"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.