Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced case of a description I have met before and since.
He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances were ordinary.
Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories, I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs.
Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has equalled the Virginia jumper.
We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue.