“About the fellow who died from eating ice-cream and peanuts.”
“Hey you, Ernest!” called Frank. Ernest turned and strolled back. “Fatty doesn’t believe what you told about the fellow who died from eating peanuts.”
“Well, he needn’t,” said Ernest. “Of course I can show him where the fellow (name was Peter Jenkins) tore up a lot of the sod when he was just commencing to feel bad. And two of the chaps who tried to hold him are in hospital yet. Why, they say you could hear him yell nearly to Louisville.”
“Just how did it take him worst?” asked Frank, frowning sympathetically.
“Oh, cramps, and pains, and convulsions, and delirium, and a deep green color suffusing the tissues around the eyes and nose. The doctor said he had sclerosis of the maltoidus, and there is no cure for that. Of course if you don’t believe me, I can prove it by a dozen of the fellows any time you are out there. I tell you it was awful!”
He turned and walked off once more, and as Frank went after him, Fatty thought he heard Frank say, “It sounded awful! Where did you get that maltoidus stuff?” What he did not hear was Ernest’s reply, “Off the dog biscuit boxes, you know. Maltoid.”
Fatty did not hear, and he stood thinking deeply. No one but Fatty knew how Fatty hated to be sick, or how he shunned pain. But he looked with fond longing at the peanuts. The boys were still busy over the wireless. Looking down, he saw the close green grass. How awful to tear it up by handfuls in his agony! He had had three ice-cream cones since breakfast!
He stepped nearer to the boys. He opened the bag of peanuts.
“Hey, fellows,” he said in an offhand tone of voice, “help yourselves to some of these!”