“I dare say,” responded Hugh good-naturedly. “Don’t know just why Mr. Bonner has been so decent to me, anyway. Of course, I know I can’t play like you and Vail, old chap. Never thought so for a minute.” “You act so,” growled Bert. “Coming around and patting my head! I’ll be playing half when you’re shouting ‘Rah! Rah!’ on the stand.” “Right-o! Sorry I spoke.” “You kids,” continued Bert, “have a lucky day and make a couple of runs and then think you’re the whole shooting match! You make me tired!” 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?”