"Cut it out, Fatty," exhorted Micky with concern. "Quit the pill cookin' stunt or it'll land you in the dip-house for sure. Why, you spit when you talk now! Of whom are you dreaming?"
Fatty came back to earth. "That's so, you weren't here then," he vouchsafed pityingly.
"When?" retorted Micky pugnaciously. "When wasn't I here?"
"Three years ago," replied Stearns, the tremolo of a tender memory throbbing in his tone.
"And if I wasn't here," demanded Micky, unmollified, "who was, you sofa pillow?"
The sofa pillow, like most such, was good natured. He grinned forgivingly at the freckled features opposite him.
"Dick Glenwood was!" he answered with firm finality. "Yes 'r! And when he got through there was nothin' else. The rest of 'em were hangin' on the clothes line. It was three years ago, Speckles, and I was helpin' do the intercollegiate meet for the News. Cubbin' it then, you know. All the colleges, Hale, Pittston and the rest were there. I knew Dick; best man Hale ever had, bar none. Knew what was comin'. Came from the same town as I did. Brought up together; he's licked me more than once," with pardonable pride. "Came out just as I expected and he scooped everything. It was his last appearance, graduation year, big rep. Had to make good and he did, won everything in sight. That is, everything he went into, and he was in everything worth while. Made some records that stand today. And that hammer throw! Say," gurgled Fatty, his face apoplectic, "that man Myers came the closest to it today of any meet since then, and he's got two feet comin' to touch it!"
"Dick Glenwood," mused Dicky. "I've heard the name around the office."
"And why not?" exploded Stearns. His little eyes, lurking beneath folds of fat, peeled like round agate marbles. "Why, man, don't you know?"
"Know what?" snapped O'Byrn, reaching for a convenient paper-weight. "Now, Fatty!" poising the weapon.