He went to see young Haig and found him gloating as usual over his books. Sophocles, Virgil, Aristotle, Balzac, Shelley, Turner, Toulouse-Lautrec, the whole pounding stampede of them, and him with nothing to worry about except if the left winger of the Winnipeg Monarchs learned to cut to his opposite side or the right fielder of the Winnipeg Maroons could push one to left field or if poor old Joe Wilson was good for one more year with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. Haig was in his room, a twelve-by-six-foot crypt, with his books scattered knee-deep.
“You didn’t have to come, George,” Haig said distantly. “You didn’t have to go to the war. Go ahead, though, go ahead.”
“I’ll go if I feel like it. How did you know that’s what I came to tell you?”
“You’re very predictable, George.”
“Haig, we’r
