“Well, my boy,” said his mother, “you are playing a splendid game, and you are getting better as you go on.”
“Thanks, mother. That's the kind of talk we like,” said Hughie, who had been a little depressed by his father's rather gloomy views. “I'm awfully sorry you can't stay.”
“And so am I, but we must go. But we shall be back in time for supper, and you will ask all the team to come down to celebrate their victory.”
“Good for you, mother! I'll tell them, and I bet they'll play.”
Meantime the team from the Front had been having something of a jollification in their quarters. They were sure of victory, and in spite of their captain's remonstrances had already begun to pass round the bottle in the way of celebration.
“They're having something strong in there,” said little Mac McGregor. “Wish they'd pass some this way.”
“Let them have it,” said Johnnie Big Duncan, whose whole family ever since the revival had taken a total abstinence pledge, although this was looked upon as a very extreme position indeed, by almost all the community. But Big Duncan Campbell had learned by very bitter experience that for him, at least, there was no safety in a moderate use of “God's good creature,” as many of his fellow church-members designated the “mountain dew,” and his sons had loyally backed him up in this attitude.
“Quite, right!” said the master, emphatically. “And if they had any sense they would know that with every drink they are throwing away a big chance of winning.”
“Horo, you fellows!” shouted big Hec Ross across to them, “aren't you going to play any more? Have you got enough of it already?”
“We will not be caring for any more of yon kind,” said Johnnie Big Duncan, good-naturedly, “and we were thinking of giving you a change.”