“Yes,” answered Bert, suddenly serious, “you are good, Chick, when you want to be, but it seems to me that you haven’t been up to your real form this fall. Not always, I mean.”
Chick looked affronted for a moment. Then he laughed. “What’s the idea, Bert?” he asked. “Think I’m getting a swelled head, or what?”
“No, but I mean it, Chick. I supposed you knew it, too, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Oh, come,” protested Chick, “don’t lay it on! I don’t say I’ve always played at top-notch. No fellow can, I guess. But I’ve kept my end up as well as any of them, haven’t I?”
“Perhaps,” said Bert. “I may be wrong, of course. Only it has seemed to me that you—well, that you don’t try as hard as you did, Chick; don’t take as much interest in the game. Perhaps I imagine it. Anyway, you mustn’t get sore because I spoke about it.”
“Sore! Of course not.” But he did sound a trifle irritated. “I thought I’d been playing a pretty good article of football, old scout, and your information is rather jarring. Any one tell you this, or did you just discover it for yourself?” Chick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“My own idea entirely,” replied Bert lightly. “I dare say I’m not a competent judge of how end position should be played. Of course, Chick, I want to see you playing way ahead of every one and so I’m probably over-critical. You know how you’re playing better than I do.”
“I’d ought to,” agreed Chick. Then, when they were in the room, he reverted to the subject. “Funny idea of yours,” he mused. “Thinking I’m off my game, I mean.” He laughed uneasily. “Hope Johnny doesn’t catch it! Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been feeling quite as peppy as I ought to so far this fall. Maybe it sort of shows in my playing, eh? I don’t believe it, though. I’ll bet I’ve played just as good a game as Joe Tate right along. Don’t you think I have?”
“Why, I don’t know, Chick. I’ve said I’m no judge of how end ought to be played. Last year, if you’ll remember, you played a better game than Joe, a whole lot better.”