“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!”