"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him." "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. "Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of it yourself." "Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen him." "On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last whack at this stunt." "So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns' vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along." "Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar. His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man, he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time. Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me my job here when the News fired me."