“All right, see you at Mory’s to-night. Tell the boy we’re all proud of him.”
Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over again, as if he loved the sound of the words, “chip of the old block,” “blood will tell.”
This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles. It made him feel young, hopeful, resolute, that life were worth having for the sake of its strife. One thing at least was certain. His son could “take his punishment” and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved something better than a coward and a quitter for a father.
The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder Seeley entered the crowded, steaming room of the training house. The surgeon had removed the muddy, blood-stained bandage from around his tousled head and was cleansing an ugly, ragged gash. The boy scowled and winced but made no complaint, although his bruised face was very pale.
“Must have made you feel pretty foggy,” said the surgeon. “I shall have to put in a few stitches. It was a deuce of a thump.”
“I couldn’t see very well and my legs went queer for a few minutes, but I’m all right now, thanks,” replied the full-back, and then, glancing up, he espied his father standing near the door. The young hero of the game beckoned him with a grimy fist. Henry Seeley went over to him, took the fist in his two hands, and then patted the boy’s cheek with awkward and unaccustomed tenderness.
“Sit still, Ernest. I won’t interfere with the doctor’s job. I just wanted to let you know that I saw your bully work. It made me think of—it made me think of——”
Henry Seeley’s voice broke curiously and his lip quivered. He had not meant to show any emotion.
His son replied with a smile of affectionate admiration:
“It made you think of your own teams, didn’t it? And I was thinking of you in that last half. It helped my nerve a whole lot to remember that my dad never knew when he was licked. Why, even the coaches told me that between the halves. It put more ginger into me than anything else. We’ve got to keep up the family record between us.”