Hugh made no reply, and presently went off down the corridor to visit Cathcart, who was nowadays voicing regret that the other had gone over, apparently body and soul, to what Cathcart called “the muscle-worshippers.” But Cathcart was entertaining three professed “grinds,” and the conversation soon bored Hugh and he left. On the way over to Trow he wondered whether football was as Cathcart predicted, really lessening his interest in what that same youth would probably have termed, “more vital matters.” Certainly, a month ago the conversation he had listened to almost in silence would have engrossed him far more. He confided his doubts to Pop, whom he found quite alone for once, and Pop replied that he thought it didn’t much matter.
“Of course, a fellow gets his mind pretty well filled with football about this time of year. It’s natural, Duke. But I don’t see that it does him any harm. After the Mount Morris game he comes back to earth, sometimes with a bit of a thump, and has time to think of other things. Cathcart’s an awful high-brow, anyway. He will have brain fever some day or go to the funny-house. If I did all the worrying over the whichness of the what that he does I’d be food for the squirrels. Forget it.”
Being in an unusually confidential frame of mind this evening, Hugh told of Bert’s ill-temper, and Pop smiled. “You really mean,” he asked, “that you don’t know what’s troubling Bert?”
“No, I don’t, really. Should I?”
“Well, you would if you stopped to think a minute. Look here. George Vail’s not fit to play much yet, and won’t be, I guess, before next Saturday. Siedhof and Jack Zanetti aren’t first-team caliber yet, although Billy may be by next year. That leaves Bonner in a hole, doesn’t it? He knows that he’s got to make up his backs from Bert and George and, if you keep on coming, you. Well, Vail isn’t in shape yet, and Bert isn’t doing much either, and there you are.”
“Yes, but—where am I?”
“Why, Bonner is looking to start the Mount Morris game with two of you three fellows, don’t you savvy? Now the question is, which two? Bert and George? Bert and you? George and you? He can’t tell yet, and you can see that he’s doing a lot of thinking. Well, Bert sees that and he’s thinking too. Just at present you and he are about an even choice. Vail will probably come around all right and be sure of his position, but you and Bert will have to fight it out for the other place. That’s the way it looks to me, Duke. And that, I guess, is what’s worrying Bert. When the season began he was the only possibility for left half. Then he got up in the air about something, played like the dickens, got a busted rib because he was thinking of something else instead of playing the game, went off on his work—natural enough after a week or ten days’ lay-off—and now doesn’t seem able to come back. It’s got on his nerves, I suppose. And he’s taking it out on you. He has a punk temper, anyway. And then, too, you’ve suddenly sprung up as a rival. And Bert resents it. Hasn’t any right to, but I guess he does, because I know Bert pretty well.”
“I wish I’d never gone in for football,” sighed Hugh after a moment’s silence. “I never thought for a minute, you know, that—that anything like this would come up. What’s to be done?”
“Done? Nothing’s to be done. Don’t be a chump. Bert will get over his grouch tomorrow and then you and he will fight it out, just as lots of other fellows have, and the best man will win. Or, anyway, the one who promises to be the more useful a week from Saturday will win. It’s up to Bonner, you know.”
“But I thought that Bert was absolutely certain,” faltered Hugh.