Arrived in the other tent—feeling stupidly giddy and in pain—he sank down on the first available chair. Friendly spirits ordered drinks, and soothed him with compliments. A thundering good fight. To be so narrowly beaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth.
Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the long table; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled the intervening space. Roy did not feel like stirring. He felt more like drinking half a dozen 'pegs' in succession. But soon he was aware of a move going on. The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect. By a special decree, the Tournament prize would be given first. So he need not hurry. The tent was emptying swiftly. He must screw himself up to congratulations....
The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent—nearly empty now—and stopped in front of him.
"See here, Roy—I apologise," he said hurriedly, in a low tone. "I lost my temper. Not fair play——"
Instantly Roy was on his feet, shoulders squared, the last spark of antagonism extinct.
"If it comes to that, I lost mine too," he admitted, and Lance smiled.
"You did! But—I began it." There was an instant of painful hesitation, then, "It—it was an accident—the favour——"
"Oh, that's all right," Roy muttered, embarrassed and overcome.
"It's not all right. It put you off." Another pause. "Will you take half the Purse?"
"Not I." Glory apart, he knew very well how badly Lance needed the money. "It's yours. And you deserve it."