She nodded.
“Say,” Billy began again, as their laughter eased down, “what I wanta know is what'd you wanta do it for. Say, what'd you wanta do it for? I've been askin' that to myself ever since.”
“So have I,” was the answer.
“You didn't know Timothy McManus, did you?”
“No; I'd never seen him before, and I've never seen him since.”
“But what'd you wanta do it for?” Billy persisted.
The young man laughed, then controlled himself.
“To save my life, I don't know. I have one friend, a most intelligent chap that writes sober, scientific books, and he's always aching to throw an egg into an electric fan to see what will happen. Perhaps that's the way it was with me, except that there was no aching. When I saw those legs flying past, I merely stuck my stick in between. I didn't know I was going to do it. I just did it. Timothy McManus was no more surprised than I was.”
“Did they catch you?” Billy asked.
“Do I look as if they did? I was never so scared in my life. Timothy McManus himself couldn't have caught me that day. But what happened afterward? I heard they had a fearful roughhouse, but I couldn't stop to see.”