"What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen.
"I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot putter."
"Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?"
Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on its expression of lofty contempt.
"Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions.
"But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you expect to get into college."
"Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was—was it hard for you?"
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 were feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned Patsy, and Mosher spoke up: