"An' you ain't much of a shot putter, either," said Patsy reflectively.
Fosgill had done forty-two, eight and a half that afternoon and we were
feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned
Patsy, and Mosher spoke up:
"Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. What
do you say?"
"I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and he
deserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'll
adopt him."
"Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's to
happen when we leave college?"
"We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brian
about it. But, say, Bull, imagine Patsy putting the shot!"
We laughed at that--which we wouldn't have done if Patsy had been there.
"Well, I guess he won't make much of a show at athletics," said I, "but if
we keep him off the streets we'll be doing a whole lot. And I like Patsy."
We all did. And before we left the table that night we had the thing mapped
out. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammar
school, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be funds
where they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd have
done it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And it
happened like this:
When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn't
see how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the high
hurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds and
thirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with the
shot we were it.
That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don't
happen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts we
had claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where we
hadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we had
figured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcome
of one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were still
fussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third places
and so could discount that.
By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put of
thirty-eight, one and a half. There were four of us in the finals, Fosgill,
Tanner and Burt of the enemy, and I. Of course Patsy was there, and he
worked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grain
with him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primeval
left in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. I
don't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy he
thought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round.
Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done three
inches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place,
doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even the
officials were excited. We had finished one round when the accident
occurred.
Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape and
Patsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle,
overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgill
had turned his head to speak to the measurer and never saw his danger.
Tanner let out a shout of warning, and others echoed it. But it was Patsy
who acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent him
staggering across the turf. Then Patsy and the shot went down together.
It was all beastly sudden and nasty. When we bent over that poor little kid
he was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his freckles
stood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak little
bones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriage
at the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but the
doctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not until
evening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on the
ground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poor
little kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go to
the hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we each
still had two puts.
After a while we got our nerve back after a fashion, and went on, but,
thunder! not one of us was worth a hang. I did thirty-six and thirty-seven,
eleven, and won third place at that. Neither Fosgill nor Tanner equaled his
first records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures of
forty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. It
was almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three others
piled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital.
They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. The
doctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to be
done; the heart had been injured and was liable to stop work any moment.
Fosgill got the doctor to promise to call him up on the 'phone if Patsy
showed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everything
possible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and let
him pay everything, but though we promised, we hadn't any idea of doing it;
Patsy was our kid. We went back to training table, but we were a
low-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came from
the hospital.
We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into the
accident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was a
pathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes lifted
away from his body, but he smiled and moved his head a bit on the pillow.
Fosgill sat down at the head of the cot and leaned over, his mouth all
atremble.
"Hello, Bull!" whispered Patsy.
"Hello, Patsy!" answered Fosgill, trying to smile.
"Did you--beat him?"
"Yes, Patsy."
"I knew--you would. I told--him so." He glanced at me: "Did
you--beat--that--other chap?"