"Heigh-ho!" chuckled Hicks, at length. "Here I am threatening to get gloomy
again! Well I'll sure train hard to win my track letter, and that seems
all I can do! I'd like to win my three B's, and jeer at Butch, next June,
but--
it can't be did! I shall now twang my trusty banjo, and drive dull
care away."
Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the corridor, and of Butch
Brewster's request for quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out his
beloved banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared:
"Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the--"
"Hicks!" Big Butch Brewster crashed across the corridor, both doors being
open. "Is this how you maintain a quiet? I'm going to call Thor over and
make him sit down on you! Why, you--"
"Have mercy!" plead the grinning Hicks. "Honest, Butch, I didn't go to bust
up the league--I--I heard you talk about your B's, and I got to thinking
that I have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here's proof--read
these letters I was perusing--"
Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in the May of their
Freshman year; Hicks had received it before the class track meet, and, as
chronicled, he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it impelled the
splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister believed him to enter
them for fun. The letter was post-marked "Pittsburgh, Pa.
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