Just then he moved his arm again, and another moan escaped him. A nurse, passing by, heard him.
"That's all right, little man," she said, "it's painful, but no broken bones; you'll be on your feet soon." Bill shut his jaw tight. His suffering recalled to his mind a story one of the Sisters had told the class a few years previously, of a little boy led into the Roman Amphitheatre to be tortured for the Faith. They made him hold burning coals in his hands and told him that if he dropped them he was giving incense to the idols. He held the coals until they burned right through his hand. A martyr. His picture was hanging on the wall of the class room. An angel was placing a crown on his head and he looked—happy!
"I've been a pretty tough nut," Bill soliloquized, "guess this is my punishment. That martyr kid didn't do any harm. I've done a lot. The fellows aren't a bad set. They gave me a pretty good show. They didn't butt in on the fight. What grit that Mulvy has! I'd have given up, if he was on top—but not him! Gee—the way he just squirmed from under, and started in, as if only beginning. No wonder he plays football! A fellow's eyes tell you when you can't lick him. And cool as a cucumber! And then—'Let's shake!' 'Some boy' that Mulvy kid! And what a cur I was to go and smash things the way I did! And spoil the fellows having the McCormack treat. I'm pretty 'yellow'. And then Father Boone comes over and straightens things out and puts Dad on his feet!
"Well, I'm through with the roughneck stuff. Pretty painful—but you don't catch me groaning again. I'll 'offer it up', like Sister said, for the love of God, to atone for my sins. I've got the sins all right. So here goes for the 'offer up' part. No more grunts, Bill Daly."
He had hardly finished his resolve to bear his pain patiently and without murmur, as an offering to God, when the doctor and nurse approached his bed.
"Well, sonny," began the doctor, "you did quite a circus stunt, I'm told."
Bill grinned for reply, as the doctor proceeded to examine him. It was necessary to press and probe and lift and handle him generally. Every pressure and every slightest movement caused him exquisite pain. But not a murmur escaped him. Once or twice there was an "Oh!" in spite of his best efforts, but not a complaint nor a whimper. Doctor and nurse were surprised. Finally, the doctor said, "Son, either you are not much hurt or you are the pluckiest lad I've ever examined."
"I don't know about the pluck, doctor," he replied, "but I do know that if I were hurt much more, it would be all over with me."
He had hardly finished the words when he fainted. When he came to, the doctor said, "Boy, nothing but dynamite can kill you, and I want to tell you that your name is pluck." They left him for a few minutes and when the nurse returned, she remarked: "You are not seriously injured, but you will be pretty sore for some days, and I want to tell you, you are a little hero."
When she was gone, Bill mused: "I wonder what she'd say to the 'little hero,' if she saw that damaged room and knew it was spite? I'm getting mine. I'll cut out the 'hero' stuff, for a while anyway."