ed high over his shoulders the
tow-headed Welshman rushing joyously at him, and delivered his ball far
down the line safe into touch. But after his kick he was observed to
limp back into his place. The fierce pace of the Welsh forwards was
drinking the life of the Scottish backline.

An hour; then a half; then another half, without a score. And now the
final quarter was searching, searching the weak spots in their line. The
final quarter it is that finds a man's history and habits; the clean of
blood and of life defy its pitiless probe, but the rotten fibre yields
and snaps. That momentary weakness of Cameron's like a subtle poison
runs through the Scottish line; and like fluid lightning through the
Welsh. It is the touch upon the trembling balance. With cries exultant
with triumph, the Welsh forwards fling themselves upon the steady Scots
now fighting for life rather than for victory. And under their captain's
directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their
attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding. 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. It was Cameron lost us the game. You know it, too. I know
it's rotten to say this, but I can't help it. Camero