let lie unnoticed while
he tackled his geometry. With difficulty Theophilus deciphered the scrawl
on an official letterhead:


THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANA STEAMSHIP LINE

(New York Offices)

Nov. 4, 19--.

DEAR SON:

I am writing to tell you that I've run into a sort of hurricane, and you
and I have got a hard blow to weather. I started you at college on the
$5,000 received from the heirs of Henry B. Kingsley, on whose yacht, as
you know, I was wrecked in the South Seas, and marooned for ten years. I
figured on giving you an education with that sum, eked out by my wages, and
what you earn in vacations.

I had the $5,000, untouched, in a New York bank, and I wanted to take it
over to Christiania; when I was about to sail on my last voyage, I drew out
the sum, and put it in care of the Purser of the _Norwhal_, on which I
was mate, intending, of course, to get it on docking, and deposit it in
Christiania. At the last hour I was transferred to the _Valkyrie_, to sail
a few days later, and I knew the _Norwhal's_ purser would leave the $5,000
for me in the Company's Christiania offices, so I did not bother to
transfer it to the _Valkyrie_.

Perhaps you read in the newspapers that the _Norwhal_ struck a floating
mine, and went down with a heavy loss of life. The Purser was among those
lost, and none of the ship's papers were saved; my $5,000, of course, went
down also.

I am sorry, John, but there seems nothing to do but for you to leave
college and work. For your mother's sake, I wish we could avoid it; but we
must wait and work and tackle it again. Your first term expenses are paid,
so stay until the term is out. Perhaps Mr. Hicks can give you a job in one
of his steel mills again, but we must work our own way, son. Don't lose
courage, we'll fight this out together with the memory of your promise to
your dying mother to spur you on. The road may be long and rocky but we'll
make it. Just work and save, and in a year or two you can start at college
again. You can study at night, too, and keep on learning.

I'll write later. Stay at college till the term is up, and in the meantime
try to land a job. However, you won't have any trouble to do that. Keep
your nerve, boy, for your mother's sake. It's a hard blow, but we'll
weather it, never fear, and reach port.

Your father,

JOHN THORWALD, SR.

P.S. I am sailing on the _Valkyrie_ today, will write you on my return to
New York, in a few weeks.


Theophilus looked at the massive young Norwegian, who had taken this
solar-plexus blow with that same stolid apathy that characterized his every
action. He wanted to offer sympathy, but he knew not how to reach Thor. He
fully understood how terrific the blow was, how it must stagger the
big, earnest Freshman, just as he, after ten years of grinding toil, of
sacrifice, of grim, unrelenting determination, had conquered obstacles and
fought to where he had a clear track ahead. Just as it seemed that fate had
given him a fair chance, with his father rescued and five thousand dollars
to give him a college course, this terrible misfortune had befallen him.
Theophilus realized what it must mean to this huge, silent Hercules, just
making good his promise to his dying mother, to give up his studies, and go
back to work, toil, labor, to begin all over again, to put off his college
years.

"Leave me, please," said Thor dully, apparently as unmoved by the blow
as he had been by Theophilus' appeal. "I--I would like to be alone, for
awhile."

Left alone, John Thorwald stood by the window, apparently not thinking of
anything in particular, as he gazed across the brightly lighted Quad. The
huge Freshman seemed in a daze--utterly unable to comprehend the disaster
that had befallen him; he was as stolid and impassive as ever, and
Theophilus might have thought that he did not care, even at having to give
up his college course, had not the Senior known better.

Across the Quadrangle, from the room of the Caruso-like Juniors,
accompanied by a melodious banjo-twanging, drifted:

  "Though thy halls we leave forever
  Sadly from the campus turn;
  Yet our love shall fail thee never
  For old Bannister we'll yearn!

  "'Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!'
  Echoes softly from each heart;
  We'll be ever loyal to thee
  Till we from life shall part."

Strangely enough, the behemoth Thorwald was not thinking so much of having
to give up his studies, of having to lay aside his books and take up again
the implements of toil. He was not pondering on the cruelty of fate in
making him abandon, at least temporarily, his goal; instead, his thoughts
turned, somehow, to his experiences at old Bannister, to the football
scrimmages, the noisy sessions in "Delmonico's Annex," the college
dining-hall, to the skylarking he had often watched in the dormitories. He
thought, too, of the happy, care-free youths, remembering Hicks, good Butch
Brewster, loyal little Theophilus; and as he reflected, he heard those
Juniors, over the way, singing. Just now they were chanting that
exquisitely beautiful Hawaiian melody, "Aloha Oe," or "Farewell to Thee,"
making the words tell of parting from their Alma Mater. There was something
in the refrain that seemed to break down Thor's wall of reserve, to melt
away his aloofness, and he caught himself listening eagerly as they sang.

Somehow he felt no desire to condemn those care-free youths, to call their
singing silly foolishness, to say they were wasting their time and their
fathers' money. Queer, but he actually liked to hear them sing, he realized
he had come to listen for their saengerfests. Now that he had to leave
college, for the first time he began to ponder on what he must leave. Not
alone books and study, but--

As he stood there, an ache in his throat, and an awful sorrow overwhelming
him, with the richly blended voices of the happy Juniors drifting across to
him, chanting a song of old Ballard, big Thor murmured softly:

"What did little Theophilus say? What was it Shakespeare wrote? Oh, I have
it:

  "'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong--
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.'"






CHAPTER X

THOR'S AWAKENING


  "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea,
  And we'll put Bannister in that hole!
  In that hole--in--that--hole--
  Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!"

"In the famous words of the late Mike Murphy," said T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
"the celebrated Yale and Penn track trainer, 'you can beat a team that
can't be beat, but--you can't beat a team that won't be beat!' Latham must
be in the latter class."

It was the Bannister-Latham game, and the first half had just ended.
Captain Butch Brewster's followers had trailed dejectedly from Bannister
Field to the Gym, where Head Coach Corridan was flaying them with a tongue
as keen as the two-edged sword that drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of
Eden. A cold, bleak November afternoon, a leaden sky lowered overhead, and
a chill wind swept athwart the field; in the concrete stands, the loyal
"rooters" of the Gold and Green, or of the Gold and Blue, shivered,
stamped, and swung their arms, waiting for the excitement of the scrimmage
again to warm them. Yet, the Bannister cohorts seemed silent and
discouraged, while the Latham supporters went wild, singing, cheering,
howling. A look at the score-board explained this:

    END OF FIRST HALF: SCORE:
      Bannister ........ 0
      Latham ........... 3

The statement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a gold and green
blanket and humped on the Bannister bench, to shivering little Theophilus
Opperdyke, the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and several more collegians
who had joined him when the half ended, was singularly appropriate. In
Latham's light, fast eleven, trained to the minute, coached to a shifty,
tricky style of play with numberless deceptive fakes from which they worked
the forward pass successfully, Bannister seemed to have encountered, as
Mike Murphy phrased it, "A team that won't be beat!" According to the
advance dope of the sporting writers, who, in football, are usually as good
prophets as the Weather Bureau, Bannister was booked to come out the winner
by at least five touchdowns to none. But here a half was gone, and Latham
led by three points, scored on a rather lucky field-goal!

The psychology of football is inexplicable. Yale, beaten by Virginia,
Brown, and Wash-Jeff, with the Blue's best gridiron star ineligible to
play, a team that seemed at odds with itself and the 'Varsity, mismanaged,
poorly coached, journeys to Princeton to battle with old Nassau; the Tiger,
Its tail as yet untwisted, presents its best eleven for several seasons, a
great favorite in the odds, and yet the final score is Yale, 14; Princeton,
7! A strange fear of the Bulldog, bred of many bitter defeats, of similar
occasions when a feeble Yale team aroused itself and trampled an invincible
Orange and Black eleven, when the Blue fought old Nassau with a team that
"wouldn't" be beat, gave victory to the poorer aggregation. So many things
unforeseen often enter into a football contest, shifting the balance of
power from the stronger to the weaker team. One eleven gets the jump on the
other, the favorite weirdly goes to pieces--team dissension may exist, a
dozen other causes--but, boiled down, Mike Murphy's statement was most
appropriate now.

Latham simply _would not_ be beat! The sporting pages had said: "Latham
simply can't beat Bannister!" Here the team, that could not be beaten was
being defeated, and the team that would not be defeated was, so far, the
victor. Perhaps the threatened dropping of Thor from the Gold and Green
squad shook somewhat Captain Butch's players; more likely, the Latham
aggregation got the jump on Bannister, opening up a bewildering attack of
criss-crosses, line plunges, cross-bucks, and tandems, from all of which
the forward pass frequently developed; they literally overwhelmed a
supposedly unbeatable team. And once they got the edge, it was hard for
Bannister to regain poise and to smother the fast plays that swept through
or around the bewildered eleven.

"We have _got_ to beat 'em!" growled Shad, "Mike Murphy or not. Why,
if little old Latham cleans us up, smash go our chances of the State
Championship! Oh, look at Thor--the big mountain of muscle. Why doesn't he
wake up, and go push that team off the field?"

Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, his vast hulk unprotected from the cold wind
by a football blanket, squatted on the ground, on the side-line, apparently
in a trance. Ever since the night before, when his father's letter had
dealt such a knock-out blow to his hopes of fulfilling the promise to his
dying mother, had rudely side-tracked him from the climb to his goal, the
blond giant had maintained that dumb apathy. If anything, it seemed that
the cruel blow of fate had only served to make Thor more stolid and
impassive than ever, and Theophilus wondered if the Colossus had really
grasped the import of the tragic letter as yet. The news had spread over
the college and campus, and the students were sincerely sorry for Thor. But
to offer him sympathy was about as difficult as consoling a Polar bear with
the toothache.

Coach Corridan, carrying out his plot, had decided not to start Thor in
the first half of the game. So the Norwegian Hercules, having received no
orders to the contrary, however, donned togs and appeared on the side-line,
where he had sat, paying not the slightest heed to the scrimmage and
seemingly unaware that the Gold and Green was facing defeat and the loss of
the Championship, for a game lost would put the team out of the running.
All big John Thorwald knew was, in a few weeks he must leave old Bannister,
must give up, for a time, his college course. Just when the grim battle was
won, he must leave, to work. Not that the Viking cared about toil. It was
the delay that chafed even his stolid self. He was stunned at having to
wait, maybe two years, before starting again.

And yet, as he squatted on the side-line, oblivious to everything but his
bitter reflections, the Theophilus-quoted words of Shakespeare persisted in
intruding on his thoughts:

  "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong--
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long."

Try as he would, he could not fight away the keen realization that
books and study were not all he would regret to leave. He was forced to
acknowledge that his mind kept wandering to other things. He found himself
pondering on the parting with Theophilus Opperdyke, with that crazy Hicks;
he wondered if he, out in the world again, toiling his lonely way, would
miss the glad fellowship of these care-free youths that he had watched,
but never shared, if he would ever think of the weeks at old Bannister.
Somehow, he felt that he would often vision the Quad at night, brightly
lighted, dormitories' lights agleam, students crossing and recrossing,
shouting at studious comrades. He would hear again the melodious
banjo-twanging, the gleeful saengerfests, the happy skylarking of the boys.
He had never entered into all this, and yet he knew he would miss it all;
why, he would even miss the daily scrimmage on Bannister Field; the noisy
shower-room, with its clouds of steam, and white forms flitting ghostlike.
He would miss the classrooms; in brief, _everything_!

John Thorwald was awakening! Even had this blow not befallen him, the huge,
slow-minded Norwegian, in time, with Theophilus Opperdyke's missionary
work, would have gradually come to understand things better--at least, to
know he was wrong in his ideas, which is the beginning of wisdom. Already,
he had ceased to condemn all this as foolishness, to rail at the youths
for wasting time and money. Already something stirred within him, and yet,
stolid as he was, bashful among the collegians, he was apparently the same.
But the sudden shock Head Coach Corridan spoke of had come. His father's
letter telling of his loss and that Thor must leave Bannister had awakened
him to the startling knowledge that he did care for something more than
study, that all the things that had puzzled him, that he had sneered at,
meant something to his existence, that he dreaded leaving other things than
his books.

"I--I don't understand things," thought Thorwald. "But--if I could only
stay, I'd want to learn. I'd try to get this 'college' spirit! Oh, I've
been all wrong, but if I could only stay--"

As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the big Freshman beheld marching
toward him Theophilus Opperdyke, his spectacles off, and his face aglow,
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., evidently in the throes of emotional insanity; a
Senior whom he knew as Parson Palmetter; Registrar Worthington, and Doctor
Alford, the kindly, beloved Prexy of old Bannister. The last named placed
his hand on the puzzled behemoth's ponderous shoulder.

"Thorwald," he said kindly, "Hicks, Opperdyke and Brewster, last night,
came to my study and acquainted me with your misfortune. They told me of
your life-history, of your splendid purpose to gain knowledge, to make
something of yourself, for your dying mother's sake. Old Bannister needs
men like you, Thorwald. Perhaps you do not understand campus ways and
tradition yet, perhaps you are not in sympathy with everything here; but
once a love for your Alma Mater is awakened, you will be a power for good
for your college.

"Now I at once took up the matter with Mr. Palmetter, President of The
Students' Aid Bureau. This year, for the first time in our history, we have
dispensed with janitors and sweeps in the dormitories, and with dining-hall
waiters, so that needy and deserving students may work their way through
Bannister. Owing to the fact that Mr. Deane, a Senior, has given up his
dormitory, Creighton Hall, as he has funds for the year and needs the time
to study, we can offer you board and tuition, in exchange for your work in
the dormitory, and waiting on tables in the dining-hall. Since your first
term bills, until January first, are paid, if you will start to work at
once, we will credit any work done this term on books and incidentals for
next term. By this means--"

"Why, you don't--you _can't_ mean--" rumbled Thor, who had just dimly
grasped the greatest point in Prexy's speech. "Why, then I won't have to
leave Bannister--I won't have to quit my studies! Oh, thank you, sir; thank
you! I will work _so_ hard. I am not afraid of work; I love it--a chance to
toil and earn my education, that's what I want! Thank you!"

"And in addition," said the Registrar, "Mr. Palmetter reports that he can
secure you, downtown, a number of furnaces to tend this winter, which you
can do early in the morning and at night; this will bring you an income for
living expenses, and in the spring something else will offer itself. It
means every moment of your time will be crowded, but Bannister needs
workers--"

Something stirred in John Thorwald. His heart had been touched at last. He
thought of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, and little Theophilus worried
at his having to leave college, going to Doctor Alford; of Prexy, the
Registrar, and Parson Palmetter, working to keep Thor at old Bannister.
He recalled how sympathetic all the youths had been, how they admired his
purpose and determination; and he had rewarded their friendliness with
cold aloofness. He felt a thrill as he visioned himself working for his
education, rising in the cold dawn, tending furnaces, working in the dorm.,
waiting on tables--studying. With what fierce joy he would assail his
tasks, glad that he could stay! He knew the students would rejoice, that
they would not look down on him; instead, they would respect and admire
him, toiling to grow and develop, to attain his goal!

"Go to it, Thor!" urged T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "We all want you to stay,
old man; we'll give you a lift with your studies. Old Bannister _wants_
you, _needs_ you, so _stick_!"

"Stay, please!" quavered little Theophilus. "You don't want to leave your
Alma Mater; stay, Thorwald, and--you'll understand things soon,"

"Report at the Registrar's office at seven tonight, Thorwald," said Prexy,
and then, because he understood boys and campus problems, "and to show your
gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team which is trying to
lick old Bannister."

John Thorwald, when Doctor Alford and the Registrar had gone, arose and
stood gazing across Bannister Field. He saw not the white-lined gridiron,
the gaunt goal-posts, the concrete stands filled with spectators, or the
gay banners and pennants. He saw the buildings and campus of old Bannister,
the stately old elms bordering the walks; he beheld the Gym., the four
dormitories--Bannister, Nordyke, Smithson, and Creighton--the white Chapel,
the ivy-covered Library, the Administration and Recitation Halls; he
glimpsed the Memorial Arch over the entrance driveway, and big Alumni Hall.
All at once, like an inundating wave, the great realization flashed on
Thor that he did not have to leave it all! Often again would he hear the
skylarking youths, the gay songs, the banjo-strumming; often would he see
the brightly lighted Quad., would gaze out on the campus! It was still
his--the work, the study, and, if he tried, even the glad comradeship of
the fellows, the bigger things of college life, which as yet he did not
understand.

The big slow-minded youth could not awaken, at once, to a full knowledge
and understanding of campus life and tradition, to a knowledge of college
spirit; but, thanks to the belief that he had to leave it all, he had
awakened to the startling fact that already he loved old Bannister. And
now, joyous that he could stay, John Thorwald suddenly felt a strong desire
to do something, not for himself, but for these splendid fellows who had
worried for his sake, had worked to keep him at college. And just then he
remembered the somewhat unclassical, yet well meant, words of dear old
Doctor Alford, "And to show your gratitude, you might go out there and
spank that team, which is trying to lick old Bannister."

John Thorwald for the first time looked at the score-board; he saw, in big
white letters:

    BANNISTER .......... 0
    LATHAM ............. 3

From the Gym. the Gold and Green players--grim, determined, and yet worried
by the team that "won't be beat!"--were jogging, followed by Head Coach
Patrick Henry Corridan. The Latham eleven was on the field, the Gold and
Blue rooters rioted in the stands. From the Bannister cohorts came a
thunderous appeal:

  "Hold 'em, boys--hold 'em, boys--hold--hold--_hold_!
  Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!"

A sudden fury swayed the Prodigious Prodigy; it was his college, his
eleven, and those Blue and Gold youths were actually beating old Bannister!
The Bannister boys had admired him, some of them had helped him in his
studies, three had told Doctor Alford of him, had made it possible for him
to stay, to keep on toward his goal. _They_ would be sorrow-stricken if
Latham won! A feeling of indignation came to Thor. How dare those fellows
think they could beat old Bannister! Why, _he_ would go out there and show
them a few things!

Head Coach Corridan, let it be chronicled, was paralyzed when he ducked
under the side-line rope--stretched to hold the spectators back--to collide
with an immovable body, John Thorwald, and to behold an eager light on that
behemoth's stolid face. Grasping the Slave-Driver in a grip that hurt, Thor
boomed:

"Mr. Corridan, let me play, _please_! Send me out this half. We can win.
We've _got_ to win! I want to do something for old Bannister. Why, if we
lose today, we lose the Championship! I don't understand things yet, but I
do love the college. I want to fight for Bannister. _Please_ let me play!"

The astonished coach and the equally dazed Gold and Green eleven, with the
bewildered collegians who heard Thor's earnest appeal, were silent a few
moments, unable to grasp the truth. Then Captain Brewster, his face aglow,
seized the big Freshman's arm excitedly.

"_Sure_ you'll play, Thor!" he shouted. "Fullback, old man! Come on, team.
Thor's awake! He wants to fight for his Alma Mater; he wants Bannister to
win! Oh, watch us shove Latham off the field--everybody together now--the
yell, for Thor!"

"Right here," grinned an excitedly happy T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., when the
yell was given, "is where a team that won't be beat gets licked by a chap
what can lick 'em!"

What took place when the blond Prodigious Prodigy lumbered on Bannister
Field at the start of the last half of the Bannister-Latham game can be
imagined by the final score-board figures:

    BANNISTER ......... 27
    LATHAM ............. 3

It can best be described with the aid of Scoop Sawyer's account in the next
_Bannister Weekly:_

--At the start of the second half, however, the Latham cohorts were given
a shock when they beheld a colossal being almost as big as the entire Gold
and Blue eleven, go in at fullback for Bannister. And the Latham eleven
received a series of shocks when Thor began intruding that massive body
of his into their territory. Tennyson's saying, "The old order changeth,
yielding place to new" was aptly illustrated in the second half; for
Bannister's bugler quit sounding "Retreat!" and blew "Charge!" Four
touchdowns and three goals from touchdowns, in one half, is usually
considered a fair day's work for an entire team. Even Yale or Harvard; but
when one player corrals four touchdowns in a half--he is going some! Well,
Thor went some! Most of the half he furnished free transportation for
two-thirds of the Latham team, carrying them on his back, legs, and neck,
as he strode down the field; a writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped
the blond Colossus. Anyone would have stood more show to stop an Alpine
avalanche than to slow up Thor, and the stretcher was constantly in
evidence, for Latham knockouts.

[Illustration C: 'A writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped the blond
Colossus']

The game turned into a Thor's Personally Conducted Tour. Thorwald, escorted
by the Gold and Green team, made four quick tours to the Latham goal-line.
It was simply a matter of giving the ball to the Prodigious Prodigy, then
waving the linesmen to move down twenty yards or more toward Latham's line.
Thor was simply unstoppable, and more beneficial even than his phenomenal
playing was his encouragement to the team. He kept urging them to action,
his foghorn growl of, "Come on, boys!" was a slogan of victory! Judging by
Thor's awakening, and his work of the Latham game, Bannister's hopes of The
State Intercollegiate Football Championship are as roseate as the blush on
a maiden's cheek at her first kiss, and--

That night, in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., John Thorwald,
supremely happy yet withal as uncomfortable as a whale on the Sahara
Desert, overflowed an easy-chair. The room was filled, or what space Thor
left, with the Bannister eleven, second-team players, Coach Corridan, and
several students; on the campus a riotous crowd of Bannister youths "raised
merry Heck," as Hicks phrased it, and their cheer floated up to the
windows:

"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's--all--right!"

"Come, fellows," spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.

"Let's sing to the captain, good old Butch! Let 'er go!"

  "Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink it down!
  Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink It down!
  Here's to good Butch Brewster--
  He plays football like he _uster--_
  Drink it down! Drink it down--down--down--down!"

A strange sound startled the joyous youths; it was a rumbling noise,
like distant thunder, and at first they could not place it. Then, as It
continued, they located the disturbance as coming from the prodigious body
of Thor, and at last the wonderful phenomenon dawned on them.

"Thor is singing college songs!" quavered little Theophilus Opperdyke,
so happy that his big-rimmed spectacles rode the end of his nose. "Oh,
Hicks--Butch--Thor is awake at last! He is trying to get college spirit, to
understand campus life--"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., suddenly realized that what he had so ardently
longed for had come to pass; aided by Theophilus' missionary work and by
the sudden shock of Thorwald, Sr.'s, letter. Thor was awakened, had come to
know that he loved old Bannister. His awakening, as shown in the football
game, had been splendid. How he had towered over the scrimmage, in every
play, urging his team to fight, himself doing prodigies for old Bannister.
Thor, who had been so silent and aloof! Then the sunny-souled youth
remembered.

"Oh, I told you I'd awaken Thor, Butch!" he began, but that behemoth
quelled him with an ominous look.

"_You_!" he growled, with pretended wrath, "_you_! It was Theophilus
Opperdyke who did the most of it, and Thorwald's father did the rest! Don't
you rob Theophilus of his glory, you feeble-imitation-of-some-thing-human!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat. The happy-go-lucky
Senior was vastly glad that Thor had awakened, that now he would try
to grasp the real meaning of college existence. He felt that the young
Hercules, from now on, would slowly and surely develop to a splendid
college man, that he would do big things for his Alma Mater. And the
generous Hicks gave Theophilus all the credit, and impressed on that
happy Human Encyclopedia the fact that he had done a great deed for old
Bannister. Just so, Thor was awakened.

"Oh, I say, Deke Radford, Coach, and Butch," Hicks chortled, getting the
attention of that triumvirate as well as that of the others in the room,
"remember up in Camp Bannister, in the sleep-shack, when Coach Corridan
outlined a smashing full-back he wanted?"

"Sure!" smiled Deke. "What of it, Hicks?"

Then T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., that care-free, lovable, irrepressible youth,
whose chance to swagger before this same trio had been postponed so long
and seemingly lost forever, satiated his fun-loving soul and reaped his
reward. Calling their attention to Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and asking
them to remember his playing against Latham that day, the sunny Senior
strutted before them vaingloriously.

"Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!" he declared, grinning happily.
"I promised to round up an unstoppable fullback, a Gargantuan Hercules, and
I did! Just think of what he will do to Hamilton and Ballard in the big
games! As I have often told you, _always_--leave It to Hicks!"






CHAPTER XI

"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL"


  "Oh, what we'll do to Ballard
  Will surely be a shame!
  We'll push their team clear off the field
  And win the football game!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one night three days after the first big game, that
with Hamilton, a week following Thor's great awakening in the Latham game,
sat in his cozy room, having assumed his favorite position--chair tilted
back at a perilous angle and feet thrust atop of the radiator. The
versatile youth, having just composed a song with which to encourage
Bannister elevens in the future, was reading it aloud, when his mind was
torpedoed by a most startling thought.

"Land o' Goshen!" reflected the sunny-souled Senior, aghast. "I haven't
twanged my ole banjo and held forth with a saengerfest for a coon's age! I
surely can do so now without arousing Butch to wrath. Thor has awakened,
Hamilton is walloped, and Bannister will surely win the Championship!
Everything is happy, an' de goose hangs high, so here goes!"

Holding his banjo _à la_ troubadour, the blithesome Hicks, who as a Senior
was harassed by no study-hours or inspections, strode from his room and out
into the corridor, up and down which he majestically paced, like a sentinel
on his beat, twanging his beloved banjo with abandon, and roaring in his
foghorn, subterranean voice:

  "Oh, the way we walloped Hamilton
  Surely was a shame!
  And we're going to win the Championship--
  For we'll do Ballard the same!

  "And Bannister shall flaunt the flag
  For at least three seasons more;
  Because--no team can win a game
  While the Gold and Green has Thor!"

On Bannister Field, three days before, the Gold and Green had crushed the
strong team from "old Ham" to the tune of 20 to 0; Thor's magnificent
ground-gaining, in which he smashed through the supposedly impregnable
defense of the enemy, was a surprise to his comrades and a shock to
Hamilton. Time and again, on the fourth down, the ball was given to
Thorwald, and the blond Colossus, with several of old Ham's players
clinging to him, plunged ahead for big gains. So now with a monster
mass-meeting in half an hour, the exultant Bannister youths pretended to
study, but prepared to parade on the campus, cheer the eleven and Thor,
and arouse excitement for the winning of the b

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