Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police: A Tale of the Macleod Trail. Ralph Connor
him 'Old Grimes!'”
Already a mighty roar was heard outside. The green, the drive, the gateways, and the street were blocked with the wildest football fanatics that Edinburgh, and all Scotland could produce. They were waiting for the International players, and were bent on carrying their great captain down the street, shoulder high; for the enthusiasm of the Scot reaches the point of madness only in the hour of glorious defeat. But before they were aware, Dunn had shouldered his mighty form through the opposing crowds and had got safely into the carriage beside his father and his young brother. But the crowd were bound to have him.
“We want him, Docthor,” said a young giant in a tam-o'-shanter. “In fac', Docthor,” he argued with a humourous smile, “we maun hae him.”
“Ye'll no' get him, Jock Murchison,” shouted young Rob, standing in front of his big brother. “We want him wi' us.”
The crowd laughed gleefully.
“Go for him, Jock! You can easy lick him,” said a voice encouragingly.
“Pit him oot, Docthor,” said Jock, who was a great friend of the family, and who had a profound respect for the doctor.
“It's beyond me, Jock, I fear. See yon bantam cock! I doubt ye'll hae to be content,” said the doctor, dropping into Jock's kindly Doric.
“Oh, get on there, Murchison,” said Dunn impatiently. “You're not going to make an ass of me; make up your mind to that!”
Jock hesitated, meditating a sudden charge, but checked by his respect for Doctor Dunn.
“Here, you fellows!” shouted a voice. “Fall in; the band is going to play! Get into line there, you Tam-o'-shanter; you're stopping the procesh! Now then, wait for the line, everybody!” It was Little Martin on top of the van in which were the Scottish players. “Tune, 'Old Grimes'; words as follows. Catch on, everybody!”
“Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn.”
With a delighted cheer the crowd formed in line, and, led by the little quarter-back on top of the van, they set off down the street, two men at the heads of the doctor's carriage horses, holding them in place behind the van. On went the swaying crowd and on went the swaying chant, with Martin, director of ceremonies and Dunn hurling unavailing objurgations and entreaties at Jock's head.
Through the uproar a girl's voice reached the doctor's ear:
“Aren't they lovely, Sir?”
The doctor turned to greet a young lady, tall, strong, and with the beauty of perfect health rather than of classic feature in her face. There was withal a careless disregard of the feminine niceties of dress.
“Oh, Miss Brodie! Will you not come up? We can easily make room.”
“I'd just love to,” cried the girl, “but I'm only a humble member of the procession, following the band and the chariot wheels of the conqueror.” Her strong brown face was all aglow with ardour.
“Conqueror!” growled Dunn. “Not much of a conqueror!”
“Why not? Oh fudge! The game? What matters the game? It's the play we care about.”
“Well spoken, lassie,” said the doctor. “That's the true sport.”
“Aren't they awful?” cried Dunn. “Look at that young Canadian idiot up there.”
“Well, if you ask me, I think he's a perfect dear,” said Miss Brodie, deliberately. “I'm sure I know him; anyway I'm going to encourage him with my approval.” And she waved her hand at Martin.
The master of ceremonies responded by taking off his hat and making a sweeping bow, still keeping up the beat. The crowd, following his eyes, turned their attention to the young lady, much to Dunn's delight.
“Oh,” she gasped, “they'll be chanting me next! Good-bye! I'm off!” And she darted back to the company of her friends marching on the pavement.
At this point Martin held up both arms and called for silence.
“Second verse,” he shouted, “second verse! Get the words now!”
“Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done.”
But the crowd rejected the Colonial version, and rendered in their own good Doric:
“Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done.”
And so they sang and swayed, following the van till they neared Queen Street, down which lay the doctor's course.
“For heaven's sake, can't they be choked off?” groaned Dunn.
The doctor signalled Jock to him.
“Jock,” he said, “we'll just slip through at Queen Street.”
“We'd like awfully to do Princes Street, Sir,” pleaded Jock.
“Princes Street, you born ass!” cried Dunn wrathfully.
“Oh, yes, let them!” cried young Rob, whose delight in the glory of his hero had been beyond all measure. “Let them do Princes Street, just once!”
But the doctor would not have it. “Jock,” he said quietly, “just get us through at Queen Street.”
“All right, Sir,” replied Jock with great regret. “It will be as you say.”
Under Jock's orders, when Queen Street was reached, the men at the horses' heads suddenly swung the pair from the crowd, and after some struggling, got them safely into the clear space, leaving the procession to follow the van, loudly cheering their great International captain, whose prowess on the field was equalled only by his modesty and his hatred of a demonstration.
“Listen to the idiots,” said Dunn in disgust, as the carriage bore them away from the cheering crowd.
“Man, they're just fine! Aren't they, Father?” said young Rob in an ecstasy of joy.
“They're generous lads, generous lads, boy,” said Doctor Dunn, his old eyes shining, for his son's triumph touched him deeply. “That's the only way to take defeat.”
“That's all right, Sir,” said Dunn quickly, “but it's rather embarrassing, though it's awfully decent of them.”
The doctor's words suggested fresh thoughts to young Rob. “But it was terrible; and you were just on the win, too, I know.”
“I'm not so sure at all,” said his brother.
“Oh, it is terrible,” said Bob again.
“Tut, tut, lad! What's so terrible?” said his father. “One side has to lose.”
“Oh, it's not that,” said Rob, his lip trembling. “I don't care a sniff for the game.”
“What, then?” said his big brother in a voice sharpened by his own thoughts.
“Oh, Jack,” said Rob, nervously wreathing his hands, “he—it looked as if he—” the lad could not bring himself to say the awful word. Nor was there need to ask who it was the boy had in mind.
“What do you mean, Rob?” the captain's voice was impatient, almost angry.
Then Rob lost his control. “Oh, Jack, I can't help it; I saw it. Do you think—did he