Toward Jack Groom, Ted entertained an admiration that was closely akin to hero worship. Jack was not quite two years older, but to Ted he seemed more than that, and with liking went a respectful awe that to-day, the Sunday following the next to the last game of the Staunton schedule, kept Ted from doing what he really wanted to do, which was cross the yard to Fenton Hall and call on the captain. He wanted to let Jack know that he was horribly sorry about the accident and very sympathetic, but he was very much afraid of being thought presumptuous: only to himself Ted called it “fresh.” Ultimately he did go, but it was because Milton, Jack’s room-mate, hailed him after dinner with: “O Morely! Jack wants to see you. He’s over in the room. Run over now, will you?”
Jack was propped up on the window-seat when Ted entered, his offending foot pillowed before him. Ted’s condolences stumblingly uttered, Jack came to the reason for the summons. “I can’t play Saturday, Ted,” he announced, “and so I’ve dropped out of it entirely. Logan’s taken my place. I haven’t any more say about things. I wanted you to know that because it looks as if Preston would have the call over you. I think Thornton will start him Saturday. I’m sorry, Ted. I think you could play as good a game as Preston, maybe better, but Thornton thinks you’re a bit light. Of course, you’ll get in before the game’s over. You can’t help it, I guess. And, in any case, Thornton’ll see that you get your letter. I just wanted you to understand that it isn’t my doing, Ted.”
“Of course,” muttered the younger boy vaguely. “That’s all right, Jack. I—Preston——” He paused and swallowed. “I guess he’s better than I am, Jack.”
“Piffle! Next year you’ll put it all over him. Don’t mind about Saturday, old man. You’ve got another year yet.”
Which, reflected Ted, retracing his steps under the leafless maples, was true but not very consoling at the moment. He wished he had not written home with so much assurance. Still, if anything happened to Preston early in the game—not that he wished Preston ill-luck, of course. That would be pretty low-down. But accidents did happen! However, he put that line of conjecture out of his mind presently and strove to find comfort in the patriotic reflection that if Preston was preferred by the coach it was with good reason and meant that Staunton’s chances of winning would be bettered. And, after all, what everyone wanted, Ted amongst them, was a victory over Fairfield. By Monday afternoon he had learned to accept the disappointment with a fair degree of philosophy.
The coach’s intentions were not apparent during practice, either that day or on any other of the remaining work days. Ted and Preston were used alternately at right half and no favoritism was discernible. Preston, thought Ted, was worried and nervous. The fight for supremacy was telling on him and Tuesday afternoon he called down the coaches’ condemnation by twice “gumming up” plays. Ted knew that he was thinking too hard about Saturday’s contest to do justice to himself. As for Ted, he had seldom played the position better. Certain that the struggle was over, the consequent relief allowed him to put all his mind on his game, with the result that he went at it in a hammer-and-tongs style that was almost spectacular. He managed to forget very completely that Saturday would find him on the bench instead of on the field, and got a lot of joy and satisfaction from the moment. But after practice on Tuesday he got to thinking about Preston, and when Fate arranged a meeting on the gymnasium steps he yielded to an impulse. He and Preston were always extremely polite to each other, formally friendly, as became antagonists who thoroughly respected each other.
“I say, Preston,” began Ted, “I—there’s something you ought to know. I heard it by—by accident, but I know it’s straight.” Preston looked politely curious. “Thornton’s decided on you to start the game,” blurted Ted. “I thought you’d like to know it. Now you won’t have to—to worry, you see.”
“Why, thanks, Morely, but—you’re not stringing me, are you? Where did you hear it?”
“I can’t tell you that, but it’s—official.”
“Oh! Well, but—it’s a bit tough on you, Morely. Maybe you’re wrong. You’d better wait and see.”