On the whole, Grafton was satisfied with that game. She had made larger scores against Rotan in the past, to be sure, but on those occasions the college team had been undoubtedly weaker than she had been today. Even Coach Bonner, who was not easily satisfied, acknowledged to Ted Trafford that the Scarlet-and-Gray eleven had done well to hold Rotan to three scores. Ted wanted credit, too, for the six points his team had won, but Mr. Bonner shrugged his shoulders then. “There was too much luck in that touchdown, Traf,” he said. “Defensively the team did very well. Let it go at that!”
Hugh climbed the stairs to the infirmary on the second floor of Manning after supper that night to inquire about Bert, as to whose injury many and various rumors were afloat. Mrs. Prouty, the matron, gave him permission to see the patient and Hugh found the invalid in the act of finishing a fairly substantial meal. Bert greeted the caller quite cheerfully.
“You needn’t tiptoe,” he laughed, “and you needn’t look like an undertaker. I’m not dead yet, Duke. It’s only a cracked rib. The Doc says I’ll be all right in a couple of weeks and can play before that if I’ll wear a pad. Still, it’s kind of tough luck.”
“I’m glad it’s no worse,” said Hugh. “They had all sorts of stories about you at table tonight. You played a ripping—a corking game, old chap.”
“Well, I played better than I’ve been playing, that’s sure. It was a dandy game and we did mighty well to hold them to twenty, Hugh, to say nothing of scoring on them. Have you heard yet?”
“Heard?” asked Hugh.
“About the money, I mean.”
“Oh, I say, I forgot all about it! There wasn’t anything in the box, though. Would they put a telegram in the box?”
“They usually telephone it to you. Maybe your mother didn’t get your message in time, though. You think she’s at either one of those places, don’t you?”
“Why, yes. I ought to have received a letter from her today. She almost always writes so that I get it Saturday. We’ll surely hear by Monday, Bert.”