"Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a humorous, kindly
smile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr., that
greeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if any of
my old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the Athletic
Association meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I can't imagine
what this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm us. It will
surely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the athletic letter
you worked so hard to win."
When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm stride
echoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible collegian, whom
old Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth, stood
again by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first time, he
fully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really is—to
those who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With almost the
force of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt to leave
the well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from those comrades
of his golden years. In a day or so, he must part from good Butch, Pudge,
Beef, Ichabod, Monty, Roddy, Cherub, loyal little Theophilus and all his
classmates of '19, as well as from his firm friends of the undergraduates.
It would be the parting from the youths of his class that would cost him
the greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the care-free
campus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and developed
together, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a love for
their Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now soon they
must sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and corridors, as
Jack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done before
them.
Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be alumni
banquets at mid-year and Commencement, with glad class reunions each year.
They would come back for the big games of the football or baseball season.
But it would never be the same. The glad, care-free, golden years of
college life come but once, and they could never live them, as of old.
"Caesar's Ghost!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., making a dive for his
beloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some time he
had been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must maintain my
blithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with my musical
ability. Here goes."
Assuming a striking pose, à la troubadour, at the open window, T.
Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his splinter-structure
enshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia symbolic
of dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a ragtime
accompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the campus, as
well as the wrath of 1919, he roared in his fog-horn voice:
"Oh, I love for to live in the country!
And I love for to live on the farm!
I love for to wander in the grass-green fields—
Oh, a country life has the charm!
I love for to wander in the garden—
Down by the old haystack;
Where the pretty little chickens go 'Kick-Kack-Kackle!'
And the little docks go 'Quack! Quack!'"
From the Seniors on the Gym steps, their dignified song rudely shattered by
this rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the unbounded
delight of the alumni, watching the scene with interest, shouts, jeers,
whistles, and cat-calls greeted Hicks' minstrelsy:
"Tear off his cap and gown—he's a disgrace to '19!"
"Shades of Schumann-Heink—give that calf more rope!"
"Ye gods—how long must we endure—that?"