IX


This was on Tuesday. During the rest of the week Bob worked hard. Even a
skilled man would have been kept busy by the multitude of details that
poured in on the little office. Poor Bob was far from skilled. He felt
as awkward amid all these swift and accurate activities as he had when
at sixteen it became necessary to force his overgrown frame into a
crowded drawing room. He tried very hard, as he always did with
everything. When Collins succinctly called his attention to a
discrepancy in his figurings, he smiled his slow, winning, troubled
smile, thrust the hair back from his clear eyes, and bent his lean
athlete's frame again to the labour. He soon discovered that this work
demanded speed as well as accuracy. "And I need a ten-acre lot to turn
around in," he told himself half humorously. "I'm a regular ice-wagon."

He now came to look back on his college triumphs with an exaggerated but
wholesome reaction. His athletic prowess had given him great prominence
in college circles. Girls had been flattered at his attention; his
classmates had deferred to his skill and experience; his juniors had, in
the manner of college boys, looked up to him as to a demi-god. Then for
the few months of the football season the newspapers had made of him a
national character. His picture appeared at least once a week; his
opinions were recorded; his physical measurements carefully detailed.
When he appeared on the streets and in hotel lobbies, people were apt to
recognize him and whisper furtively to one another. Bob was naturally
the most modest youth in the world, and he hated a "fuss" after the
delightfully normal fashion of normal boys, but all this could not fail
to have its subtle effect. He went out into the world without conceit,
but confident of his ability to take his place with the best of them.