“O yes, Wallace is out of it now,” he said. “Mighty hard luck, some fellows are good enough to say. If Wallace had been playing on the first, where he belonged, he’d have been as well now as anybody—and somebody else would have been out of the game.”
That was his first outburst; no doubt in his cooler moments he was ashamed of it, for he did not talk in such a strain again. But in those last days he had little to say to Edward, either on the field or at the training-table.
The game that year was to be played on St. Timothy’s ground. The night before, Edward went to bed in his alcove at half-past nine. The dormitory lights were put out at ten; by half-past ten all the boys except Edward were asleep.
He lay with his eyes closed, turning restlessly every few minutes to gain a position which would invite drowsiness, but all in vain. He heard Keating’s sleepy cough and inarticulate mumble in the next alcove, he heard Lawrence turn in his bed, he heard the chapel clock strike eleven and twelve and one.
