"Oh, yes, let them!" cried young Rob, whose delight in the glory of his hero had been beyond all measure. "Let them do Princes Street, just once!"
But the doctor would not have it. "Jock," he said quietly, "just get us through at Queen Street."
"All right, Sir," replied Jock with great regret. "It will be as you say."
Under Jock's orders, when Queen Street was reached, the men at the horses' heads suddenly swung the pair from the crowd, and after some struggling, got them safely into the clear space, leaving the procession to follow the van, loudly cheering their great International captain, whose prowess on the field was equalled only by his modesty and his hatred of a demonstration.
"Listen to the idiots," said Dunn in disgust, as the carriage bore them away from the cheering crowd.
"Man, they're just fine! Aren't they, Father?" said young Rob in an ecstasy of joy.
"They're generous lads, generous lads, boy," said Doctor Dunn, his old eyes shining, for his son's triumph touched him deeply.
"That's the only way to take defeat."
"That's all right, Sir," said Dunn quickly, "but it's rather embarrassing, though it's awfully decent of them."
The doctor's words suggested fresh thoughts to young Rob. "But it was terrible; and you were just on the win, too, I know."
"I'm not so sure at all," said his brother.
"Oh, it is terrible," said Bob again.
"Tut, tut, lad! What's so terrible?" said his father. "One side has to lose."
"Oh, it's not that," said Rob, his lip trembling. "I don't care a sniff for the game."
"What, then?" said his big brother in a voice sharpened by his own thoughts.
"Oh, Jack," said Rob, nervously wreathing his hands, "he--it looked as if he--" the lad could not bring himself to say the awful word.
Nor was there need to ask who it was the boy had in mind.
"What do you mean, Rob?" the captain's voice was impatient, almost angry.
Then Rob lost his control. "Oh, Jack, I can't help it; I saw it.
Do you think--did he really funk it?" His voice broke. He clutched his brother's knee and stood with face white and quivering. He had given utterance to the terrible suspicion that was torturing his heroic young soul. Of his two household gods one was tottering on its pedestal. That a football man should funk--the suspicion was too dreadful.
The captain glanced at his father's face. There was gloom there, too, and the same terrible suspicion. "No, Sir," said Dunn, with impressive deliberation, answering the look on his father's face, "Cameron is no quitter. He didn't funk. I think," he continued, while Rob's tear-stained face lifted eagerly, "I know he was out of condition; he had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got out of hand a bit, you know, and that last quarter--you know, Sir, that last quarter was pretty stiff--his nerve gave just for a moment."
"Oh," said the doctor in a voice of relief, "that explains it.
But," he added quickly in a severe tone, "it was very reprehensible for a man on the International to let himself get out of shape, very reprehensible indeed. An International, mind you!"
"It was my fault, Sir, I'm afraid," said Dunn, regretfully. "I ought to have--"
"Nonsense! A man must be responsible for himself. Control, to be of any value, must be ultroneous, as our old professor used to say."
"That's true, Sir, but I had kept pretty close to him up to the last week, you see, and--"
"Bad training, bad training. A trainer's business is to school his men to do without him."
"That is quite right, Sir. I believe I've been making a mistake," said Dunn thoughtfully. "Poor chap, he's awfully cut up!"
"So he should be," said the doctor sternly. "He had no business to get out of condition. The International, mind you!"
"Oh, Father, perhaps he couldn't help it," cried Rob, whose loyal, tender heart was beating hard against his little ribs, "and he looks awful. I saw him come out and when I called to him he never looked at me once."
