"DEAR OLD CLASSMATE:
"I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week, but I can't
leave the wheel of this ship, the Chronicle, for even a day. Give my
regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man.
"As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The Chronicle usually takes
on a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off on
vacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or three
summers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old time's
sake, I'll be glad to give your son a chance, and if he means business,
let him report for duty next Friday, at 1 P.M., to my office.
Understand, Hicks, he must come here and fight his own way, without any
favor or special help from me. Were he the son of our nation's
President, I'd not treat him a whit better than the rest of the Staff,
so let him know that in advance. On the other hand, I'll develop him all
I can, and if he has the ability, the Chronicle long-room is the place
for him.
"Yours for old Yale,
"'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96,
"City Editor—THE CHRONICLE."
"Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch finished the
letter. "I am to take a summer as a cub on the Baltimore Chronicle,
making my own way, and living on my weekly salary, without financial aid
from anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen reports that
I've made good enough to be retained as a regular, then—Yours truly for
the Fourth Estate. If I fail, then I follow a course charted out by Mr.
Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.! So, it is up to me to make good—"
"You—you will make good, Hicks," quavered Theophilus, whose faith in the
shadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for I am
going to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want to become
an expert stenographer, and we'll be together."
"It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his huge bulk
atop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the world, to
make good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet. We may
accept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for President
of the U.S.A., provided John McGraw or Connie Mack do not sign us up.
However—"
At that moment, the engine of old Dan Flannagan's battered "Dove" consented
to hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to transport
Hicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled, "All
aboard!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene.