“I shan’t,” replied Hugh untroubledly. “But there isn’t any harm in hoping, eh? Even if you don’t get what you want you’ve had the fun of wishing for it, if you know what I mean!”
CHAPTER XI
THIRTEEN TO TEN
Being on probation didn’t prevent Hugh from seeing the game that Saturday afternoon, and he and Guy and a lower middle youth named Stiles sat together through the best part of two hours and watched Grafton play two twelve-minute and two ten-minute periods with the Leeds High School team. It was unseasonably warm for the first week in October and the players felt the heat. The game dragged along uninterestingly until, in the final period, Coach Bonner put in a number of second-string players. That brought the two teams nearer equality and, although there was no more scoring, the last ten minutes contained several exciting incidents. Weston, at quarter-back in place of Nick, got away on a sixty-five-yard run and all but scored. A Leeds left end pulled down a forward pass for a twelve-yard gain that momentarily looked like a touchdown. Keyes, the only one of the back field to play the game through, fooled the enemy with a short punt that almost resulted in a score when a Leeds player dropped the ball and it was pulled out of the air by Siedhof. But in the end the score remained as at the finish of the first half, 13 to 0, in favor of the home team, and Grafton dawdled back to the campus not greatly impressed.
Hugh parted from Guy and Stiles and went on up to his study. Bert was not yet back, and, after thoughtfully staring from the window at the passing groups below, he went out and down the corridor to Number 34. His rap on the half-opened door elicited a response and he entered to find the single occupant of the room minus coat and waistcoat, perched at the window and surrounded by books and papers. Cathcart was tall and thin, with a fair complexion and a good deal of unruly red-brown hair. Just now, a green shade over his eyes and a pair of black rubber spectacles on his nose, he presented an amusing vision as he glanced near-sightedly across. Cathcart was eighteen, a senior and an acknowledged “grind.” It was said of him that faculty had almost broken his heart in his lower middle year by refusing to let him take more than twenty-one hours a week. He got as much pleasure out of studying as Bert Winslow did from football or Guy Murtha from baseball, and was absolutely unable to get the point of view of the fellow who considered study a disagreeable thing to be avoided as much as possible. It was not until Hugh was halfway across the room, which combined study and bedroom, that Cathcart recognized him. When he did he untangled himself slowly, distributing sheets of paper around the floor, and slid to his feet.
“Hello,” he said doubtfully.
“Hello,” answered the visitor.
Then, without further remarks, they set to rescuing the scattered papers. This gave them time to consider the situation and when they faced each other again Cathcart said: “About the other night, Ordway: I hope you didn’t think there was anything personal in what I did?”
“Not for a moment, Cathcart. I’d have done just what you did, you know. That’s quite all right, I assure you.”
“Well, I’m glad you take it that way, really. You see, being proctor has its drawbacks. I wasn’t anxious for it, but it makes a big difference in my expenses for the year, you see. I get my room a good deal cheaper, and that’s rather nice in my case. I was glad faculty let you off as easily as they did, Ordway.”