Page Eight
THE UNIVERSITY KANSAN.
Wednesday. December 20,1911.
"THE QUITTER"
"He was the queerest combination of success and failure," Thompson was saying as the waiter carried out what remained of the generous porterhouse steaks, "the strongest mixture of contrary forces that ever walked across the Michigan campus. Yes sir, Bartleson was a genius, a man who could move anything he set his hand to, a steam engine of energy, yet,"—here he paused for a word—"yet, a—something—a yellow streak, maybe, always kept him from finishing the last lap."
The other men had lighted their cigars and squared themselves to the speaker as listeners do unconsciously when they expect something interesting.
"Yes, he was a man who never finished. We were freshmen together and both joined the football squad. That's how I came to know him. As a freshman I envied him the notices in the papers in which he was alluded to as 'this year's find.' The papers were justified, for he was a whirlwind on the field and after three weeks was regularly installed on the first team.
A sure tackler, fast and always in the game, he was easily the prize freshman of the year. Well, one day he failed to show up for practice. Then the next, and the coach and captain hurried off the field to his room only to find their star player in robe and slippers, before the grate serenely smoking a big pipe."
"He was just tired of football, that was all anybody could get out of him. Thy implored, stormed and fumed; the athletic committee and a delegation from his class waited on him and he finally agreed to return to the squad. But a couple of nights of practice and he quit again. This time for good."
"He sort o' dropped out of sight, as I recall, until the second semester of his Sophomore year, when there was a good deal of talk of the unusual action of the Senior class play committee. This committee gave Bartleson the $100 prize. It caused a furore among the other contestants who claimed that his play was ineligible since the last act was only in synopsis form. Bartleson had agreed to finish it at once and as the members considered it far superior to the others, made the unprecedented award.
"He started in to finish the play,—I was rooming with him then—but 'the mood never struck him' as he said, and the committee was finally compelled to use one of the others, to the disgust of all of us who had interested ourselves in the affair.
"Then the track meet the following year. As a Freshman and Sophomore Bartleson had worked on the track only intermittently, but this year he had trained hard and consistently for the mile, and made the team in the Spring, nosing out a mighty good bunch of material at that.
"Remember that Michigan-Chicago meet? The heart-breaking finish, Chicago winning by a third of a point? The papers said the pole vault did it, but those of us who knew felt differently. The mile race was one of the first events. Bartleson appeared in fine form. He led off and kept his position until the beginning of the third lap, when the Chicago man forged ahead. We looked for Bartleson to spurt, but our hearts grew sick as we saw him limp and slow up at the 220-mark, and a second later stop and walk over to the dressing room.
"He had a stitch in his side, he said. The trainer looked him squarely in the eye, then flung one word at him, his face livid, and stalked out of the room.
“After that everyone thought he was a quitter. Maybe he was, I don't know. But I do know there was something uncanny about the fellow. One night as we were tramping home from an evening down-town—one night when he had seemed uncommonly taciturn—he burst out into a strange confidence. ‘I can't help
it. I know I'm a quitter. I know what you men think of me. But i can't help it. There's something wrong in my makeup; it's like the craving for drugs, at times it overpowers me. I'll pay for it someday. I try—but I can't help it. I can't help it! "
"Damned laziness," broke in Powers. "I know his kind."
Powers, "I know his kind," "So I thought at the time," went on Thompson, "but his words, and the peculiar intonation of his voice haunted me. Somehow I came to pity the big strong, talented fellow, and many's the time I took his part when the others slurred him. But I never could explain satisfactorily to them, or to myself, for that matter, why I upheld him.
"Yes, he always failed to finish," Thompson resumed after lightening his cigar. "His final flash in the pan was his Senion thesis. We were both medics, and he chose to go into the subject of tetanus. The numerous deaths from lockjaw at that time were causing a great deal of discussion, since it was considered incurable. Bartleson cooped himself up in the laboratory for months, working like a Trojan, throwing the same vigor and energy into his experimental and research work that he had shown on the athletic field. His thesis was reprinted in the medical journals and brought forth high praise from noteworthy scientists. All predicted that his knowledge of the dread disease would enable him to find the reagent which would successfully combat the tetanus germ.
"The Dean, an old, respected, plain-spoken man, met Bartleson at the class day exercises. He laid his hand on Bartleson's shoulder and told him that his thesis on tetanus was the best piece of work ever done in his department. 'Your work is international in scope, but it is unfinished, and I need not tell you that society demands as its right that you finish this work. Bartleson:' and the old Dean's eye clouded, 'you know and I know that your University and your classmates have expected results from you before. Understand, I am not blaming anyone, but you failed to deliver the goods. Football games are won and lost every day, but here you're given more than an athletic contest to win. My dear boy'—here his eye shot fire, 'finish this fight, finish this fight.'
"Bartleson hung his head, then looked up quickly, fairly crushed the Dean's outstretched hand, turned, and was lost in the crowd.
"That was eleven years ago," continued the speaker reminiscently, "and I've never seen on heard of him since."
"Strange you should have mentioned a tetanus thesis tonight," said Lansing quickly. "A couple of weeks ago I was called to a small town in the northern part of the county to assist in a surgical operation. It took longer than we planned, I missed my train and the local physician insisted on my going to his home
for dinner. He was a college man, agreeable, though somewhat inclined to diffidence. I thought.
"His little son, a sturdy chap of seven or eight years, ran out to meet us, and the father caught him up in his arms and made as much over him as if he had not seen him for months. He interested himself at once in the child's doings of the day, and anyone with half an eye could see that the father was immensely fond of his son.
"I suppose that we had been talking half an hour when the mother excitedly called to us, and the doctor hurried to her. In a moment he returned carrying the boy, who appeared to be in a convulsion.
'He laid him on the bed.
He laid him on the bed. '‘ Summer complaint;’ this to the mother, ‘bring me some water.’
"No sooner had she left the room than he showed me a discolored spot on the boy's bare foot.
"'A mail,' he whispered
hoarsely.
"Only for a moment did anguish and despair seem to overcome him. Then I saw his face set—it was a fighter's face. When his wife returned he was the confident and steady general of the operating room. He gave her a few simple directions as to the care of the child, whose convulsion had now left him, and in answer to a look, I followed him to the basement. There he had fitted up an extensive laboratory, as finely equipped as any I have ever seen. He answered my look of inquiry that his father had fitted up for him 'for some special work' he said, 'ten years ago.'
"Then, swinging around to me, he asked 'Will you help me?' And without waiting for an answer, 'I'll do the work now:' this came hoarsely, 'and with God's help I'll finish.'
When I returned I found him working like mad in the laboratory.
" 'You look after the boy' he almost shouted to me," 'fight for every minute, and I'll save him.'
"The guinea pigs had arrived and he was ready for them. He developed thousands of tetanus germs and long before morning the little animals were writhing under the influence of inoculation.
"He selected one and placed it in a glass box.
"Together we watched the pig. Its violent convulsions became less marked, stopped; its legs relaxed, and as the cold became more intense it made an effort to get to its feet.
"'I want to try freezing, he mumbled. Then, as if in explanation, 'You see I made quite a study of this once.'
"He removed the pig, laid it on the table, and watched it feverishly. For ten minutes, it must have been, he kept his gaze riveted on the little animal. Then as he saw its eyes roll, its back bend, sure signs of another convulsion, he turned to me and muttered savagely 'Better look
after the 'boy' and began his work anew.
"The boy was rapidly growing worse. His convulsions were more frequent, and the sight of water, as in extreme cases, threw him into violent hysteries.
"I watched incessantly, the mother ever at my elbow. The little lad's jaws were now firmly locked, and in his most violent
convulsions it was necessary for us to hold him to prevent them from breaking his spine. And as we stood together, helpless, as the little body suffered the greatest torture known to man we could hear the nervous tramp, trump, trump, resounding from the concrete floor of the basement below.
(Continued on Page 10).
HERE'S wishing you students a Merry Christmas and a Happy New year and as many of them as you care for. Here's telling you that you'll be happier in 1912 than ever if you wear our Clothes, and that you'll save more money than ever if you buy them, and other things to wear, of this store.
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