Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police: A Tale of the Macleod Trail. Ralph Connor
Of his two household gods one was tottering on its pedestal. That a football man should funk—the suspicion was too dreadful.
The captain glanced at his father's face. There was gloom there, too, and the same terrible suspicion. “No, Sir,” said Dunn, with impressive deliberation, answering the look on his father's face, “Cameron is no quitter. He didn't funk. I think,” he continued, while Rob's tear-stained face lifted eagerly, “I know he was out of condition; he had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got out of hand a bit, you know, and that last quarter—you know, Sir, that last quarter was pretty stiff—his nerve gave just for a moment.”
“Oh,” said the doctor in a voice of relief, “that explains it. But,” he added quickly in a severe tone, “it was very reprehensible for a man on the International to let himself get out of shape, very reprehensible indeed. An International, mind you!”
“It was my fault, Sir, I'm afraid,” said Dunn, regretfully. “I ought to have—”
“Nonsense! A man must be responsible for himself. Control, to be of any value, must be ultroneous, as our old professor used to say.”
“That's true, Sir, but I had kept pretty close to him up to the last week, you see, and—”
“Bad training, bad training. A trainer's business is to school his men to do without him.”
“That is quite right, Sir. I believe I've been making a mistake,” said Dunn thoughtfully. “Poor chap, he's awfully cut up!”
“So he should be,” said the doctor sternly. “He had no business to get out of condition. The International, mind you!”
“Oh, Father, perhaps he couldn't help it,” cried Rob, whose loyal, tender heart was beating hard against his little ribs, “and he looks awful. I saw him come out and when I called to him he never looked at me once.”
There is no finer loyalty in this world than that of a boy below his teens. It is so without calculation, without qualification, and without reserve. Dr. Dunn let his eyes rest kindly upon his little flushed face.
“Perhaps so, perhaps so, my boy,” he said, “and I have no doubt he regrets it now more than any of us. Where has he gone?”
“Nesbitt's after him, Sir. He'll get him for to-night.”
But as Dunn, fresh from his bath, but still sore and stiff, was indulging in a long-banished pipe, Nesbitt came in to say that Cameron could not be found.
“And have you not had your tub yet?” said his captain.
“Oh, that's all right! You know I feel awfully about that beastly remark of mine.”
“Oh, let it go,” said Dunn. “That'll be all right. You get right away home for your tub and get freshened up for to-night. I'll look after Cameron. You know he is down for the pipes. He's simply got to be there and I'll get him if I have to bring him in a crate, pipes, kilt and all.”
And Nesbitt, knowing that Dunn never promised what he could not fulfil, went off to his tub in fair content. He knew his captain.
As Dunn was putting on his coat Rob came in, distress written on his face.
“Are you going to get Cameron, Jack?” he asked timidly. “I asked Nesbitt, and he said—”
“Now look here, youngster,” said his big brother, then paused. The distress in the lad's face checked his words. “Now, Rob,” he said kindly, “you needn't fret about this. Cameron is all right.”
The kind tone broke down the lad's control. He caught his brother's arm. “Say, Jack, are you sure—he didn't—funk?” His voice dropped to a whisper.
Then his big brother sat down and drew the lad to his side, “Now listen, Rob; I'm going to tell you the exact truth. CAMERON DID NOT FUNK. The truth is, he wasn't fit—he ought to have been, but he wasn't—and because he wasn't fit he came mighty near quitting—for a moment, I'm sure, he felt like it, because his nerve was gone—but he didn't. Remember, he felt like quitting and didn't, And that's the finest thing a chap can do—never to quit, even when he feels like it. Do you see?”
The lad's head went up. “I see,” he said, his eyes glowing. “It was fine! I'm awfully glad he didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it. You tell him for me.” His idol was firm again on his pedestal.
“All right, old chap,” said his big brother. “You'll never quit, I bet!”
“Not if I'm fit, will I?”
“Right you are! Keep fit—that's the word!”
And with that the big brother passed out to find the man who was writhing in an agony of self-contempt; for in the face of all Scotland and in the hour of her need he had failed because he wasn't fit.
After an hour Dunn found his man, fixed in the resolve to there and then abandon the game with all the appurtenances thereof, and among these the dinner. Mightily his captain laboured with him, plying him with varying motives—the honour of the team was at stake; the honour of the country was at stake; his own honour, for was he not down on the programme for the pipes? It was all in vain. In dogged gloom the half-back listened unmoved.
At length Dunn, knowing well the Highlander's tender heart, cunningly touched another string and told of Rob's distress and subsequent relief, and then gave his half-back the boy's message. “I promised to tell you, and I almost forgot. The little beggar was terribly worked up, and as I remember it, this is what he said: 'I'm awfully glad he didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.' Those were his very words.”
Then Cameron buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud, while Dunn, knowing that he had reached his utmost, stood silent, waiting. Suddenly Cameron flung up his head:
“Did he say I didn't quit? Good little soul! I'll go; I'd go through hell for that!”
And so it came that not in a crate, but in the gallant garb of a Highland gentleman, pipes and all, Cameron was that night in his place, fighting out through the long hilarious night the fiercest fight of his life, chiefly because of the words that lay like a balm to his lacerated heart:
“He didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.”
CHAPTER II
THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD
Just over the line of the Grampians, near the head-waters of the Spey, a glen, small and secluded, lies bedded deep among the hills—a glen that when filled with sunlight on a summer day lies like a cup of gold; the gold all liquid and flowing over the cup's rim. And hence they call the glen “The Cuagh Oir,” The Glen of the Cup of Gold.
At the bottom of the Cuagh, far down, a little loch gleams, an oval of emerald or of sapphire, according to the sky above that smiles into its depths. On dark days the loch can gloom, and in storm it can rage, white-lipped, just like the people of the Glen.
Around the emerald or sapphire loch farmlands lie sunny and warm, set about their steadings, and are on this spring day vivid with green, or rich in their red-browns where the soil lies waiting for the seed. Beyond the sunny fields the muirs of brown heather and bracken climb abruptly up to the dark-massed firs, and they to the Cuagh's rim. But from loch to rim, over field and muir and forest, the golden, liquid light ever flows on a sunny day and fills the Cuagh Oir till it runs over.
On the east side of the loch, among some ragged firs, a rambling Manor House, ivy-covered and ancient, stood; and behind it, some distance away, the red tiling