“Right-o! And come across to 29, Cathcart, will you? There are heaps of things I’d like to talk about.” Hugh usually had his last recitation at one, and that left him a long afternoon to get through with. One could always study, but when the weather was fair, and it held fair that autumn well into November, staying indoors was not what he wanted. He had one or two set-to’s at tennis with various acquaintances but by three o’clock he was always on hand at the first team gridiron, following the play and trying his best to profit by what he saw. There was no cheering news from Hanrihan, however, that week, nor had Hugh taken Guy’s advice and spoken to Ted Trafford about his reinstatement. He didn’t feel up to doing that, but would have been highly pleased had Bert or Nick done it for him. Neither did, though, so far as he learned. They seemed to accept his termination with football as final for that fall. The only incidents of importance that week were the tennis with Wallace Cathcart on Thursday and the football game with St. James’ Academy on Saturday. The tennis was something of a surprise to Hugh. He secretly thought rather well of himself as a player, although he never boasted, and had expected to have the rather awkward appearing Cathcart at his mercy. But things turned out differently and Hugh had to work hard for the two sets they played. In spite of the fact that his opponent didn’t take the game seriously and had not, according to his statement, played since the preceding spring, he was able to give Hugh a hard tussle. Cathcart had a bewildering serve when, towards the middle of the first set, he began to get command of it, and he possessed a remarkably clever way of getting about the court. Weak on backhand strokes, he wisely avoided them whenever possible and spun the ball across low and hard from the face of his racket in a way that made Hugh admire and marvel. When, at the end of the first set, won by Hugh, 6–4, they rested a minute, Hugh took Cathcart to task. “I say, old chap, it’s a crying shame for you not to play more. Why, you’re a natural tennis player, ’pon my word you are! Look here, why don’t you, eh?” “I don’t know.” Cathcart, breathing hard from his exertions, thought a moment. “I really believe I could play fairly decently if I put my mind on it and practiced. And it is good fun. I’d forgotten what fun it was, Ordway. Do you think you could show me how to get those backhand returns? Or wouldn’t you care to?” “Glad to! The trouble is you funk ’em, you know.” “I’m afraid of them. If I can’t get into position to take them on the right I let them go. I’m awfully weak on backhand work.” “Practice is all you need, then. That’s a perfectly spif――a perfectly corking serve of yours! I have to take it almost at the backline, do you know? Shall we go on?”