"I know you did, Patsy."
"That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess—may be—I'll see her—where—I'm goin'."
"You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing I can do for you. I wish—oh, it's a shame, kid!"
"Huh! I'm glad—Bull. I'd—'a' done most anything—for you, Bull. You've been good—to me; so's the—others." He closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could—have learned—to put—the shot, Bull—some day?"
"Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shot putter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!"
"Are you—kiddin'—me, Bull?"
"No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?"
We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffable content on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again.
"Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of self-importance, "anyhow—I guess I won—for Harvard—to-day. Huh?"
"Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it, dear little kid."