Mortimer had dropped out of the varsity team. There was good reason, for he would not train, and, though he could play brilliantly at times, he could not be depended on.
“I don’t care!” he boasted to his sporting crowd. “I can have some fun, now.”
Several times he and his crowd had come around to ask Dunk to go out with them, but Dunk had refused, much to Mortimer’s chagrin.
“Oh, come on, be a good fellow!” he had urged.
“No, I’ve got to do some boning.”
“Oh, forget it!”
But Dunk would not, for which Andy was glad.
Then came a period when Dunk went to pieces in his recitations. He was warned by his professors and tried to make up for it by hard study. He was not naturally brilliant and certain lessons came hard to him.
He grew discouraged and talked of withdrawing. Andy did all he could for him, even to the neglect of his own standing, but it seemed to do no good.
“What’s the use of it all, anyhow?” demanded Dunk. “I’ll spend four mortal years here, and come out with a noddle full of musty old Latin and Greek, go to work in dad’s New York office and forget it all in six months. I might as well start forgetting it now.”