“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.”
There is no finer loyalty in this world than that of a boy below his teens. It is so without calculation, without qualification, and without reserve. Dr. Dunn let his eyes rest kindly upon his little flushed face.
“Perhaps so, perhaps so, my boy,” he said, “and I have no doubt he regrets it now more than any of us. Where has he gone?”
“Nesbitt's after him, Sir. He'll get him for to-night.”