Patsy
He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the FallHandicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of uswere down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who wasscratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot hadtrickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanityappeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with muchdifficulty, 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 waythat 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 withhis presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball fromthe ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front ofhis dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the weekPatsy had become official helper.He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with afreckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand yearsold. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally agedmonkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed withthe sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposedthat Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eyecould sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore awhimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollowmockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, youngand innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions.We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old andsophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on alloccasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, hespeedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant theslightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it isquite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He wasattentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to waitoutside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walkbeside 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 housewith us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placedbefore him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went toschool--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteenyears 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 absolutelycertain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the nightthey broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father hadlaid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what fatherhad done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearanceof numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going intobusiness himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going tosell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, buteach time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. Patsy thought the thingwas terribly wrong.When the snow covered the field we saw Patsy only occasionally. In thespring we got to work early. We believed we had a good show to win the Dualthat year and a fighting chance at the Intercollegiate. We were strong onthe sprints and distances, fair at the jumps and hurdles, and rather weakat the weights. We had a good man in Fosgill at the shot put, but that'sabout all. Along in May we had it doped out that if we could get first inthe shot put we could win out by a point or two. But there wasn't anythingcertain about it, for our opponent was strong on second, near-"second," andthird-place men.Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler andolder than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tapefor us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But hedid it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-poundlump 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 wereclosed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy wasadmitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles aroundwere 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, thatPatsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of theLocker 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 shotputter.""Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?"Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took onits expression of lofty contempt."Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consignedall other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions."But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if youexpect to get into college.""Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard foryou?"I was forced to acknowledge that it had been."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 werefeeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentionedPatsy, and Mosher spoke up:"Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. Whatdo you say?""I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and hedeserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'lladopt him.""Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's tohappen when we leave college?""We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brianabout 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 ifwe 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 mappedout. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammarschool, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be fundswhere they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd havedone it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And ithappened like this:When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn'tsee how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the highhurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds andthirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with theshot we were it.That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don'thappen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts wehad claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where wehadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we hadfigured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcomeof one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were stillfussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third placesand so could discount that.By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put ofthirty-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 heworked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grainwith him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primevalleft in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. Idon't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy hethought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round.Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done threeinches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place,doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even theofficials were excited. We had finished one round when the accidentoccurred.Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape andPatsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle,overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgillhad 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 Patsywho acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent himstaggering 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 kidhe was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his frecklesstood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak littlebones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriageat the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but thedoctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not untilevening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on theground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poorlittle kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go tothe hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we eachstill 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 hisfirst records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures offorty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. Itwas almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three otherspiled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital.They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. Thedoctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to bedone; 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 Patsyshowed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everythingpossible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and lethim 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 alow-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came fromthe hospital.We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into theaccident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was apathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes liftedaway 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 allatremble."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: "Didyou--beat--that--other chap?"I nodded and Patsy looked at me with a new respect."Good--for you," he whispered."Are you--does it hurt much, Patsy?" asked Fosgill."No, not much.""That's good. We'll have you out before long."Patsy grinned."Shut up!" he whispered. "You can't--fool me, Bull. I'm--a goner."Fosgill muttered something and Patsy's eyes brightened."Bull," he whispered, "do you--think I--had a mother--like--other kids?""I know you did, Patsy.""That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess--may be--I'll seeher--where--I'm goin'.""You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing Ican do for you. I wish--oh, it's a shame, kid!""Huh! I'm glad--Bull. I'd--'a' done most anything--for you, Bull. You'vebeen good--to me; so's the--others." He closed his eyes wearily for amoment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could--have learned--toput--the shot, Bull--some day?""Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shotputter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!""Are you--kiddin'--me, Bull?""No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?"We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffablecontent on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again."Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air ofself-importance, "anyhow--I guess I won--for Harvard--to-day. Huh?""Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it,dear little kid."Patsy smiled. Then:"Good-by--Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed.We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speakagain.
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