“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Tim in modest self-disdain, “that ain't nothin', but I wish I could git off a bit.”
“Get off? What do you mean?”
The boy was silent for some moments, then asked shyly:
“Say! Is there big cities in Scotland, an' crowds of people, an' trains, an' engines, an' factories, an' things? My! I wish I could git away!”
Then Cameron understood dimly something of the wander-lust in the boy's soul, of the hunger for adventure, for the colour and movement of life in the great world “away” from the farm, that thrilled in the boy's voice. So for the next half hour he told Tim tales of his own life, the chief glory of which had been his achievements in the realm of sport, and, before he was aware, he was describing to the boy the great International with Wales, till, remembering the disastrous finish, he brought his narrative to an abrupt close.
“And did yeh lick 'em?” demanded Tim in a voice of intense excitement.
“No,” said Cameron shortly.
“Oh, hedges! I wisht ye had!” exclaimed Tim in deep disappointment.
“It was my fault,” replied Cameron bitterly, for the eager wish in the boy's heart had stirred a similar yearning in his own and had opened an old sore.
“I was a fool,” he said, more to himself than to Tim. “I let myself get out of condition and so I lost them the match.”