"Skeet," he spoke distinctly, "now, get this—myself and eight regulars,
nine in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for Philadelphia, and stay
there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street Station for
Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. Now I have a lot of unused mileage on
the C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement. So, heed: you
want to go via Baltimore, to see your parents. You take the 9.20 P. M.
express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the morning, to
Eastminster, on the C. N, & Q.—it's the only road. And take the five subs
with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy bomb-proof
dome?"
"Sure; you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!" grinned
Skeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the A.M., for
Eastminster?"
"Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books to the
shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable. "Oh, yes—you
leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at Eastminster at
noon; it is the only train, you can get, to make it in time for the game,
so remember the hour—7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable in your pocket."
In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed into old Dan
Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentrated
their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning à la Cheshire cat,
climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much trouble to
start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late Lord
Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a Louisville
Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at the
irrepressible youth:
"Home-run Hicks—he made a home-run—on a strike-out!"—"Put Hicks in
the game, Captain Butch—he will win it."—"Watch Hicks—he'll pull
some bonehead play!"—"Bring home the Championship, but—lose Hicks
somewhere!"
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit. yielded to
old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the yelling
students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously believed
was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a lull in the
tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd:
"Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the Championship, for my
Alma Mater, and—I'll do it by my headwork!"
T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK
"Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you afraid to play?"