“Eating all right?” asked the trainer.
“Sure. Eating enough, anyway. Sometimes things don’t taste so good, but—oh, it isn’t that. I’m all right that way. Nothing wrong with me. I mean——”
“Don’t think about it, lad.” The trainer wiped his hands carefully and returned things to the shelves. “No one can lay off as long as you did and not break his stride. Given another week or ten days, you’d come back fine.”
“But I haven’t got another week,” protested Stuart. “There’s only three days! And I’ve been back a whole week already and I’m no better than I was when I started!”
“I know,” The Laird nodded sympathetically. “It’s too bad, but I’d not greet. You’re doing your best, lad, and we all know it, and there’s no more any one can do.”
“Well, it’s mighty funny,” growled Stuart. “I’m fit as ever and I know all the football I ever knew, but—but I can’t—can’t deliver the goods! I get sort of scared, Mac. I’m afraid to try anything myself for fear I’ll make a mess of it. The other day I almost fumbled!”
“What of it? There’s others have fumbled and lived to spring an alibi!”
“Maybe, but I never fumbled but once, and you know it: in a game, I mean. And it frightened me, Mac.”
“You think too much, lad, and it’s making you nervous. Forget football for a couple of days. And to-morrow, when you go in, give the ball to yourself and prove you’re just as good as ever you were.”
“I wouldn’t be, though,” answered Stuart gloomily. “I’d make a botch of it. I haven’t got the sand any more, Mac.”