"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 really funk it?" His voice broke. He clutched his
brother's knee and stood with face white and quivering. He had given
utterance to the terrible suspicion that was torturing his heroic young
soul. 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