In the dressing room his hand was nearly wrung off, as he got rid of the mud of the match.
His one regret was that his sister Ena, who had promised to come to the match, had not put in an appearance, and the thought of this disturbed him in an unaccountable manner.
As he came from the dressing room, one of the doctors met him, with a grave face, which gave him a sense of impending disaster, and drew him into a small side room.
“I am sorry to say, Sefton, I have some very bad news for you. This telegram came during the match, and we did not like to give it to you then. I opened it in case I could answer it for you.”
The words were terrible enough when Sefton read them:
“Come at once Father dying. Ena.”
In the silence of the room, the shouting and cheering outside could be heard, and a great feeling of bitterness came over Sefton at the contrast between the happy throng outside, and his own misery. He wanted to run out and tell them to stop. It was unseemly to cheer when his father was dying. Then he turned on the doctor angrily.
“Why did you not give me this at once? I suppose you thought I would leave the ground. Now I may get there too late.”
The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder kindly.
“No my boy, but there was only ten minutes to go, and knowing how keen you were on the match, we thought you would rather we kept it for that short time.”