He Was My Pal

But they done him wrong.

A fine lad he was, and he wanted to win an H, to fill his old parents with joy. For nearly eighteen years he's been able to run. So he thought there was his chance.

The first day he ran five miles. He staggered on bleeding feet into the Locker Building. The next day he fought to finish the seven miles they gave him. The next day and the next it was the same. Then he tried to rest--stay in his room and rest.

They sent him a card and told him he had to practise. He went back and labored the long miles. Hurry up! they howled. I stood by the boathouse and saw him weld nerve and sinew to sprint the last stretch. He crossed the line, and fell on the grass.

Nebuchadnezzar! No more than a beast.

I carried him across the Bridge. Then, in the Locker Building, they wanted him to "do exercises."

He rose slowly and went downstairs.... After a while, we grew worried.... There he stood, frozen solid under a shower. He'd left a farewell note--but I can't betray his confidence.

He was my pal.

BUT THEY DONE HIM WRONG!

Smite!

Have you ever heard of Lord Byron?

He was an Apostle of Freedom. We wanted to finish this Protest by adapting one of his poems. It would have been a graceful gesture to a MARTYR.

But we have no Poets in our number?

We wanted to have a black-line picture of a man in trunks, bending under the flail of the Coach.