If Hickey had not been woefully weak in mathematics the famous Fed. and anti-Fed. riots would probably never have happened. But as revolutions turn on minor axes, Hickey, who could follow a football like a hound, could not for the life of him trace X, the unknown factor, through the hedges of the simplest equation.
It was, therefore, with feelings of the acutest interest that he waited, in the upper corridor of Memorial Hall, on the opening morning of the spring term, for the appearance of Mr. Baldwin, the new recruit to the mathematics department. The Hall was choked with old boys chattering over the doings of the Easter vacation, calling back and forth, punching one another affectionately or critically examining the returning stragglers.
"His name is Ernest Garrison Baldwin," said the Gutter Pup. "Just graduated, full of honours and that sort of thing."
"He ought to be easy," said Crazy Opdyke, hopefully.
"These mathematical sharks are always fancy markers," interposed Macnooder.
"If I'm stuck in the first row," said the Egghead gloomily, "it's all up—I never could do anything with figures."
"If we want short lessons," said Hickey, waking out of his reverie, "we've all got to flunk in the beginning."
At this Machiavellian analysis there was a chorus of assent.
"Sure."
"Hickey's the boy!"