There was one thing that that afternoon’s experience did for Hugh, in any event. It convinced him that he didn’t want to play end again and that he did want to play half-back. He would go on being an end this year, he told himself, but next fall he would go out for a half-back position and refuse anything else. Playing end wasn’t bad fun, but there was something about having the ball in the crook of your elbow or snuggled to your stomach and pitting your wits and speed and strength against the enemy, that was ten times more exciting. Of course, as soon as Bert got into harness again Hanser would be returned to the second and Hugh would be back elbowing Forbes for the outpost position. But next year! He said all this to Bert that evening, being far too full of the afternoon’s adventure to want to study, and Bert, while granting that there was no comparison in his mind between playing half-back and end, advised Hugh to stick to his trade. “You didn’t do half badly, Duke, for you’re certainly just about as quick as they make ’em. Sort of reminded me today of a cat, the way you jumped off and squirmed around there. But you’re not heavy enough to keep going, you see. It’s the foot or two feet or yard that a fellow makes after he’s tackled that counts. If it was all around-the-end work you’d be rather a star, but it isn’t. Down near goal you’d have to put your head down and buck the line, old man. And someone like Ted or Musgrave would stop you so soon you’d go backward. You stick to being a good end, at least until you’ve put on weight and grown a bit.” “I say, I’m not so awfully much smaller than you are,” protested Hugh. “You’re twenty pounds lighter than I am, at least, and you’re fully two inches shorter. You――you’ve got to have punch when you go into the line, Hugh. See what I mean?” “Oh, yes, I see what you mean,” responded the other slowly, “but that chap Zanetti isn’t awfully big and heavy, is he? And he played a mighty good game today when he was in.” “Jack Zanetti’s been at it four years, and he knows how to use what weight he has got. So will you when you’ve been playing that long. Now dry up and let me bone this beastly French rot. You’re worse than a magpie!” “All right, old dear. But, I say, Bert, do you think that by next year――――” “For the love of mud, shut up! I want to get this done and hit the hay. If you had a rib that hurt like the dickens every time you moved or took a breath――――” Bert subsided with mutters and silence reigned. CHAPTER XVII FRIENDS IN NEED Again, on Tuesday morning, there was no telegram, and when Hugh, at Bert’s suggestion, called up the telegraph office in the village he was informed that no message addressed to him had been received. Hugh was by now at a loss to explain his mother’s silence and Bert was anxious and a little bit unpleasant, intimating that Hugh had promised more than he could perform.