“You watch me,” said Hop. “If Nat Wick gets my job for keeps that lad’s got to go some! Mind you, I’m not blaming Johnny, either. I’m free to confess that our side of the line’s been pretty punk, and Andy Dozier and I had it coming to us. Joe, too, I guess. As for Pete, every one knows how rotten he’s been!”
“Is that so?” growled Pete.
“I thought I was playing a pretty nice game,” went on Hop reflectively, “but I guess I wasn’t. Anyhow, something was sure loose on that side and maybe it was me. I’d hate like the deuce to think I was dumped for good, though.”
“Pshaw,” said Coles, “Johnny means to have you back there, Hop. As Jonas says, get out and hump, son!”
“Oh, I’m going to hump,” Hop assured him. “You won’t know me from a dromedary by Monday!”
Bert got back to Number 21 well before ten o’clock and found an empty room. What time Chick returned Bert never knew, but it was certainly well after ten.
Sunday’s paper corroborated the radio announcement of Kenly’s defeat, but since one of the opponent’s touchdowns had been due to an intercepted forward-pass in midfield and the other scored in the last minute or two of the game, when the Kenly Hall team had contained numerous substitutes, there was less encouragement to be derived from it. According to the correspondent’s account of the affair Kenly had played better football; although, as Chick pointed out when Bert drew his attention to the statement, the correspondent was naturally prejudiced.
Living with Chick that Sunday was a good deal like being holed up with a disgruntled bear, Bert secretly thought. And since it rained hard from early dawn to darkness, there wasn’t much chance of getting out of the hole for long. Church attendance was canceled in the forenoon, at which time the rain was descending in torrents and the streets were rivers, and even at one o’clock nothing save hunger would have taken Bert to Lawrence Hall. Chick was a pessimist to-day. Not an ordinary pessimist, either, but something exceptional, a sort of hyper-super-pessimist. Nothing was right for Chick. The weather was a personal affront, the newspaper was dull, his fountain pen was execrable, letter writing was a task invented by the devil and having to go out for dinner in the rain was a crime. Chick was pretty certain that he would catch cold and die within a few days, or so Bert gathered. Chick didn’t flare up over any of the sorry tricks Fate was playing on him. He was just morose and hopeless, abjectly, profoundly hopeless. He didn’t seem to want to talk on any subject that Bert could think of. And when he wasn’t talking he managed to give Bert the idea that as a companion for a rainy day, he, Bert, was a total loss!
Bert was heartily glad when Homer Johnson came in after dinner and made a third. Homer was Captain of the Baseball Team, and just at first he made it appear that it was in that capacity he had called, for he tried to get Chick to agree to join the early season squad. As a member of last season’s team, Chick was exempt from the first two weeks of indoor practice, but Homer spoke movingly of needing coaching assistance and Chick, perhaps because he didn’t expect to be alive in February, grudgingly consented. Homer was also Editor-in-Chief of the Doubleay, and the real motive for his visit became apparent when, the baseball business being concluded, he introduced the subject of football. Did Chick consider that Mr. Cade had made a success of his work this season? Bert expected animation from Chick at last, but he was disappointed. Even the opportunity to discuss Johnny failed to arouse him from the depths of his despair. He said he guessed Johnny was doing as well as any one could.
“There’s a good deal of talk about the changes he made for yesterday’s game, Chick,” said Homer. “A lot of the fellows think he has sort of lost his grip this fall. It does look as if he was a bit panicky, doesn’t it? I mean changing the team this way in the middle of the season.”