In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed into old Dan Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentrated their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning _à la_ Cheshire cat, climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much trouble to start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late Lord Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a Louisville Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at the irrepressible youth: "Home-run Hicks--he made a home-run--_on a strike-out_!"--"Put Hicks in the game, Captain Butch--he will win it."--"Watch Hicks--he'll pull some _bonehead_ play!"--"Bring home the Championship, but--lose Hicks somewhere!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit. yielded to old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the yelling students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously believed was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a lull in the tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd: "Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the _Championship_, for my Alma Mater, and--I'll do it by my headwork!" CHAPTER XVIII T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK "Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you _afraid_ to play?" "Call the game, Mr. Ump.--make 'em play ball!" "Batter up! Forfeit the game to Ballard, Umpire!" "Lend 'em Ballard's bat-boy-to make a full nine!" Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance, as a moving-picture director would express it, "registering wrathful dismay," lumbered toward the Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green players had entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard cohorts vociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable delay. "We have _got_ to play," he raged, striding up and down before the bench. "The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And here we have only _eight_ 'Varsity players, and no one to make the ninth--not even a sub.! Oh, I could--" "That brainless Skeet Wigglesworth!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, arrayed like a lily of the field, reposed his splinter-structure on the bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed to _miss_ that train from Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. & Q. train, and there isn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a German war-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!"