It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There had been
scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to come; after
the memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.,
and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party" by the
collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had "sprinted with
spiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed event in
bewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had been fêted
and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were filled with
visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad reunions
of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual baseball
game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond stars, Class
Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and the last
Class Supper; and, Commencement had come.
It was all ended now—the four happy, golden years of campus life, of glad
fellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T. Haviland
Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final parting. The
sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's Commencement.
Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed farewells
with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that awakened
Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the few
Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final Beefsteak
Bust downtown at Jerry's.
The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices echoed in the
dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths who were
leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and little
Theophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with tears. Three
times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was forever, as
collegians!
"I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop Sawyer, as the
jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of Dan's
cranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now—'We have come to the end
of our college days-golden campus years are at an end—!' Say, Hicks, old
man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?"
"Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a fountain pen
behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City Editor, "In me
you behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty—no, I mean Irvin Cobb.
I shall first serve my apprenticeship as a 'cub,' but ere many years, I
shall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to get off."
"That is—If Dad says so!" chuckled Butch Brewster. "You know, Hicks, it's
the same old story—your father wants you to learn how to own steel and
iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince Mr. Thomas
Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than Steel King!"
"Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of old
Bannister, as the perspiring Dan Flannagan cranked away futilely. "My Dad
has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it over last
night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a work that
appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to follow in his
footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is trying to
get me started—read this:"
The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the heading: "THE
BALTIMORE CHRONICLE;" Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it, read aloud:
"Baltimore, Maryland,
"June 12, 1919.