But as Dunn, fresh from his bath, but still sore and stiff, was indulging in a long-banished pipe, Nesbitt came in to say that Cameron could not be found.
“And have you not had your tub yet?” said his captain.
“Oh, that's all right! You know I feel awfully about that beastly remark of mine.”
“Oh, let it go,” said Dunn. “That'll be all right. You get right away home for your tub and get freshened up for to-night. I'll look after Cameron. You know he is down for the pipes. He's simply got to be there and I'll get him if I have to bring him in a crate, pipes, kilt and all.”
And Nesbitt, knowing that Dunn never promised what he could not fulfil, went off to his tub in fair content. He knew his captain.
As Dunn was putting on his coat Rob came in, distress written on his face.
“Are you going to get Cameron, Jack?” he asked timidly. “I asked Nesbitt, and he said—”
“Now look here, youngster,” said his big brother, then paused. The distress in the lad's face checked his words. “Now, Rob,” he said kindly, “you needn't fret about this. Cameron is all right.”
The kind tone broke down the lad's control. He caught his brother's arm. “Say, Jack, are you sure—he didn't—funk?” His voice dropped to a whisper.
Then his big brother sat down and drew the lad to his side, “Now listen, Rob; I'm going to tell you the exact truth. CAMERON DID NOT FUNK. The truth is, he wasn't fit,—he ought to have been, but he wasn't,—and because he wasn't fit he came mighty near quitting—for a moment, I'm sure, he felt like it, because his nerve was gone,—but he didn't. Remember, he felt like quitting and didn't, And that's the finest thing a chap can do,—never to quit, even when he feels like it. Do you see?”