"What's the plot, anyhow? It's
bad enough when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sneaks out, bearing a football,
like an amateur cracksman making a getaway; but when you appear, imitating
a Nihilist about to hurl a bomb--say, what's the answer to the puzzle, old
man?"
Little Theophilus, his pathetically frail body trembling with suppressed
excitement, his big-rimmed spectacles tumbling off with ridiculous
regularity, and his solemn eyes peering owlishly at his behemoth classmate,
stood before the startled Butch. It was evident that the 1919 grind
labored under great stress. He was waging a terrific battle with himself,
struggling to make some vast and all-important decision. He strove to
speak, hesitated, choked, coughed apologetically, and acted as fussed as
Hicks had done, until Butch was wild; then, as if resolved to cast the die
and cross the Rubicon, he decided, and plunged desperately ahead.
"It's--it's Hicks, Butch!" he quavered, torn cruelly by conflicting
emotions. "Oh, I don't want to be a traitor--he trusted me with his secret,
and I--I can't betray him, I just can't! But he didn't make me promise not
to tell. He just told me not to. Oh, it's his very last chance, Butch, and
with Thor hurt, old Bannister might need him in the Ballard game."
"What is it, Theophilus, old man?" Butch spoke kindly, for he saw the
solemn little Senior was intensely excited. "Tell me--if our Alma Mater
needs any fellow's services, you know, he should give them freely--since
you did not promise not to tell about Hicks, if Bannister may be able
to use Hicks against Ballard--though I can't, by any stretch of the
imagination, figure how--then it is your duty to tell! I think I glimpse
the dark secret--Hicks possesses some sort of football prowess, goodness
knows what, and he lacks the confidence to tell Coach Corridan! Now, were
it only drop-kicking--"
"It is drop-kicking!" Theophilus burst forth desperately.
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