In vain
Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is
done. Only five minutes to play, but one minute is enough. Down upon
him through a broken field, dribbling the ball and following hard like
hounds on a hare, come the Welsh, the tow-head raging in front, bloody
and fearsome. There is but one thing for Cameron to do; grip that
tumbling ball, and, committing body and soul to fate, plunge into
that line. Alas, his doom is upon him! He grips the ball, pauses a
moment--only a fatal moment,--but it is enough. His plunge is too late.
He loses the ball. A surge of Welshmen overwhelm him in the mud and
carry the ball across. The game is won--and lost. What though the Scots,
like demons suddenly released from hell, the half-back Cameron most
demon-like of all, rage over the field, driving the Welshmen hither and
thither at will, the gods deny them victory; it is for Wales that day!
In the retreat of their rubbing-room the gay, gallant humour which the
Scots have carried with them off the field of their defeat, vanishes
into gloom. Through the steaming silence a groan breaks now and then. At
length a voice:
"Oh, wasn't it rotten! The rank quitter that he is!"
"Quitter? Who is? Who says so?" It was the captain's voice, sharp with
passion.
"I do, Dunn.
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