While he was speaking the door opened and into the room came a player, tall, lanky, with a pale, gaunt face, plastered over the forehead with damp wisps of straight, black hair. His deep-set, blue-grey eyes swept the room.
“Thanks, Dunn,” he said hoarsely. “Let them curse me! I deserve it all. It's tough for them, but God knows I've got the worst of it. I've played my last game.” His voice broke huskily.
“Oh, rot it, Cameron,” cried Dunn. “Don't be an ass! Your first big game—every fellow makes his mistake—”
“Mistake! Mistake! You can't lie easily, Dunn. I was a fool and worse than a fool. I let myself down and I wasn't fit. Anyway, I'm through with it.” His voice was wild and punctuated with unaccustomed oaths; his breath came in great sobs.
“Oh, rot it, Cameron!” again cried Dunn. “Next year you'll be twice the man. You're just getting into your game.”
Right loyally his men rallied to their captain:
“Right you are!”
“Why, certainly; no man gets into the game first year!”
“We'll give 'em beans next year, Cameron, old man!”
They were all eager to atone for the criticism which all had held in their hearts and which one of them had spoken. But this business was serious. To lose a game was bad enough, but to round on a comrade was unpardonable; while to lose from the game a half-back of Cameron's calibre was unthinkable.