"John!" he cried. "John!
Is it _you_?"
The voice went on rapidly, not heeding him: "Ah, you needn't howl; I'd
have been as much use at right as that Sophomore. Well, laugh away, you
Indians! If it hadn't been for this ankle--but it seems to be my chest
that's hurt--and side--not that it matters, you know; the Sophomore's just
as good, or better. It's only my egotism. Yes, it must be the side--and
chest--and head--all over, I believe. Not that it matters--I'll try again
next year--next year I'll make it a daily, Helen said, not that I should
call you Helen--I mean Miss--Miss--Fisbee--no, Sherwood--but I've always
thought Helen was the prettiest name in the world--you'll forgive me?--And
please tell Parker there's no more copy, and won't be--I wouldn't grind
out another stick to save his immortal--yes, yes, a daily--she said-ah, I
never made a good trade--no--they can't come seven miles--but I'll finish
_you_, Skillett, first; I know _you_! I know nearly all of you! Now let's
sing 'Annie Lisle.'" He lifted his hand as if to beat the time for a
chorus.
"Oh, John, John!" cried Tom Meredith, and sobbed outright. "My boy--my
boy--old friend----" The cry of the classmate was like that of a mother,
for it was his old idol and hero who lay helpless and broken before him.
The brougham lamps and the apathetic sparks of the cab gleamed in front of
the hospital till daylight.
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