He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the Fall
Handicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of us
were down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who was
scratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot had
trickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanity
appeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with much
difficulty, and staggered back to the circle with it.
"Hello, kid," said Fosgill; "that's pretty heavy for you, isn't it?"
"Naw," was the superb reply; "that ain't nothin'!"
We laughed, and the youngster grinned around at us in a companionable way
that won us on the spot.
"What's your name?" asked Ronimus.
"Patsy."
"Patsy what?"
"Burns."
"How old are you?"
"'Leven."
"You're a Frenchman, aren't yon?"
"Naw."
"You're not?" Ronimus pretended intense surprise.
"He's a Dutchman, aren't you, Patsy?" said Mosher.
"Naw."
"What are you then?"
"Mucker," answered Patsy with a grin.
For the rest of that day and for many days afterwards Patsy honored us with
his presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball from
the ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front of
his dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the week
Patsy had become official helper.
He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with a
freckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand years
old. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally aged
monkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed with
the sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposed
that Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eye
could sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore a
whimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollow
mockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, young
and innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions.
We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old and
sophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on all
occasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, he
speedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant the
slightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it is
quite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He was
attentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to wait
outside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walk
beside Fosgill until he reached the Square. Then Patsy would say:
"Good night, Bull."
And Fosgill would answer gravely:
"Good night, Patsy."
And Patsy would disappear.
But the evening of the Handicaps we took him back to the boarding house
with us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placed
before him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went to
school--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteen
years old, and a man of business; Brian drove for Connors, the teamster.
Patsy wasn't sure that he had ever had a mother, but he was absolutely
certain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the night
they broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father had
laid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what father
had done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearance
of numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going into
business himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going to
sell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, but
each time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. Patsy thought the thing
was terribly wrong.
When the snow covered the field we saw Patsy only occasionally. In the
spring we got to work early. We believed we had a good show to win the Dual
that year and a fighting chance at the Intercollegiate. We were strong on
the sprints and distances, fair at the jumps and hurdles, and rather weak
at the weights. We had a good man in Fosgill at the shot put, but that's
about all. Along in May we had it doped out that if we could get first in
the shot put we could win out by a point or two. But there wasn't anything
certain about it, for our opponent was strong on second, near-"second," and
third-place men.
Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler and
older than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tape
for us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But he
did it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-pound
lump and was looking the assistant manager sternly in the eye.
"I'm doin' this," said Patsy.
After that he did it and no one disputed his right. When the gates were
closed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy was
admitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles around
were gluing their faces to the iron fence watching the baseball games,
Patsy's allegiance never faltered. He was somewhere around Fosgill,
regarding that hero with worshiping gaze. It was in May, I think, that
Patsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of the
Locker Building when we were waiting for one of the crowd.
"I've decided not to go into business," said Patsy.
"What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen.
"I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot
putter."
"Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?"
Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on
its expression of lofty contempt.
"Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned
all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions.
"But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you
expect to get into college."
"Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard for
you?"