Cameron thought over his own life, in which sport had filled up so large
a place and work so little, and in which he had developed so little
power of initiative and such meagre self-dependence, and he envied the
solemn-faced boy at his side, handling his team and wagon with the skill
of a grown man.
"I say, Tim!" he exclaimed in admiration, "you're great. I wish I could
do half as much."
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Tim in modest self-disdain, "that ain't nothin',
but I wish I could git off a bit."
"Get off? What do you mean?"
The boy was silent for some moments, then asked shyly:
"Say! Is there big cities in Scotland, an' crowds of people, an' trains,
an' engines, an' factories, an' things? My! I wish I could git away!"
Then Cameron understood dimly something of the wander-lust in the boy's
soul, of the hunger for adventure, for the colour and movement of life
in the great world "away" from the farm, that thrilled in the boy's
voice. So for the next half hour he told Tim tales of his own life, the
chief glory of which had been his achievements in the realm of sport,
and, before he was aware, he was describing to the boy the great
International with Wales, till, remembering the disastrous finish, he
brought his narrative to an abrupt close.
"And did yeh lick 'em?" demanded Tim in a voice of intense excitement.
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