"Wake up, Jukes." The official decree was promulgated from the

grandstand.

It was known at once round the ground that it was all up with Jukes.

"Chrysanthemum Top can't play for rock cakes and Everton toffee," was

the opinion of the proletariat in the sixpenny stand.

"Ginger's no class," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom. "There's no class

about Ginger."

"Pull up your socks, Jukes," the grandstand exhorted him.

Ginger knew already, without any official intimation, that he was being

outplayed. Do as he would he did not seem able to mobilize quickly

enough to stop these swift and skillful forwards. He had never met

anything like them on Cox's Piece. Ginger knew already, without any

help from the grandstand, that he was out of it. He was doing his

level best, he was doing it doggedly with set teeth, but the truth was

he felt like a carthorse compared with these forwards of the enemy who

were racehorses one and all.

But the Sailor ... the Sailor was magnificent so far. He had stopped

every shot, and two at least only a goalkeeper touched with the divine

fire could have parried. Half time was signaled, and in spite of the

inefficiency of the right full back, the enemy had yet to score a goal.

As the players walked off the field to refit for the second half, a

special cheer was raised for young Harper.

"Played, me lad." It was the voice of the chairman of the club from

the center of the grandstand.

"Played, me lad." Three hundred throats echoed the cry. Zeus himself

had spoken.

A ragged urchin, who had paid his threepence with the best of them and

had therefore a right to express his opinion in a public manner, looked

up into the sweating face and the haggard eyes of Ginger as he walked

off the ground. "Go 'ome, Ginger. Yer can't play for nuts. Yer no

class."

Like a sick gladiator, Ginger staggered into the dressing-room, but in

his eyes was defiance of fate and not despair of it.

"Mate," he said, in a hollow voice to the attendant, "fetch me six

pennorth o' brandy."

He dipped his head into a basin of cold water and then sat in a

truculent silence. He did not so much as glance at the Sailor, who had

the rest of the team around him. Where did Harper come from? What

club did he play for? Was it true that he had been a sailor?

Henry Harper was only able to answer these questions very shyly and

imperfectly. He was in a dream. He could hardly realize where he was

or what he was doing. When they returned to the field of play, the

goalkeeper, already a favorite, was given a little private cheer. But

the Sailor heard it not; he was dreaming, dreaming, walking on air.

"Buck up, Ginger," piped the shrill urchin, as the tense and heroic

figure of that warrior came on the field last of all. But the grim

eyes and the set face were not in need of admonition. Ginger was

prepared to do or die.

"Cab Oss can use his weight," said the All Highest.

"First good thing he's done," said Mr. Satellite Albert. The right

full back, it seemed, had charged like a tiger at the center forward of

the enemy and had laid him low.

"Good on yer, Ginger," cried the proletariat.

After this episode, the game grew rough. And this was in Ginger's

favor. Outclassed he might be in pace and skill, but no human soul

could outclass Ginger in sheer fighting quality when his back was to

the wall. Before long the stricken lay around him.

"It isn't footba'," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom. "You can't call it

footba', but it's the right game to play under the circumstances."

It began to seem that the enemy would never score the goal it so much

desired. The goalkeeper kept up his form in quite a marvelous way,

parrying shot after shot of every range and pace from all points of the

compass. He was a man inspired. And the right full back was truly

terrible now. He had ceased to trouble about the ball, but wherever he

saw a red-shirted adversary he brought him down and fell on him.

Ginger did not achieve any particular feat of arms, but his moral

effect was considerable.

The shades of night were falling, but not a single goal had been scored

by either party. The goalkeeper grew more and more wonderful, the

right full back was more like a lion than ever.

"Blame my cats," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, "that Ginger's

mustard. But they'll never stan' him in a League match. What do you

say, Davis?"

Mr. Davis, a small buttoned-up man in a knitted comforter and a brown

bowler hat, had given far fewer opinions than his peers. He was a man

of deeds. He had played for England _v._ Scotland in his distinguished

youth, but no one would have guessed it to look at him.

"Quite agree, Gus," said Mr. Davis, in a measured tone. "Football is

not a game for Ginger. Not the man we are looking for. But that

goalkeeper..."

"That's all right, Davis," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, "we are

going to make no mistake about him."

Night fell, the referee blew his whistle, the match was at an end, and

still not a goal had been scored. Utterly weary, covered with mud from

head to heel, the twenty-two players trooped back to the dressing-room.

They flung off the reeking garments of battle and fought for the icy

shower bath, the heroic Ginger still the foremost in the fray.

"Look slippy into yer duds, young feller," he breathed hoarsely in the

ear of the Sailor. "We've pleadin' well got to catch that kermittee

afore it goes."

XII

Ginger might have spared himself all anxiety in regard to the

"kermittee." The Great General Staff had made up its mind in the

matter already. The directors would like to see Harper in the

committee room before he went.

"What abaht me?" said Ginger.

"It's Harper they want to see," said their emissary. "They don't want

to see no one else."

"Oh, don't they!" was Ginger's eloquent comment to himself.

"Ready, Harper?" said the emissary, with the air of a law-giver. "I'll

show you the way."

"Come on, Sailor boy," said Ginger, with his affectionate avuncular

air, as he gave a final touch, aided by a hairbrush and a

looking-glass, to his auburn locks which he wore in the form of a

fringe on his forehead.

"Jukes, there's your expenses," said the emissary rather haughtily, as

he handed Ginger a sovereign. "The directors don't require to see you."

"I'd like to see them," said the imperturbable Ginger.

"Their time is valuable."

"So's mine," said Ginger. "Come on, Sailor boy."

The chairman, now enthroned in the committee room, had short shrift for

Ginger.

"Jukes," he said with brutal directness, as he chewed the end of his

cigar, "we didn't send for you. You are not the Rovers' sort and never

will be. You are a trier an' all that, you are a good plucked un, but

the Rovers is only out for one thing, an' that's class."

This oration was extremely well delivered, cigar in mouth, yet the

committee seemed to be more impressed by it than Ginger himself.

"That's right, Gus," said Mr. Satellite Albert. "Those are our views."

Mr. Augustus Higginbottom might have expressed the views of the

committee, but it did not appear that they were the views of Mr. W. H.

Jukes. That warrior stood, tweed cap in hand, the Sailor by his side,

as though they did not in any way concern him.

"You understand, Jukes?" said the chairman.

No reply.

"Arper here is the man we sent for. Arper"--the impressiveness of Mr.

Higginbottom was very carefully calculated--"you've no polish, me lad,

you lack experience, you are young, you've got to grow and you've got

to learn, but you might make a goalkeeper if you was took in hand by

the Rovers. Understand me, Arper,"--the chairman raised an eloquent

forefinger--"I say ye _might_ if you was took in hand an' trained by a

club o' the class o' the Rovers. But you've a long way to go. Do you

understand, me lad?"

"Yes, mister," said the Sailor humbly.

The "mister" jarred horribly upon the sensitive ear of Mr. W. H. Jukes,

who whispered, "Call him 'sir,' yer fool."

"Very well, then," proceeded Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, "now we'll come

to business. My feller directors"--the chairman waved a magniloquent

hand--"agrees with me that the Rovers can offer you a pound a week

because you are promisin', although not justified as you are at

present. Now what do you say?"

"Nothin' doin'," said Mr. W. H. Jukes, before the goalkeeper could say

anything. "Come on, Sailor boy. We are wastin' our time. We'll be

gettin' to the station."

"My remarks, Jukes, was not addressed to you," said the chairman with

awful dignity. "The directors has no use for _your_ services, as I

thought I 'ad made clear."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Ginger, with a considered politeness that seemed

rather to surprise the committee. "Come on, Sailor. A quid a week! I

think we can do better nor that."

"One moment," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom. There was a hurried

consultation while Ginger and the goalkeeper began to move to the door.

"One moment, Arper."

Ginger, drawing the Sailor after him, returned with every sign of

reluctance to the middle of the room.

"Jukes," said the chairman, "you have nothing to do with this matter,

anyway."

"No, sir," said Ginger, with a deference he was very far from feeling.

"You quite understand that, Jukes?"

"Yes, sir," said Ginger, with formidable politeness.

"Very good. Now, Arper, the directors is prepared to rise to

twenty-five shillings a week, an' that's their limit."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," said Ginger, "but twenty-five bob a week is not

a bit o' use to either on us. We like the town what we've seen on it,

but two pound a week's our minimum. It's only wastin' time to talk of

less. If we ain't worth two pound a week to the Blackhampton Rovers, I

dessey we'll be worth it to the Otspur or the Villa. Come on, Sailor.

We're only wastin' our time, boy."

This carefully delivered ultimatum made quite a sensation. There was

not one of the committee who would not cheerfully have slain Mr. W. H.

Jukes. But they wanted that goalkeeper very badly. Moreover, the

mention of the Hotspur and the Villa did not lessen this desire.

"One moment, Jukes."

A further consultation followed. This matter called for very masterful

and, at the same time, very delicate handling.

Mr. Augustus Higginbottom went to the length of removing his cigar from

the corner of his mouth.

"See here, Jukes," said he, "it's not you we want, it's the goalkeeper.

Now, Arper, I am empowered by my feller directors to offer you two

pound a week with a rise next year if you turn out satisfactory."

"That's more like it," said Ginger coolly. "Two pound a week and a

rise next year. What do you say, Sailor boy? Or do you think it would

be better to see the Villa?"

It was as much as the chairman could do to keep from pitching Jukes out

of the room. His cheek was amazing, but if this course was taken, it

was clear that Harper would not adorn his person with a chocolate and

blue shirt.

The unlucky fact was that the goalkeeper and the right full back had

only one mind between them. And that mind was not in the possession of

the goalkeeper.

"We've allus played together," said Ginger, "and we allus shall. I've

taught him all he knows--haven't I, Sailor boy?"

"Yep," said the Sailor, coming humbly into the conversation for the

first time.

"We've allus played for the same club, we lodge together, we work

together, we are pals in everythink--ain't we, Sailor boy?"

"Yep," said the Sailor.

"And if you don't want us it's all the same to us--ain't it, Sailor

boy?"

"Yep," said the Sailor.

There followed a final consultation between the chairman of the club

and his fellow committee-men. But only one conclusion to the matter

was possible. The Blackhampton Rovers must either accept Mr. W. H.

Jukes with all his limitations, or lose the type of goalkeeper they had

been seeking up and down the land for many a year.

XIII

To the Sailor, the visit to Blackhampton was a fairy tale. At first,

he could not realize that he had worn the chocolate and blue, and had

performed wonderful deeds at the instance of a power beyond himself.

As for the sequel, involving a farewell to the wharf of Antcliff and

Jackson, Limited, and a triumphal return to his natal city as a

salaried player of the Rovers, even when this had really happened, it

was very hard to believe.

Ginger took the credit. And if he had not had a talent for affairs

these things could not have come about. It was entirely due to him

that Henry Harper learned to play football, and had he not mastered the

art, it is unlikely that he would ever have found the key to his life.

The Sailor was a simple, modest soul. He felt the sudden turn of

fortune's wheel was due to no grace of his own. From that amazing hour

when certain documents were signed and Henry Harper, who had suffered

terrible things to gain a few dollars a month, began to draw a salary

of two pounds a week with surprisingly little to do in order to earn

it, his devotion to Ginger became almost that of a dog for its master.

They both had their feet on the ladder now, if ever two young men had.

It might be luck, it might be pluck, it might be a combination of

anything you chose to call it, but there it was; two untried men had

imposed their personalities upon some of the shrewdest judges of

football in the United Kingdom. The Sailor had shown genius on the

field; Ginger had shown genius of a kind more valuable.

On the Monday week following their triumph, they invaded Blackhampton

again. This time they were accompanied not merely by their Gladstone

bags and their velvet-collared overcoats, but they came with the whole

of their worldly goods.

They obtained---"they" meaning Ginger--some quite first-rate lodgings

in Newcastle Street, near the canal. These had been recommended by

Dinkie Dawson, who lodged in the next street but two. The charges of

the new landlady, Miss Gwladys Foldal, were much higher than those of

Mrs. Sparks, but the accommodation was Class compared to Paradise

Alley. As Ginger informed the Sailor, socially they had taken a big

step up.

For example, Miss Foldal herself was, in Ginger's opinion, far more a

woman of the world than Mrs. Sparks. Her hair was golden, it was

always amazingly curled about tea time, when she had newly powdered her

nose; she maintained a "slavey" and did little of the housework

herself, apparently never soiling her well-kept hands with anything

menial; also she had an undoubted gift of conversation, could play the

piano, and if much entreated would lift occasionally an agreeable voice

in song; in a word, Miss Foldal was a lady versed in the enchantments

of good society.

The Sailor was quite overawed at first by Miss Foldal. Always very

responsive to the impact of her sex, a word or a look from the least of

its members was enough to embarrass him. Miss Foldal, with her

tempered brilliancy and her matured charm, impressed him greatly.

Even Ginger, who was so cynical in regard to ladies in general and

landladies in particular, was inclined to approve her. This was a

great concession on Ginger's part, because up till then there were only

two persons in the universe whom Ginger did approve, one being himself,

whom he approved wholeheartedly, the other being Dinkie Dawson, whom he

accepted with reservations.

Ginger and the Sailor soon settled down in their new quarters. They

were well received by their fellow players. They must not look beyond

the second team at present, so august was the circle in which they now

moved, but Harper was "the goods" undoubtedly; one of these days the

world would hear of him; while as for Jukes, although without genius as

a player he was such a trier that he was bound to improve. Indeed, he

began to improve in every match in which he appeared in this exalted

company. His time was not yet, but the directors of the club,

resentful as they were of the coup that Ginger had played, shrewdly

foresaw that a man of such will and determination might one day prove a

sound investment.

These were golden days for the Sailor. The perils and the hardships

aboard the _Margaret Carey_, the titanic fights with nature, the

ceaseless struggles on the yards of that crazy vessel in order to save

himself from being dashed to pieces on the deck below, had been such a

training for his present life as nothing else could have been.

It was now for the first time that Henry Harper began to envisage that

queer thing, Himself. He was never at any period an egotist in a

narrow way. Fate had mercilessly flogged a sense of proportion into

him at the threshold of his life; whatever the future had in store he

would never be able to forget that man himself is a creature of

strange, terrible, and tragic destiny. As soon as a little prosperity

came to him, he began to develop. The respect of others for the

accidental prowess he wore so unassumingly, good food, regular habits,

a sense of security, did much for Henry Harper in this critical phase

of his fortunes.

First he learned to take a pride in his body. That was a very simple

ethic of the great religion to be revealed to him. He was quick to see

that he was one of a company of highly trained athletes whom nature had

endowed nobly. Together with his fellow players, he was exercised with

as much care as if he had been a racehorse. He was bathed and

massaged, groomed and tended; such a sense of physical well-being came

to him that he could not help growing in grace and beauty, in strength

and freedom of mind and soul.

After several weeks of this new and wonderful life there was still a

dark secret that continued to haunt the Sailor. He could neither read

nor write, and he was living in a world in which these accomplishments

were taken for granted. He had to conceal the fact as best he could.

None must know, but a means would have to be found of overcoming this

stigma.

He dared not speak of it to Ginger, or to Miss Foldal either, much as

he liked and respected her. He remembered the face of Mrs. Sparks.

But after giving much thought to the matter, he made cautious

inquiries, and then one morning it suddenly occurred to him that he was

a fool. Here was Henry Harper in his native city of Blackhampton,

certain parts of which he knew like the back of his hand, and yet he

had forgotten the night school in Driver's Lane that Cocky Footit and

Leary Jeacock went to and never did any good afterwards.

The thought hit the Sailor hard as he was seated at his princely

breakfast of eggs and bacon, very choicely fried, and such a cup of

coffee as any man might have envied him. He remembered how seven years

ago, in the Cocky Footit and Leary Jeacock days, he simply daren't go

home at night unless he had sold a certain number of _Evening Stars_.

And what a home it was for any boy to go to!

In spite of the eggs and bacon and the warm fire and Ginger seated

opposite with the _Athletic News_ propped against the coffee pot, a

shudder crept through Henry Harper. He regretted bitterly that he

should have allowed his thoughts to stray. But how could they go back

to Cocky Footit and Leary Jeacock and the night school they attended in

Driver's Lane, without taking a leap unbidden to that other lane which

ran level with Driver's, with the rag and bone yard and the iron gates

where dwelt Auntie and her cart whip, the only home at that time he had

known?

He couldn't help shuddering at the picture in his mind. Where was

Auntie now? How would she look to one who had sailed before the mast

over all the oceans of the world?

The subject of Auntie had a morbid fascination. It held him as

completely as the night school in Driver's Lane. The truth was, it was

impossible to recall the one without envisaging the other.

As soon as he had finished breakfast, he put on the overcoat with the

velvet collar and the smart tweed cap, stepped into Newcastle Street

and began to wander across the canal bridge. Then he turned to the

right through Clover Street, crossed the tram lines, passed the Crown

and Cushion, his favorite public-house of yore, where he had listened

many an evening to the music and singing that floated through the swing

doors, with always a half formed thought at the back of his mind which

he dared not face. As of old, he stood to listen, but there was no

music now, for it was only ten o'clock in the morning, and it didn't

begin until seven at night.

He was not afraid of the life of seven years ago. As he stood outside

the Crown and Cushion that was the idea which exalted him. Henry

Harper was not obliged to meet Auntie, but was going to do so out of

curiosity, and because he owed it to himself to prove that he no longer

went in fear of her.

That might be so, but as he passed through the old familiar streets and

alleys, with bareheaded Aunties standing arms akimbo in conversation

with the neighbors, while many a Henry Harper sprawled half naked in

the gutter, his courage almost failed. The slums of Blackhampton had

changed less than he in seven years.

Yes, this was Crow's Yard. And there at the door of No. 1, as of yore,

was Mother Crow, toothless and yellow, unspeakably foul of word and

aspect, whose man often threatened to swing for her and finally swung

for another. Henry Harper stole swiftly through Crow's Yard, fearing

at every step that he would be recognized.

With a thudding heart, he came into Wright's Lane. It was like a

horrible dream; he nearly turned and ran. What if Auntie was still

there? He had just seen Mother Crow and Meg Baker and Cock-eyed Polly

and others of her circle. Well, if she was...?

The beating of his heart would not let him meet the question. He ought

not to have come. All the same, there was nothing to be afraid of now.

No, there was nothing to be.... Again he nearly turned and ran. The

iron gates were before him. There were the piles of stinking bones,

old newspapers, foul rags, scrap iron, and all sorts of odds and ends.

And there was the broken-down handcart he had trundled so often through

the mud. The wheels were still on it, but they looked like new ones.

And there on the wall of the shed was the nail.

A sick thrill passed through Henry Harper. He couldn't make out in the

thick November halflight whether on that nail there was really what he

thought there was. A wave of curiosity forced him to enter the yard.

The whip was hanging there as usual. The heavy handle bound with

strips of brass shone through the gloom. The sight of it seemed again

to hold him in a thrall of terror. As if it were a nightmare he fought

to throw it off. He had been a sailor; he was the goalkeeper for the

Blackhampton Rovers; he was earning two pounds a week; he had a velvet

collar to his overcoat; there was no need to be afraid of...

"Now, young man?"

A thick, wheezy grunt came out of the inner murk of the yard and sent a

chill down the spine of Henry Harper.

"What can I do for yer?"

Auntie, cheerfully alcoholic as ever, stood before him in all her

shapeless obscenity. She stood as of old, exuding gin and humor and

latent savagery. She had changed so little that he felt he had not

changed either. At first he could not believe that she did not

recognize him.

Auntie stood eyeing him with disfavor. The good clothes, the clean

collar, the polished boots told against him heavily. Most probably a

detective.

"What do you want for _that_, missus?" He pointed to the nail.

"Not for sale." The light he had seen so often sprang to her eyes.

"You can have anythink else. Scrap iron, rags and bones, waste paper,

bedsteads, but yer can't have that." And Auntie looked at him,

wheezing humorously at the idea of anyone wanting to buy such an

article. Suddenly Henry Harper met again the eyes of Medusa in their

depth and power.

At once he knew why he had stayed those long years under her roof. It

was not merely that he had nowhere else to go. There was a living

devil in the soul of Auntie and it was far stronger than anything at

present in the soul of Henry Harper. Already he could feel the old

helpless terror striking into him again. He was forgetting that he had

been a sailor, he was forgetting the Blackhampton Rovers, he was

forgetting his two pounds a week....

"Well, missus, if yer won't, yer won't," he said, with a mighty effort

of the will.

Auntie laughed her old rich note of genial defiance, as if an affection

for a thing of little value and less use must be defended. As she did

so, a miserable cur sneaked out through the open door of the house

beyond the archway. She turned to it humorously.

"I thought I told _you_ to keep in."

The dog cast a look at her and sneaked in again.

"Mornin', missus."

"Mornin', young man. Sorry I can't oblige yer." It was the old note

of affability that always endeared her to the neighbors.

But it was not of Auntie that Henry Harper was thinking when he got

into Wright's Lane. It was of the dog. In the eyes of that animal he

had seen his former self.

XIV

It had been Henry Harper's intention to go on across the Lammas and

make inquiries about the night school. But his courage suddenly

failed. As soon as he got into Wright's Lane, he felt that for one day

at least he had seen enough of the haunts of his youth.

As he stood at the corner, trying to make up his mind what to do, an

intense longing for Newcastle Street came upon him. It seemed wiser to

postpone the night school until the afternoon.

He had not expected to find the other side of the canal quite so bad as

it had proved to be. It seemed ages away in point of experience.

There was no place for good clothes, a clean collar, and polished boots

in the region the other side of the canal. It was very unfortunate

that the night school lay in the middle of that area.

Henry Harper was in an unhappy frame of mind when he sat down to dinner

with Ginger at one o'clock. A very bad aura enveloped him. The sight

of Auntie in her lair would take him some little time to overcome.

Then the sense of failure was unpleasant. It was unworthy of a sailor

to have shirked his job. Every day made it more necessary for

something to be done. His pretence of understanding the newspapers

when he could hardly read a word was telling against him with Ginger.

His contribution to the after-supper conversation was so feeble, as a

rule, that Ginger was almost afraid "he was not all there."

However, he would inquire about the night school that afternoon. The

matter was so urgent that he could have no peace until he had moved in

it. But fate, having taken his measure, began to marshal silent

invisible forces.

To begin with the forces were silent enough, yet they were not exactly

invisible. A little after three, while the Sailor, still in the Valley

of Decision, was looking into the fire, wondering whether it was

possible after all to postpone the task until the following morning

when he might be in a better frame of mind, Ginger looked out of the

window, announced that "there wasn't half a fog coming over," and that

he had a good mind to make himself comfortable indoors for the rest of

the day.

This was enough for the Sailor. The fog put the night school out of

the question for that afternoon; it must be postponed till the morrow.

All the same, he fell into a black and bitter mood in which

self-disgust came uppermost.

Ginger's good mind to stay indoors did not materialize. As soon as the

clock chimed four he remembered that he had to play a hundred up with

Dinkie at the Crown and Cushion.

At quarter-past four, Miss Foldal came in, drew down the blinds, lit

the gas, and laid the cloth for tea. She then sought permission, as

the fire was such a good one, to toast a muffin at it, which she

proceeded to do with the elegance that marked her in everything.

The Sailor had never seen anybody quite so elegant as Miss Foldal in

the afternoon. The golden hair was curled and crimped, the blonde

complexion freshly powdered, there was a superb display of jewelry upon

a fine bosom, she was tightly laced, and the young man watching her

with grave curiosity heard her stays creak as she bent down at the fire.

Two ladies further apart than Miss Foldal and Auntie would be hard to

conceive. Dimly the young man had begun to realize that it was a very

queer cosmos in which he had been called to exercise his being. There

were whole stellar spaces between Auntie and Miss Foldal.

The latter lady was not merely elegant, she was kind. Miss Foldal was

very kind indeed to Mr. Harper. From the day he had entered her house,

she had shown in many subtle ways that she wanted to make him feel at

home. And Mr. Harper, who up till now only realized Woman

extrinsically, already considered Miss Foldal a very nice lady.

It was true that Ginger referred to her rather contemptuously as Old

Tidde-fol-lol, and saw, or affected to see, something deep in her most

innocent actions. But the Sailor, with a natural reverence for her sex

in spite of all he had suffered at its hands, was constrained to

believe these slighting references to Old Tidde-fol-lol were lapses of

taste on the part of his hero. Homer nods on occasion. Henry Harper

was not acquainted with that impressive fact at this period of his

life, but he was sure that Ginger was a little unfortunate in his

references to Miss Foldal.

The Sailor was beginning to like Miss Foldal immensely. He did not go

beyond that. The great apparition of Woman in her cardinal aspect had

not yet appeared to him, and was not to do so for long days to come.

As Ginger said, he was a kid at present, and hardly knew he was born.

Still, he was beginning to take notice.

"Would you like me to pour out your tea, Mr. Harper?"

"Thank you, miss." He was no longer so ignorant as to say, "Thank you,

lady."

"Sugar?"

"Please, miss."

He admired immensely the manipulation of the sugar tongs by those

elegant hands. They were inclined to be fat and were perhaps rather

broad to the purview of a connoisseur, but they were covered in rings

set with stones more or less precious, and the soul of Henry Harper

responded instinctively to all that they meant and stood for. The

hands of Auntie were not as these.

"You _do_ take two lumps and milk, of course?"

There was an ease and a charm about Miss Foldal that made the Sailor

think of velvet.

"Now take a piece of muffin while it's warm."

She offered the muffin, already steeped in delicious butter, with the

slightly imperious charm of a Madame Recamier, not that Henry Harper

knew any more about Madame Recamier than he did about Homer at this

period of his career. Yet he may have known all about them even then.

He may have known all about them and forgotten all about them, and when

the time came to unseal the inner chambers of his consciousness,

perhaps he would remember them again.

Auntie had never handed him a muffin in such a way as that. Mrs.

Sparks hadn't either. Ginger might sneer and call her Old

Tidde-fol-lol, although not to her face--he was always very polite to

her face--but there was no doubt she was absolutely a lady, and her

muffins ... her muffins were _extra_.

This afternoon, Miss Foldal lingered over the tea table in most

agreeable discourse. The fog was too thick for her to venture into the

market place, where she wanted to go.

"If it's shopping you want, miss," said Mr. Harper, with an

embarrassment that made her smile, "let me go and do it for you."

"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Harper."

"I will, miss, I'll be very glad to." She liked the deep eyes of this

strikingly handsome young man.

"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Harper. I couldn't really. Besides, my

shopping will keep till tomorrow."

"You know best, miss." There was resignation tempered by a certain

chivalrous disappointment. Quite unconsciously, Mr. Harper was doing

his utmost to rise to the standard of speech and manner of Miss Foldal,

which was far beyond any he had yet experienced.

"I saw in the _Evening Star_ that you won your match on Saturday."'

"Yes, miss, four-two." But the mention of the _Evening Star_ was a

stab. Every night the _Evening Star_ presented its tragic problem.

"Mr. Jukes tells me you will be having a trial with the first team

soon."

Mr. Jukes had told Miss Foldal nothing of the kind. She was the last

person to whom he would have made any such confidence.

"Oh no, miss." The native modesty was pleasant in her ear. "I'm

nothing near good enough yet."

"It will come, though. It is bound to come."

The young man was not stirred by this prophecy. His mind had gone back

to the night school; it was tormenting itself with the problem ever

before it now. He would have liked to bring the conversation round to

the matter, if only it could be done without disclosing the deadly

secret. But the memory of Mrs. Sparks was still fresh. There was no

denying that for a chap of nineteen not to have the elements of the

three r's was a disgrace; it was bound to prejudice him in the eyes of

a lady of education.

Still, Miss Foldal was not Mrs. Sparks. Being a higher sort of lady

perhaps she would be able to make allowances. Yet Henry Harper didn't

want her or anyone else to make allowances. However, he could not

afford to be proud.

Chance it, suddenly decreed the voice within. She won't eat you anyway.

XV

Miss Foldal, it seemed, had been trained in her youth for a board

school teacher. In a brief flash of autobiography, she told Mr. Harper

she had never really graduated in that trying profession, but had

forsaken a career eminently honorable for the more doubtful one of the

stage, and had spent the rest of her life in regretting it. But always

at the back of her mind was the sense of her original calling to leaven

the years of her later fall from grace.

Not only Miss Foldal, but the Sailor also was quick to see the hand of

Providence, when that young man, coloring pink in the gaslight and

eating his last muffin, made the admission, "that his readin' an'

writin' was rusty because of havin' followed the sea." And she

answered, "Reelly," in her own inimitable way, to which the Sailor

rejoined, "Yes, miss, reelly, and do you _fink_ you could recommend a

night school?"

"Night school, Mr. Harper?" And this was where the higher kind of lady

was able to claim superiority over Mrs. Sparks. "Please don't think me

impertinent, but I would be delighted to help you all I could. You

see, I was trained for a pupil teacher before I went on the stage

against my father's wishes."

The heart of the Sailor leaped. In that tone of sincere kindness was

the wish to be of use. If Miss Foldal had been trained as a pupil

teacher, the night school in Driver's Lane might not be necessary,

after all.

"What do you want to learn?" said Miss Foldal, with a display of grave

interest. "I am afraid my French is rather rusty and I never had much

Latin and Italian to speak of."

The Sailor was thrilled.

"Don't want no French, miss," he said, "or anythink swankin'. I just

want to read the _Evenin' Star_ an' be able to write a letter."

"Do you mean to say----" Like the lady she was, she checked herself

very adroitly. "I am quite sure, Mr. Harper, that is easily arranged.

How much can you read at present?"

"Nothink, miss." The plain and awful truth slipped out before he knew

it had.

Miss Foldal did not flicker an eyelash. She merely said, "I'll go and

see if I can find Butter's spelling-book. I ought to have it

somewhere."

She went at once in search of it, and five minutes later returned in

triumph.

"Do you mind not sayin' anythink about it to Ginger Jukes, miss?" the

young man besought her.

"If it is your wish," said Miss Foldal, "I certainly will not."

Here was the beginning of wisdom for Henry Harper. The prophetic words

of Klondyke came back to him. From the very first lesson, which he

took that evening after tea before the return of Ginger from the Crown

and Cushion, it seemed that reading and writing was the Sailor's true

line of country. A whole new world was spread suddenly before him.

Mr. Harper was an amazingly diligent pupil. He took enormous pains.

Whenever Ginger was not about, he was consolidating the knowledge he

had gained, and slowly and painfully acquiring more. At Miss Foldal's

suggestion, he provided himself with a slate and pencil. This enabled

him to tackle a very intricate business in quite a professional manner.

It was uphill work making pothooks and hangers, having to write rows of

a-b, ab, and having to make sure of his alphabet by writing it out from

memory. But he did not weaken in his task. Sometimes he rose early to

write, sometimes he sat up late to read; every day he received

instruction of priceless value. And never once did his preceptress

give herself airs, or sneer at his ignorance; above all, she did not

give him away to Ginger.

These were great days. The beginning of real, definite knowledge gave

Henry Harper a new power of soul. C-a-t spelled cat, d-o-g spelled

dog; nine went five times into forty-five. There was no limit to these

jewels of information. If he continued to work in this way, he might

hope to read the _Evening Star_ by the end of March.

In the meantime, while all these immense yet secret labors were going

forward, he felt his position with Ginger was in jeopardy. Somehow as

the weeks passed with the Sailor still in the second team, they did not

seem to be on quite the terms that they had been. The change was so

slight as to be hardly perceptible, yet it hurt the Sailor, who had a

great capacity for friendship and also for hero worship. Ginger, to

whom his present fabulous prosperity was due, must always be one of the

gods of his idolatry.

The truth was, Ginger was one of those who rise to the top wherever

they are, while Henry Harper lacked this quality. Ginger, although

only in the second team at present, always talked and behaved as if he

was a member of the first. There could be no doubt his honorable

friendship with Dinkie Dawson--one of England's best, as the _Evening

Star_ often referred to him--was the foundation upon which he

sedulously raised his social eminence.

In fact, Ginger seldom moved out of the company of the first team. He

played billiards with its members at the Crown and Cushion; he played

whist and cribbage with them at the same resort of fashion; they almost

regarded him as one of themselves, although he had yet to win his

spurs; moreover, and this was the oddest part of the whole matter, even

the committee had come to look upon him favorably.

The Sailor was a little wounded now and then by Ginger's persiflage.

Sometimes he held him up to ridicule in a way that hurt. He made no

secret, besides, of his growing belief that there was not very much to

the Sailor after all, that he was letting the grass grow under his

feet, and that he was good for very little beyond getting down to a hot

one. No doubt, the root of the trouble lay in the fact that during the

first months of his service with the Rovers, the Sailor was less

interested in football and the things that went with football than he

ought to have been. He was secretly giving his nights and days to a

matter which seemed of even greater importance than his bread and

butter. This might easily have led to disaster had it not been for a

saving clause ever present in the mind of Henry Harper.

His dream, as a shoeless and stockingless newsboy, miserably hawking

his Result Edition through the mud of Blackhampton, had been that one

day he would help the Rovers bring the Cup to his native city. This

thought had sustained him in many a desperate hour. Well, Henry Harper

was something of a fatalist now. He had come very much nearer the

realization of that dream than had ever seemed possible. Therefore, he

was not going to let go of it. His mind was now full of other matters,

but he must not lose sight of the fact that it was his bounden duty to

make his dream come true.

To begin with he had to find his way into the first eleven. But the

weeks went by. January came, and with it the first of the cup ties,

but Henry Harper was still in the second team and likely to remain

there. It was not that he did not continue to show promise. But

something more than promise was needed for these gladiatorial contests

when twenty, thirty, forty, fifty thousand persons assembled to cheer

their favorites, whose names were in their mouths as household words.

His time might one day come, if he kept on improving. But it would not

be that year. As Ginger said, before he could play in a cup tie he

would have to get a bit more pudding under his shirt.

During these critical months Henry Harper was getting other things to

sustain him. Every week marked a definite advance in knowledge. Miss

Foldal found him other books, and one evening at the beginning of

March, he astonished her not merely by spelling crocodile, but by

writing it down on his slate.

April came, and with it the end of the football season. Then arose a

problem the Sailor had not foreseen. Would the Rovers take him on for

another year? He was still untried in the great matches, he was still

merely a youth of promise. Would he be re-engaged? It was a question

for Ginger also. But as far as he was concerned, the matter did not

long remain in doubt. One evening in the middle of that fateful month,

he came in to supper after his usual "hundred up" at the Crown and

Cushion.

"Well, Sailor," he said, a note of patronage in his tone. "I've fixed

it with the kermittee. They are going to take me on for next year."

Sailor was not surprised. His faith in Ginger never wavered.

"Wish I could say the same for you, Sailor," said Ginger,

condescendingly; "but the kermittee think you are not quite class."

"They are not goin' to take me on again!" said the Sailor in a hollow

voice.

"No. They think you are not quite Rovers' form. They are goin' to

give you back your papers."

Such a decree was like cold steel striking at the Sailor's heart. The

dream of his boyhood lay shattered. And there were other consequences

which just then he could not muster the power of mind to face.

XVI

Those were dark hours for Henry Harper. Not only must he yield great

hopes, he must also give up a princely mode of life. Here was a

disaster which must surely make an end of desires that had begun to

dominate him like a passion.

In this time of crisis Ginger showed his faith. He was not a young man

of emotional ardor, but the Sailor was a chap you couldn't help liking,

and in his heart Ginger believed in him; therefore all the influence he

could muster he brought to bear on those in high places.

This could not be done directly. Ginger was still in the second team

himself, but his social qualities had given him a footing with the

first. Among these, with the redoubtable Dinkie Dawson for his prop

and stay, he let it be widely circulated that it would be an act of

folly for the Rovers to turn down the Sailor without giving him a fair

trial, because sooner or later he was bound to make good.

This view became so fashionable in the billiards' saloon at the Crown

and Cushion that it came to the ears of its proprietor, who was no less

a person than Mr. Augustus Higginbottom. Therefore one evening Ginger

was able to hearten the Sailor in the depths of his despair.

"They are goin' to give you a trial with the first on Saturday, young

feller. And just remember all depends on it. If you do well, you'll

stay; if you don't, you'll have to pack your bag."

It was not very comforting for one so highly strung as the Sailor. But

Ginger meant well; also he had done well; it was entirely due to him

that the Sailor was to have his chance. And that chance would never

have been his if Ginger's astuteness had not been very considerable.

Saturday came, and Henry Harper found himself in action with the first

team at last. It was the end of the season and little importance was

attached to the match, but the Sailor, as he took his place nervously

in the goal, well knew that this game was to make or mar him. All was

at stake. He had felt as he lay sleepless throughout the previous

night that the issue would try him too highly. It was the penalty of

imagination to be slain in battle before the battle came. But when the

hour arrived and he stood in the goal, he was able after all to do his

bit like a workman.

In his own way he was a fighter. And genius for goalkeeping stood to

him, as Ginger had been confident it would. In the first minute of the

game he gathered a hot one cleverly, got rid of it before the enemy

could down him, and from that moment he had no further dread of losing

his nerve.

"What did I tell yer, Dink?" said Ginger with an air of restrained

triumph. "That young feller plays for England one o' these fine

afternoons."

This was a bold statement, yet not unsanctioned in high places. That

evening the Sailor was summoned to the Presence, and was offered a

contract for another season with a promised rise if he continued to do

well.

The months which followed meant much to Henry Harper. In many respects

they were the best of his life. It was a time of dawning hope, of

coming enlargement, of slow-burgeoning wisdom. During those golden

summer mornings in which he wandered in the more or less vernal meadows

engirdling the city, latent, unsuspected forces began to awake.

Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge, he craved continually. Every fresh

victory won in an enchanted field was a lighted torch in the Sailor's

soul.

He knew that the playing of football was but a means to an end. It

gave him leisure, opportunity, wherewithal for things infinitely more

important. During those months of his awakening, his desire became a

passion. There were whole vast continents in the mind of man, that he

could never hope to traverse. There was no limit to the vista opened

up by those supreme arts of man's invention, the twin and cognate arts

of reading and writing.

Knowledge is power. That statement had been made quite recently by his

already well-beloved Blackhampton _Evening Star_. With his own eyes he

had been able to read that declaration. Its truth had thrilled him.

He was making such progress now that he could read the newspaper almost

as well as Ginger himself. He no longer dreaded the unmasking of his

guilty secret because he no longer had one to unmask. Of course he had

not Ginger's ease and facility; to tackle a leading article was a task

of Hercules, but give him time and Marlow's Dictionary--Miss Foldal had

marked his diligence by the gift of her own private copy--and he need

not fear any foe in black and white.

September came, and with it football again. And from the first match

it was seen that Sailor Harper, which was the name the whole town

called him now, had taken a long stride to the front. By the end of

that month his place in the first team was secure, and his fame was in

the mouth of everybody.

For many years, in Mr. Augustus Higginbottom's judgment--and there

could be none higher--the one need of the Blackhampton Rovers had been

a goalkeeper of Class. They had one now. The Sailor was performing

miracles in every match, and Ginger, his mentor, was going about with a

permanent expression of, "What did I tell yer?" upon a preternaturally

sharp and freckled countenance.

Ginger did not allow the grass to grow under his own feet either. He

was now installed as billiards marker and general factotum at the Crown

and Cushion; in fact he had already come to occupy quite a place at

court. But even this was not the limit of that vaulting ambition,

which was twofold: (1) to be the official right full back of the

Blackhampton Rovers; (2) the acquisition of a tobacconist's shop in the

vicinity of the Crown and Cushion. But the latter scheme belonged, of

course, to the distant future.

Ginger was far-sighted, such had always been Dinkie Dawson's opinion,

and Dinkie did not speak unless he knew. Therefore little surprise was

caused by a startling rumor at the beginning of November of Ginger's

engagement to Miss Maria Higginbottom. And it was coincident with

Ginger's "making good" with the Rovers' first team.

It was said that the engagement had not the sanction of the chairman of

the club. Nevertheless Ginger kept his place as general factotum at

the Crown and Cushion; moreover, as understudy to Joe Pretyman who had

been smitten with water on the knee, he stepped into the breach with

such gallantry that the first part of his ambition was soon assured.

By sheer fighting power, by his sovereign faculty of never knowing when

he was beaten, Ginger in the first week of December was in a position

that nature could hardly have meant him to grace.

"Blame my cats," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, whose thoughts were a

little rueful. "That Ginger's mustard. He plays better an' better in

every match."

"Yes, Gus, he does," said Mr. Satellite Albert.

On the evening of that proud day, Ginger obtained a rise in his salary.

According to rumor, no sooner had it been granted than he urged Miss

Maria Higginbottom to fix a date. It was said that, in spite of

Ginger's recent triumphs, the lady declined the offer. Even money was

freely laid, however, that within a twelvemonth Ginger would lead her

to the altar.

During that glorious December, the Rovers won every match. While the

Sailor continued to be a wonder among goalkeepers, Ginger quietly took

his place as the authentic successor to the famous Joe Pretyman.

Indeed, things were carried to such a perilous height of enthusiasm in

the town of Blackhampton that two coming events were treated as

accomplished facts: the Rovers would win the Cup and the Sailor would

be chosen for England in the match against Scotland.

These were dream days for Henry Harper. He was performing miracles,

yet compared with going aloft in a gale in latitude fifty degrees

everything seemed absurdly simple. He had merely to stand on dry land,

or on land dry more or less, since the ground of the Rovers was not so

well drained as it might have been, in thick boots and a warm sweater,

catching a football which was so much easier to seize than a ratline,

and evading the oncoming forwards of the enemy who were not allowed to

use their hands, let alone their knives. It was as easy as tumbling

off a yard. But there was just one drawback to it, which he did not

think of mentioning to anyone, not even to Miss Foldal. Every match in

which he played seemed to increase a feeling of excitement he was never

without.

This was queer. There was really so little to excite one who had been

six years before the mast. At first he was inclined to believe it must

be the presence of the crowd. But he ought to have got over that.

Besides, it was not the crowd which caused the almost terrible feeling

of tension that always came upon him now the night before a match.

After a great game on Christmas Eve, he was raised shoulder high by a

body of admirers and carried off the field. The committee of the club

marked his achievements by a substantial rise of wages and by obtaining

his signature to a contract for the following year. Ginger also, who

had performed wonderful deeds, was honored in a manner equally

practical. That Christmas both were on the crest of the wave. But the

highest pinnacle was reserved for the Sailor. It was not merely that

he was tall and straight and strong as steel, that he could spring like

a cat from one side of the goal to the other, or hang like a monkey

from the crossbar, or fling his lithe body at the ball with calculated

daring; it was perhaps his modesty which took the public captive.

It may have been this or it may not; there is so little of the

corporate mind of man that can be reduced to set terms. Ginger's most

partial worshiper would have had to look a long while to find modesty

in the bearing of that hero, yet he was very popular also. Nothing

succeeds like success, was an apothegm of the Blackhampton _Evening

Star_. The Sailor knew that now from experience, but he was presently

to know, as he had known before, that nothing fails like failure, at

least in the minds of many for whom the Blackhampton _Evening Star_ was

the last word of wisdom.

XVII

"Sailor boy," said Ginger, on Christmas night, "what are you readin'

now?"

"'Pickwick Papers,'" said the Sailor, trying to speak as if this was

nothing out of the common.

"Potery?"

"It's by Charles Dickens," said the Sailor, with a thrill of triumph

which he was quite unable to keep out of his voice.

When Ginger was out of his depth, which was not very often, he always

took care not to give himself away. The only Charles Dickens with whom

he was acquainted was doing great things just now at center half back

for Duckingfield Britannia. But with all respect to Chas., Ginger did

not believe that he was the author of the "Pickwick Papers." Therefore

he made no comment. But silence did not debar him from the process of

thought.

"Sailor boy," he said at last, "if you take the advice o' your father,

you'll not go over-reading yerself. Them deep books what you get out

o' the Free Libry is dangerous, that's my experience. Too much truck

with 'em turns a chap's brain. Besides, they mean nothing when you've

done."

The Sailor was less impressed than usual. But Ginger was very clear

upon the point.

"I once knowed a chap as over-read hisself into quod. He was as sound

a young feller as you could find in a month o' Sundays, but he took to

goin' to the Free Libry to read Socialism, and that done him in. He

come to think all men was equal and Mine is Thine, and that sort o'

tommy, an' it took a pleadin' old Beak to set him right in the matter;

at least he give him six months without the option, and even that

didn't convince the youth. Some chaps take a deal o' convincin'. But

the Free Libry was that chap's ruin, there's no doubt about it."

Ginger urged this view with a conviction that rather alarmed the

Sailor. "Pickwick Papers," although very difficult and advanced

reading, seemed harmless enough, but Ginger had such a developed mind,

he appeared to know so much about everything, that the Sailor felt it

would be the part of wisdom to consult Miss Foldal.

It had been her idea that he should join the Free Library. He had

promptly done so, and from the perfectly amazing wealth of the world's

literature garnered there had led off with the "Pickwick Papers," which

he had heard was, next to the Bible and "Barriers Burned Away," the

greatest book in the English language. His instinct pointed to

"Barriers Burned Away"--he had read little bits of the Bible already,

of which Miss Foldal had a private copy--but he felt that "Pickwick

Papers" was the less difficult work of the two. For the present,

therefore, he must be content with that famous book.

Miss Foldal reassured him wonderfully. She was convinced that Mr.

Jukes took an extreme view. She had never read any of the works of

Dickens herself, she simply couldn't abide him, he was too

_descriptive_ for her, but she was sure there was no harm in him,

although she had heard that with Thackeray it was different. Not that

she had read Thackeray either, as she understood that no unmarried lady

under forty could read Thackeray and remain respectable.

The Sailor was strengthened by Miss Foldal's view of Dickens, but her

reference to the rival and antithesis of that blameless author was in a

sense unfortunate. Mr. Harper wanted to take back "Pickwick Papers" at

once; he had had it three weeks and had only just reached Chapter Nine;

he would exchange it for the more lurid and worldly works of the

licentious Thackeray. But Miss Foldal dissuaded him. For one thing,

she had the reputation of her household to consider. She had once had

an aunt, an old lady very widely read and of great literary taste, who

always maintained that the "Vanity Fair" of Thackeray ought to have

been burned by the common hangman, and that nothing but good would have

been done to the community if the author had been burned along with it.

Miss Foldal allowed that her aunt had been an old lady of strong views;

all the same, she was of opinion that _Thorough_ must be Mr. Harper's

motto. He had begun "Pickwick Papers," and although she allowed it was

dry, he must read every word for the purpose of forming his character,

before he even so much as thought about Thackeray.

"Rome was not built in a day," said Miss Foldal. "Those who pursued

knowledge must not attempt to run before they could walk. Thackeray

was so much more advanced than Dickens that to read the one before the

other was like going to a Robertson comedy or Shakespeare before you

had seen a pantomime or the Moore and Burgess Minstrels."

The ethics of Miss Foldal were a little too much for the Sailor. But

one fact was clear. For once Ginger was wrong: no possible harm could

come of reading Charles Dickens.

Thus Henry Harper was able to continue his studies in ease of mind.

And at the beck of ambition one thing led to another in the most

surprising way. His appetite for knowledge grew on what it fed.

Reading was only one branch; there was the writing, also the ciphering.

The latter art was not really essential. It was rather a side-dish,

and _hors-d'oeuvre_--Miss Foldal's private word--but it was also very

useful, and in a manner of speaking you could not lay claim to the

education of a gentleman without it.

The Sailor did not at present aspire to a liberal education, but he

remembered that Klondyke had always set great store by ciphering and

had taught him to count up to a hundred. It was due perhaps to that

immortal memory rather than to Miss Foldal's somewhat fanciful and

romantic attitude towards the supremely difficult science of numbers

that Henry Harper persevered with the multiplication table. At first,

however, the difficulties were great. But his grit was wonderful.

Early in the winter mornings, while Ginger was still abed, and Miss

Foldal also, he would come downstairs, light the gas in the

sitting-room, put on his overcoat and sit down to three hours' solid

study of writing and arithmetic. Moreover, he burned the midnight oil.

Sometimes with the aid of Marlow's Dictionary, he read the "Pickwick

Papers" far into the night, with a little of the Bible for a change, or

the Blackhampton _Evening Star_. And if he had not to be on duty with

the club, he would spend all his time in these exacting occupations.

In the meantime, the Blackhampton Rovers were making history. They

were an old established club; for many years they had had one of the

best teams in the country, and although on two occasions they had been

in the semi-final round for the Cup, they had never got beyond that

critical stage; therefore the long coveted trophy had not yet been seen

in the city of Blackhampton.

However, the Cup was coming to Blackhampton this year, said the experts

in football with whom the town was filled. The Rovers had not lost a

match since September 12. They had won three cup ties already, beating

on each occasion a redoubtable foe, of whom one was that ancient and

honorable enemy, the Villa. One more victory and the Rovers would be

in the semi-final again.

As far as local knowledge could discern there was none to thwart the

Rovers now. In the words of Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, every man was a

trier, the whole team was the goods. They had the best goalkeeper in

England, and Ginger, in whom he had never really believed, had turned

out mustard. The proprietor of the Crown and Cushion, with that

largeness of mind which is not afraid to change its opinions, expressed

himself thus a few minutes before closing time in the private bar when

he took "a drop of summat" to stimulate the parts of speech and the

powers of reason.

The Rovers could not fail to win the Cup. According to rumor, after

the triumph over the Villa, they were freely backed. This may have

been the case or it may not. But no body of sportsmen could have been

more confident than the thirty thousand odd who paid their shillings

and their sixpences with heroic regularity, who followed the fortunes

of the Rovers in victory or defeat.

For this noble body of partisans there was one authentic hero now.

Dinkie Dawson was class, Erb Mullins was a good un, Mac was as good a

one as ever came over the Border, Ginger was a terror for his size and

never knew when he was beat, but it was the Sailor in goal who caught

and held every eye. There was magic in all the Sailor did and the way

he did it, which belonged to no one else, which was his own inimitable

gift.

Sailor Harper was the idol of the town. He might have married almost

any girl in it. People turned round to look at him as he walked over

the canal bridge towards the market place. Even old ladies of the most

fearless and terrific virtue seemed involuntarily to give the glad eye

to the fine-looking lad "with all the oceans of the world in his face,"

as a local poet said in the _Evening Star_, when he got into a tram or

a bus. If the Sailor had not been the soul of modesty, he would have

been completely spoiled by the public homage during these crowded and

glorious weeks.

It was a rare time for Blackhampton, a rare time for the Rovers, a rare

time for Henry Harper. The very air of the smoke-laden and unlovely

town seemed vibrant with emotion. A surge of romance had entered his

heart. The wild dream of his newsboy days was coming true. He was

going to help the Rovers bring the Cup to his native city. Such a

thought made even the "Pickwick Papers," now Chapter Twenty-three, seem

uninspired. He had not ventured on Shakespeare; he was not ripe for it

yet, said Miss Foldal. Shakespeare was poetry, and the crown of all

wisdom, the greatest man that ever lived with one exception, but the

time would come even for the Bard of Avon. On the night the Rovers

brought home the Cup, Miss Foldal volunteered a promise to read aloud

"Romeo and Juliet," the finest play ever written by Shakespeare, in

which she herself had once appeared at the Blackhampton Lyceum,

although that was a long time ago.

However, there the promise was. But when it came to the ears of Ginger

he expressed himself as thoroughly disgusted.

"Keep your eyeballs skinned, young feller," said that misogynist.

"That's the advice of your father. She's after your four pound a week.

Take care you are not nabbed. You ain't safe with old Tidde-fol-lol

these days, you ain't reelly."

The Sailor was hurt by such reflections on one to whom he owed much.

It is true that a recent episode after supper in the passage had rather

disconcerted him, but it would be easy to make too much of it, as he

was never quite sure whether Miss Foldal did or did not intend to kiss

him, even if she put her arms round his neck. Also he had once seen

her take a bottle of gin to her bedroom, but he was much too loyal to

mention to Ginger either of these matters; and, after all, what were

these things in comparison with her elegance and her refinement, her

knowledge of Shakespeare and the human heart?

XVIII

Great was the excitement in the town when the _Evening Star_ brought

out a special edition with the news that the Rovers had to play

Duckingfield Britannia in the fourth round of the Cup.

Duckingfield was the center of a mining district about fifteen miles

away, and the rivalry between the Britannia and the Rovers was

terrific. In the mind of any true Blackhamptonian there was never any

question as to their respective merits. The Rovers had forgotten more

about football than the Britannia would ever know. One was quite an

upstart club; the other, as all the world knew, went back into the

primal dawn of football history. The Rovers practiced the science and

culture of the game; the Britannia relied on brute force and adjectival

ignorance.

Still, Duckingfield Britannia were doughty foes, and although the

Rovers had no need to fear anyone, the feeling at the Crown and Cushion

was that they rather wished they had not to play them. The truth was,

in their battles with these upstarts, the Rovers never seemed able to

live up to their reputation. Whether they met at Duckingfield or at

Blackhampton, and in no matter what circumstances, the Rovers

invariably got the worst of the deal. This was odd, because the Rovers

were much the superior team in every way, always had been, always would

be. They didn't know how to play football at Duckingfield, whereas

Blackhampton was the home of the game.

Moreover, there was one historic meeting between these neighbors which

was always a _causa foederis_ at any gathering of their partisans. It

was a certain match on neutral ground in which they met in the

semi-final for the Cup, when to the utter confusion and bewilderment of

all the best judges, the Rovers, who in their own opinion had really

won the Cup already, were beaten four goals to nothing. It is true

that a snowstorm raged throughout the match, and to this fact the

defeat of the Rovers was always ascribed by the lovers of pure

football. It could never be accounted for on any other hypothesis. No

comparison of the real merits of the teams was possible, any more than

it was possible to compare the towns whence they sprang. You could not

mention a town like Duckingfield in the same breath as a town like

Blackhampton; to speak of the Britannia being the equal of the Rovers

merely betrayed a fundamental ignorance of what you were talking about.

All the same the feeling in the private bar of the Crown and Cushion on

the night of the announcement that the Rovers and the Britannia must

meet once more in a cup tie was one of anxiety. It had long been felt

in Blackhampton that the fates never played quite fairly in the matter

of Duckingfield Britannia. No reasonable person outside the latter

miserable place ever questioned the Rovers' immense superiority, but

there was no glossing over the fact that a clash of arms with these

rude and unpolished foemen ended invariably in darkness and eclipse.

"It's what I always say," Mr. August Higginbottom would affirm on these

tragic occasions, "they don't know _how_ to play footba' at

Duckingfill. Bull-fighting's their game. Brute force

and--_hignorance_, that's all there is to it."

For ten days nothing was talked of in Blackhampton but the coming

battle. But there could be only one result. Britannia was bound to be

wiped off the face of the earth. Still, the whole town would breathe

more freely on Saturday evening, when this operation had been performed

and the Rovers were safely in the semi-final round.

On the eve of the match, it was whispered all over Blackhampton that

big money was on. The confidence of the enemy was overweening,

ridiculous, pathetic; partisans of the Britannia were said to be

backing their favorites for unheard-of sums. "Rovers would be all

right if they had a front parlor to play in," was a favorite axiom of

these unpolished foemen. "Britannia plays footba'. They don't play

hunt-the-slipper nor kiss-in-the-ring."

The great day dawned. A chill February dawn it was. Queerly excited

by the coming match, Henry Harper had hardly closed his eyes throughout

the previous night. He knew that wonders were expected of him; there

seemed no reason, under Providence, why he should not perform them; in

match after match, he had gone from strength to strength; yet on the

eve he hardly slept.

He had not been sleeping for some little time now. He had paid no heed

to the warnings of Ginger, who was quite sure "he was over-reading

hisself," but he didn't believe this was the case. No doubt he had

studied hard; his thirst for knowledge grew in spite of the copious

draughts with which he tried to quench it. Only too often before a

match, he felt nervous, overstrung, but it did not occur to him that he

was on the verge of disaster.

On the morning of a never-to-be-forgotten day, the Sailor rose before

it was light to practice writing and to study arithmetic--he was as far

as vulgar fractions now. He sat in an overcoat in a fireless

sitting-room for three hours before breakfast, and continued his labors

for several hours afterwards. Then, after a light luncheon, he walked

with Ginger to the ground.

The famous field of the Rovers was called Gamble's Pleasance. History

has not determined the source of its name. Extrinsically it was hard

to justify. Only one tree was visible, and not a single blade of

grass. It was surrounded on four sides by huge roofed structures of

wood and iron, towering tier upon tier; it had capacity for fifty

thousand people. When Ginger and the Sailor came on the scene, these

had taken up their places already, the gates had been closed, and

disappointed enthusiasts were turning away by the hundred. There was

not room in Gamble's Pleasance for another human being.

It was a scene truly remarkable that met the eyes of Ginger and the

Sailor. Tier upon tier, wall upon wall of solid humanity rose to the

sky. The Blackhampton Excelsior Prize Brass Band fought nobly but in

vain against fifty thousand larynxes, and mounted police did their best

to prevent their owners bursting through the barriers to the field of

play.

The majority were strong partisans of the Rovers and wore favors of

chocolate and blue. But there had been an invasion of the Huns.

Barbarians from the neighboring town of Duckingfield could be picked

out at a glance. One and all wore aggressively checked cloth caps, on

which a red-and-white card was pinned bearing the legend, "Play up,

Britannia."

The supporters of that upstart club were massed in solid phalanxes

about the scene of action. They waved red-and-white banners, they

shook rattles, they discoursed the strains of "Rule, Britannia" on

trumpets and mouth-organs, they let off fireworks, and far worse than

all this, they indulged in ribald criticism of their distinguished

opponents' style of play. "They were goin' to mop the floor with 'em

as usual." The consequence was hand-to-hand conflicts became general

all over the ground between the dignified supporters of True Football,

and these Visigoths who were ignorant of that godlike science. These

encounters pleasantly assisted the efforts of the mounted police and

the Blackhampton Excelsior Prize Brass Band to beguile the fleeting

minutes until the combatants appeared on the field of honor.

"Yer talk about yer Sailor," said a red-and-white-rosetted warrior with

a rattle in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. "We'll give

him Sailor. Rovers can swank, but they can't play footba'."

"Villa didn't think so, anyway," said another sportsman, who flaunted a

chocolate-and-blue rose in his buttonhole without intending any affront

to horticulture.

"Villa," said the Duckingfield barbarian. "Who's Villa! Play oop,

Britann-yah!" He then proceeded to render the slogan of Britannia on

the mouth-organ, until some seething superpatriot hit him on the head

from behind with a rattle.

In the midst of the "scrap" that followed this graceful rebuke, which

two unmounted members of the Blackhampton Constabulary regarded from a

strategic distance with the utmost detachment, a cry of "'Ere they

come!" was loosed from at least thirty-five thousand throats, and such

a roar rent the heavens as must have disturbed Zeus considerably just

as he was settling down for the afternoon.

"Play up, Rovers!"

Blackhampton might well be proud of the eleven wearers of the chocolate

and blue. A finer-looking set of warriors would have been hard to

find. And it did not lessen the pride of their friends that among the

eleven only the goalkeeper could claim to be representing the place of

his birth.

"Play up, Sailor!"

The slender, handsome boy, looking rather fine-drawn, but with

something of the turn of limb of a thoroughbred racehorse, came into

the goal and was duly greeted by his admirers.

"'E plays for England," proclaimed one of these.

"I don't think," said a Visigoth with a mouth-organ.

"Play up, Dink!"

The great Dinkie, side-stepping with the loose-limbed elegance of a

ragtime dancer, looked as smart as paint.

"There's not a better inside left playing footba'," said another

enthusiast, looking round for contradiction.

"I don't think," said a Visigoth with a rattle.

"Play up, Ginger!"

Ginger, with head of flame, looking more bow-legged, prick-eared and

pugnacious than ever, was a veritable pocket edition of the "Fighting

Temeraire."

"'E's a daisy, ain't 'e?" said the enthusiast.

"I don't think," quoth the Visigoth.

Another roar was loosed, this time by fifteen thousand Duckingfield

larynxes.

"'Ere they are. Play oop, Britann-yah. Play oop, me little lads."

All this was merely the prelude to such a game as never was seen on

Gamble's Pleasance. The Rovers were on the crest of the wave. They

had not lost a match since September 12, and this day was Saturday,

February 20. They were proud and confident, they were playing on their

own ground in the presence of their friends, and they had a very long

score to settle with Duckingfield Britannia.

And yet deep in the hearts of the wearers of the chocolate and blue was

the sense of fate. And it is a stronger thing than any that has yet

existed in the soul of man. Fought they never so fiercely, under no

matter what conditions, whenever the haughty Rovers met these

unpolished foemen they had invariably to bite the dust or the mud, as

the case might be.

The pace was a corker to start with. It was as if twenty-two

parti-colored tigers had been suddenly let loose. But it was not

football that was played. Britannia was not capable of expounding the

noble science as it was understood by the polished and urbane Rovers of

Blackhampton.

"Goin' to be a dog-fight as usual," proclaimed Mr. Augustus

Higginbottom, who was seated in the exact center of the members' stand.

This grim remark was a concession to the fact that the Britannia was

already fiercely attacking the Rovers' goal, and that Ginger, under

great pressure, had been compelled to give a corner kick.

From the word "go" it was a terrific set-to. Up and down, down and up,

ding dong, hammer and tongs, east, west, north and south of that

turfless, sand-strewn area surged the tide of battle. Every yard of

ground was yielded at the point of death; at least so it seemed to

fifty thousand spectators and six mounted constables who could hardly

breathe for excitement.

"Durn me, if that Ginger ain't top weight," hoarsely remarked the

chairman of the club to Mr. Satellite Albert.

Ginger had just laid out the center forward of the enemy when a goal

seemed sure. The advantage of the proceeding was twofold. In the

first place, the Rovers' citadel was still uncaptured, in spite of the

fact that thirty-five thousand persons had as good as yielded it to the

enemy, fifteen thousand of whom were already hooting with delight at

receiving it; while in the second place, Ginger's fellow warriors, who

were gasping and holding their sides, were provided with a "breather."

"If Britannia would only play footba', it wouldn't matter," roared the

Rovers' chairman in a bull's voice above the din.

Five minutes' grace, the fruit of Ginger's timely action, was much

appreciated by his comrades, who were able to recover their wind while

the enemy's center forward, supine and attended by the club trainer

with a sponge and a cordial, recovered his. Nevertheless, the referee,

a cock-sparrow in knickerbockers, who tried to spoil a fine game by

stopping it without visible reason for doing so, felt he could do no

less than caution Ginger for dangerous play.

"Turn him off." Fifteen thousand Duckingfielders besought the referee.

"Turn him off. Dirty dog!"

"Good old Ginger! Played, Ginger! Good on yer, Ginger!" proclaimed

thirty-five thousand stalwart Blackhamptonians.

Had Ginger received marching orders thirty-five thousand

Blackhamptonians would know the reason why.

"Don't know what footba' is at Duckingfill," said Mr. Augustus

Higginbottom, glaring around with a truculence awful to behold.

But they were at it again. Quarter was neither asked nor given.

Duckingfield Britannia couldn't play for rock cakes, they couldn't play

for toffee and bananas, but had not the Sailor in goal performed one of

his miracles just before the referee blew his whistle for half time,

the Rovers would have been a goal down at that sorely needed interval.

As it was, when, at the end of forty-five minutes' pounding, the

twenty-two warriors limped off the ground to the strain of "Hearts of

Oak," rendered with extraordinary vehemence by the Blackhampton

Excelsior Prize Brass Band, no goal had been scored, and fifty thousand

persons and six mounted policemen appeared for the time being

reasonably content.

"Can't call it footba', but you mark my words, Albert, it is goin' to

be a hell of a second half."

Mr. Satellite Albert could only faintly concur with the chairman of the

club. He had a rather weak heart.

XIX

In the Rovers' dressing-room the trainer, an obese individual in a

dirty cloth cap and dirtier sweater, handed round a plate of sliced

lemons to the team. But, white as a ghost, sat the Sailor in a corner

apart from the rest. He realized that the match was only half over,

and with all his soul he wished it at an end. He was in no mood for

sucking lemons just now. The hand of fate was upon him.

Everything seemed to be going round. He was so oddly and queerly

excited that he could hardly see. How in the world he had stopped that

shot and got rid of the ball with two Britannias literally hurling

themselves upon him, he would never know. But he understood dimly, as

he sat chin in hand on the farthest bench by the washing basins, that

anything might happen before the match was over. The truth was, and he

simply dared not face it, this terrific battle of giants was a bit too

much for him. No, he dared not face that thought, he, whose dream,

whose imperial destiny it was to bring the Cup for the first time to

his native city.

"Buck up, Sailor boy."

Ginger, the greatest hero of them all, had laid an affectionate hand on

his shoulder.

"Buck up, Sailor boy. You'll never stop a better nor that one. We've

got 'em boiled."

Mr. Augustus Higginbottom appeared in the dressing-room, fur coat,

chocolate waistcoat, blue tie, spats, watch-chain and all. His face

had a grim and dour expression.

"Me lads," said he, "if ye can make a draw on it there's two pound

apiece for ye. And if ye can win there's four. Understand?"

They all understood but Sailor. At that moment he could neither hear

nor see the chairman of the committee. The only person he could see

was a certain young Arris in a certain tree, and all he knew was that a

decree of inexorable fate compelled him to stand in the shadow of that

tree for forty-five minutes by the clock, with the gaze of fifty

thousand people and six mounted policemen centered upon him.

The second half of the match began with a sensation. In the very first

minute, the dauntless Ginger checked a rush by the enemy's left, gave

the ball a mighty thump with his good right boot, and more by luck than

anything it fell at the feet of Dinkie Dawson. And he, as all the

world knew, was, on his day and in his hour, a genius. He trapped the

ball, he diddled and dodged, he pretended to pass but he didn't. He

merely kept straight on, yet feinting now to the right and now to the

left of him. Britannia's center half back, a bullet-headed son of

Hibernia, challenged him ruthlessly, but at the psychological instant

Dinkie side-stepped in a way he had, and he of the bullet head barged

fathoms deep into the mud of Gamble's Pleasance. Britannia's left full

back now came up to see what was the matter, a singularly ill-advised

proceeding; he ought to have waited for trouble instead of going to

look for it was the unanimous opinion of fifteen thousand

Duckingfielders, who shrieked with dismay as Dinkie and the ball went

past the ill-advised one before you could say "knife." And then it was

that fifty thousand persons and six mounted policemen suddenly grew

alive to an intensely critical situation.

It was this. Only one thing under Providence could now save

Britannia's citadel. A very fine and notable thing it was, no less

than the agile yet majestic goalkeeper, Alexander MacFadyen by name,

late of Glasgow Caledonians, and many times an international player.

There was no better in the world to cope with such a titanic situation,

but in times like these Dinkie Dawson was not as other men.

The heroic Scot knew that, but he didn't flinch or turn a hair. All

the same, he must not go to Dinkie, as his puir fulish Saxon comrade

had; Dinkie must come to him. "Yes, ma laddie," said the dour visage

of Alexander MacFadyen, "I'll be waitin' for ye, I'm thinkin'."

It was such a moment as no pen--leaving out Shakespeare and the

football reporter for the _Evening Star_--could do justice to. "I'm

waitin' for ye, Dinkie, ma laddie," said Alexander MacFadyen, with

Dinkie coming on and on, his dainty feet twinkling to the tunes of

faerie. Hardly so much as the horse of a mounted policeman ventured to

breathe. For a fraction of an instant, the two warriors eyed each

other like tiger-cats about to spring. Crash! It was sheer

inspiration. Dinkie had drawn a bow at a venture. The ball lay in the

corner of the goal net, the citadel was captured, Britannia's flag was

down.

It was, undoubtedly, in the opinion of thirty-five thousand souls the

finest goal seen on Gamble's Pleasance within the memory of man. In

the considered judgment of the other fifteen thousand it was such a

wicked fluke that a well contested game was covered with ridicule.

Over the scene that followed it is kind to draw the veil. People of

all ages and both sexes made themselves so indescribably ridiculous

that Zeus of the Bright Sky, in dudgeon no doubt for the ruin of his

afternoon, drew down the blinds and sought to cool their courage with

one of his honest showers of rain.

It seemed all over, bar the shouting. There was only twenty minutes to

play. The Rovers were still leading one goal to nothing, the attacks

of the Britannia were being shattered against the rock of an

impregnable defense, when a string of tragic incidents befell which

turned a sure triumph into dire disaster.

Some maintain it was the rain alone which caused the debacle. None can

deny that the ball was greased by Jupiter's shower. But even that fact

cannot cover all that happened. As for the other sinister explanation,

which is firmly believed at Blackhampton to this day, it was never

accepted by the fellow players of him who gave away the match.

Fate was at the root of the tragedy. There were twenty minutes to

play, the Rovers were leading one to nothing, and the Sailor had to

take a free kick from goal. He could do this at his leisure; according

to the laws of the game no opponent was allowed to approach. But as he

placed the ball for the kick, he somehow failed to notice in the

gathering gloom that Ginger was right in the line of fire. Of course

he ought to have done so. Yet so great was his excitement now that he

did not know what he was doing. He took the kick; the ball struck

Ginger full in the middle of the back and rebounded through the goal.

It was growing so dark that at first not a soul realized what had

happened. By the time the goalkeeper, like a man in a dream, had

retrieved the ball from the net, the awful truth was known. The Sailor

had given away the match.

Henry Harper never forgot to his dying day the look in the eyes of

Ginger. In the presence of their grim reproach his one desire was for

the earth to open and swallow him.

Pandemonium had been unchained, but the Sailor heard it not, as he

leaned against the goalpost feeling like a man in a nightmare. At that

moment his whole being was dominated by a single thought. He had given

away the match.

Strictly speaking, all was not yet lost. But the Sailor was completely

unnerved by his crime, and Ginger's eyes were haunting him. As he

leaned against the post, the farthest from the tree sacred to the

memory of young Arris, he knew that if anything came to him now, he

would not be able to stop it.

Another shot came. It was inevitable. The gift of the gods was as

wine in the veins of Duckingfield Britannia. They were tigers again:

eleven parti-colored tigers. But the second shot was just a slow

trickling affair that any goalkeeper in his senses ought to have been

able to deal with. But the Sailor bungled it miserably. He didn't

know how, he didn't know why, but the ball wriggled slowly out of his

hands through the goal, and the match was lost beyond hope of recovery.

There could be no thought now of the Cup coming to Blackhampton. He

daren't look at Ginger. He tried not to hear, he tried not to see. It

must all be a hideous dream. But there to the left was the historic

tree simply alive with young Arrises cursing and scorning him.

Suddenly there was a mighty surge by the crowd in the farthest corner

of the ground, which called for all the address of the mounted police

to restrain.

"Sailor, you've sold the match."

The ugly words were being bellowed at him out of the night. He could

hear the loud and deep curses of the Rovers' partisans; he imagined he

could see their fists being shaken at him. He wished he was dead, but

he had to stand there another twelve minutes exposed to the public

ignominy.

In that twelve minutes, Duckingfield Britannia scored four goals more.

All was darkness and eclipse. The Rovers, noble warriors as they were,

had done all that mortal men could do; in the case of the heroic

Ginger, they might even be said to have done a little more. But fate

was too much for them. The last line of defense, on which all

depended, had played them false. The Sailor muddled hopelessly

everything that came to him now. The end of the game was not merely a

defeat for the Rovers, it was a disaster, a rout.

The referee blew his whistle for the last time, and Act One of the

tragedy was at an end. But its termination was merely the signal for

Act Two to begin. The crowd, in a frenzy of rage, surged over the

ground. "Sailor's sold the match," was the cry of the angry thousands.

The oncoming hordes had no terrors for Henry Harper. Let them do with

him as they liked. Death would have been more than welcome as he

leaned against the goalpost, not seeking to escape the tender mercies

of the mob.

It was Ginger who realized the danger.

"Dink," he called hoarsely, "Mac, Peter, Joe, they are coming for

Sailor. They'll kill him if they catch holt on him."

It was true. And it seemed that the sternest fight of that terrific

day was yet to be. An angry mob is not responsible for its actions.

There was a fierce set-to between a handful of good men, with help from

six mounted constables, and many hundreds bereft by an excitement which

at that moment made them little better than savages.

"Scrag 'im! Scrag 'im!"

Henry Harper could hear their voices all about him, but little he

cared. Indeed they were almost pleasant to his ears. Again it was a

case of hard pounding, with the police bearing a gallant part, and the

goalkeeper's escort taking blows and freely returning them.

There was a vision in the mind of Henry Harper which he never forgot,

of the blood streaming down the face of Ginger as he dealt out blows to

the right and to the left of him. He never forgot the look on the face

of Dinkie as they kept driving on and driving home.

Times and again it seemed as if the Rovers' partisans must tear their

late hero in pieces. But his escort got him somehow to the

dressing-room, and a strong force of the Blackhampton Constabulary

watched over it for a solid hour by the pavilion clock. By that time,

the crowd had dispersed, the ground was clear, and Henry Harper was

able to go home.

XX

"You are late for your tea, Mr. Harper," said Miss Foldal. "It's

twenty past seven. It will be supper time soon."

The Sailor apologized in his gentle, rather childlike way.

"Do you know where Ginger Jukes is, miss?" he asked, in a queer voice.

"He came in for his tea and then went out again," said Miss Foldal,

regulating her tone with care.

She had been told already by the _Evening Star_ that the Rovers, after

leading by a goal within twenty minutes of the end of the game, had

suffered a crushing and incomprehensible defeat, that the crowd had

made an infuriated attack on Harper, the goalkeeper, and in the blank

space reserved for the latest news, it said that in deference to public

feeling, the committee of the club had decided to hold an inquiry into

his conduct.

Miss Foldal was far too discreet to refer to the match. But if ever

she had seen tragedy in a human countenance, it was now visible in the

face of this young man. She poured out a cup of tea for him, which he

declined. Then he said, in that queer voice which did not seem to

belong to him, that he would not be in need of supper.

"If you want my opinion, Mr. Harper," said Miss Foldal, "you have been

working too hard. I really think the best thing for you is bed."

The young man stood white as a sheet with a face not pleasant to look

upon.

"I do reelly. Go to bed now, and I'll bring you a basin of gruel with

a little something in it."

A basin of gruel with a little something in it was Miss Foldal's

specific for all the ills to which flesh is heir. Mention of it was

clear proof that Mr. Harper's present condition gave cause for anxiety.

"I don't want nothing, miss," said the young man, in a voice quite

unlike his own. "It's very kind of you, but the only thing I want just

now is to be let be."

Had Mr. Jukes or any of her other lodgers made that speech it would

have seemed uncivil, but Miss Foldal knew that Mr. Harper was incapable

of any kind of intentional rudeness. He was as gentle as a child.

Perhaps that was why the look now in his eyes hurt her so much.

Without saying anything else, the young man went up to his bedroom.

Time passed. The supper hour came and went. Mr. Jukes did not return

and Mr. Harper did not come down again. But it was this latter fact

that disconcerted the landlady. She could not get the look of those

eyes out of her brain. Only once had she seen such a look in the eyes

of any human being, and that was in those of her Uncle Frederick just

before he destroyed himself.

Nine struck. There was no sound from the room above. Miss Foldal grew

horribly afraid. Memories of her Uncle Frederick had descended very

grimly upon her.

Perhaps Mr. Harper had gone to bed. She hoped and believed that he

had. And yet she could not be sure. It was her duty to go up to his

room and inquire. But it was too much for her nerves to be quite alone

in the house. Ethel, the maid-servant, had gone out shopping as it was

Saturday night, and Mr. Jukes had not yet come in for his supper.

Miss Foldal was not a brave woman. Her deepest instinct was against

going up those stairs. It was much to her credit that she did go up at

a quarter past nine. The door of Mr. Harper's room was shut, but a

light was coming from under it.

She knocked so timidly that a mouse would not have heard her.

No answer.

She knocked again, a little louder, as she imagined, but no louder in

reality.

Still no answer.

"It is exactly as I feared." Miss Foldal began to shake, and the

spirit of her Uncle Frederick crept out from under the door.

She wanted to scream; indeed, she was about to act in this futile

manner, when it suddenly occurred to her that screaming would be no use

whatever. Far wiser to open the door, if only out of deference to the

manes of her uncle, whose end had taught her that suicide was not such

a terrible thing after all.

At last Miss Foldal opened the door of the bedroom. A great surprise

was in store, but it was not of the kind that had been provided by her

Uncle Frederick.

Mr. Harper, wearing his overcoat and cap, was in the act of strapping

together a bag full of clothes. The relief of Miss Foldal was great;

at the same time a quaver in her voice showed that she was full of

anxiety.

"Why, Mr. Harper, you are never going away?"

"Yes, miss."

"Without your supper?"

"Yes, miss."

"Mr. Harper, wherever are you going to?"

"Dunno, miss." The gentle voice had a stab in it for the woman's heart

of his landlady. "'Ere's my board and lodging, miss." He took a

sovereign from his pocket, and put it in her hand. "I'll be very sorry

to go. I'm thinking I'll never 'ave another 'ome like this."

Miss Foldal thought so too. Somehow she was not the least ashamed of

the sudden tears which sprang into her eyes. There was some high

instinct in her, in spite of her rather battered and war-worn

appearance, which seemed to urge her to protect him.

"I cannot hear of you going away like this, Mr. Harper, not at this

time of night and without your supper, I cannot reelly."

It was vain, however, of Miss Foldal to protest. Moreover, she knew it

was vain. There was a look in Mr. Harper's face that all the Miss

Foldals in the world could not have coped with.

"Well, I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," was all she could gasp, and then he

was gone.

XXI

Bag in hand he entered the February night. As he turned up the collar

of his overcoat his excitement crystallized into a definite thought.

Whatever happened he must not meet Ginger.

He didn't know where he was going; he had neither purpose nor plan; his

only guide was a vague desire to get a long way from Blackhampton in a

short space of time.

In obedience to this instinct, he passed over the canal bridge, the

main highway to the center of the city, turned down several byways in

order to avoid the Crown and Cushion, threaded a path through a maze of

slums and alleys, and emerged at last, almost without knowing it,

within twenty yards of Blackhampton Central Station.

This seemed a special act of Providence; and subsequent events

confirmed Henry Harper in that view. He walked through the station

booking-hall, yet without taking a ticket, since in a dim way he felt

it was not wise to do so before you have given the least thought to

where you are going.

A train was standing in the station. The porters were closing the

doors, the guard had taken out his whistle.

"Jump in, sir, we're off."

Henry Harper pitched head foremost into a first non-smoker, his bag was

pitched in after him, the door was slammed, and the train was already

passing through the long tunnel at the end of the station before he was

able to realize what had happened.

An old lady was the only other occupant of the compartment. She was a

stern looking dame, with a magnificent fur cloak, a dominant nose,

fearless eyes, and a large black hat with plenty of trimming but

without feathers.

It was clear from the demeanor of the old lady that she was inclined to

regard the intruder with disfavor. However, as she was a person not

without consequence in her own small world, this was her fixed attitude

of mind in regard to the vast majority of her fellow creatures. But

she never allowed herself to be afraid of them, partly out of pride,

also because it was good for the character. All the same, a nature

less powerful might easily have pulled the cord and communicated with

the guard, such was the look of wildness in the eyes of her fellow

traveler. Moreover, he had fallen into her lap, and had trodden on her

foot rather severely, and she was not sure that he had apologized.

Between Duckingfield Junction and High Moreton she became involved in

quite a train of speculations. In the first place, he was obviously

not a gentleman. That was her habitual jumping-off point in her survey

of the human male. In fact, she would have ignored his existence had

it been possible to do so. But her foot had suffered so much from his

clumsiness that she was not able to put him out of her mind. Besides,

she was a sharp and quizzical old thing, and from the height of her own

self-consequence she stole glances at him that were a nice mingling of

caution and truculence. It was an honest, open, unusual face, there

was that to be said for it. The behavior, the manner, and the

portmanteau marked H.H. were unconventional, to say the least; there

was an absence of gloves, but the eyes were remarkable. Probably a

young poet on his way to Oxford for the week-end. Although they

confessed to two of these unfortunate persons in her own family, it was

an article of her faith that a poet was never a gentleman.

Somehow the young man in the corner interested the old lady so much

that when the last of the tunnels was safely passed, a temperament by

nature adventurous as became three grandsons in the Household Cavalry

led her to study him at closer quarters.

"Do you mind having the window down a little?"

"No, lady."

He sprang to his feet and lowered the window, and the old lady, pitying

herself profoundly that she could ever have thought about him at all,

settled herself in her corner and was very soon asleep.

This cynical proceeding had no effect upon the young man opposite. As

far as he was concerned she did not exist, any more than he now existed

for her; moreover, she never had existed for him, therefore the balance

of indifference was in his favor.

The Sailor's one preoccupation, as the long and slow succession of

stations passed, was the face of Ginger. It was gazing through the

window at him out of the intense darkness of the night. And what a

face it was, with the blood streaming down it and a look in the eyes he

would never forget.

Where was he going? He didn't know and he didn't care, if only it was

far enough from Blackhampton. Presently he began to feel cold and

hungry and horribly lonely. Now he was beginning to realize that

Ginger and Miss Foldal and Dinkie and the Rovers were things of the

past, his misery grew more than he could bear. His dream was

shattered! He would never bring the Cup to Blackhampton. And there

was the face of Ginger looking in at the window, and he nearly woke the

old lady by jumping up with a cry of agony.

There was nothing left for him now but to go on into unending night.

He was moving out of an unspeakable past into a future of panic and

emptiness. And then he tried to sleep, but strange and awful thoughts

prevented him. The old lady awoke with a start, only to find that her

feet were cold in spite of their hot water bottle, which was also cold,

and was great negligence on the part of the railway company. Still,

she hoped to be at the end of her journey soon. In that reflection the

old lady was more fortunate than her fellow traveler, who had no such

hope to console him.

XXII

The train went on and on. Its stoppings and startings were endless;

the night grew very cold; the old lady, gathering her fur cloak around

her, resettled herself in her corner and slept again. The chill in the

heart of the Sailor was now a deadly thing. Repose for him was out of

the question. Red and white striped phantoms converged upon him

through the gloom; tier upon tier of massed humanity rose shrieking to

the sky; but there was only one face that he could recognize, and it

was a face he would never forget.

At last the Sailor dozed a little. And then the train stopped once

more, and an official of the railway company entered the carriage with

a demand for tickets. The old lady found hers without difficulty, but

the young man opposite had no ticket, it appeared. Also his behavior

was so odd that at first the official seemed to think he was drunk. He

had no idea of where he was going. But the next station, it seemed,

was Marylebone, and that was as far as he could go.

While the old lady watched from her corner grimly, the official was

able to gather that this unsatisfactory traveler had come from

Blackhampton, which, as he had been so unwise as to travel first class,

meant a sovereign in coin of the realm.

The traveler was able to produce a sovereign from a belt which he wore

round his waist--a proceeding which seemed to stimulate the curiosity

of his fellow traveler in the highest degree--and paid it over without

a murmur. The official wrote out a receipt with an absurd stump of

pencil.

"Thank you, mister," said the young man.

The train moved on.

A few minutes later it had come to the end of a long and wearisome

journey. The old lady was the first to leave the carriage. She was

assisted in doing so by the ministrations of a very tall and dignified

footman.

As the Sailor stepped to the platform, bag in hand, there was a great

clock straight before him pointing to the hour of midnight. Where was

he? He had never heard of Marylebone. It might be England, it might

be Scotland; in his present state of mind it might be anywhere.

"Keb, sir?" The inquiry surged all round him, but the Sailor did not

want a cab.

His first feeling as he stood on the platform of that immense station

was one of sheer bewilderment. He didn't know where he was, he had

nowhere to go, he had no plans. An intense loneliness came over him

again. Soon, however, it was merged in the exhilaration of the

atmosphere around him. This was a different place from Blackhampton;

it was larger, more vital, more mysterious.

As he walked slowly down the platform the importance of everything

seemed to increase. He would have to think things out a bit, although

just now any kind of thinking was torment.

He had learned much during his sixteen months at Blackhampton, not only

in regard to the world in which he lived, but also--and as he moved

down the platform with his bag the thought gave him a thrill of joy--to

read and write. He felt these things, bought and paid for at a heavy

cost, were so infinitely precious that he need not fear the future.

Straight before his eyes was the legend, "Cloak Room." Sixteen months

ago it would have been High Dutch. But the new knowledge told him it

was the place to leave your bag. Accordingly, he went and left it,

paid his twopence, and put the ticket in exchange carefully in his

belt, where nineteen sovereigns and twelve half-sovereigns were secure.

He had learned the meaning of money during his six years at sea.

Perhaps it was the sight of so much and the knowledge of its value that

gave him a thrill of power as he passed out of the station into the

wide, peopled immensity of this unknown land. There was a policeman

standing on an island in the middle of the road, and the time had long

passed since those grim days when he would have been as likely to fly

to the moon as to address a question to the police.

"What place is this, mister?"

"Marylebone Road."

The information did not seem very valuable. Still, the policeman's

tone implied that it might be. As the Sailor stood in the middle of

the road he was suddenly comforted by the sight of manna in the

wilderness. Across the way was a coffee stall. Such a bright vision

told him how sore was his need.

All the same he was not hungry. He drank two cups of coffee, but he

was too excited to eat. That was odd, because there was nothing to

excite him. But when he turned away from the stall and started to walk

he didn't know where, something curious, and terrible had begun again

to lay hold of his brain. Nevertheless, he went on and on through

streets interminable, fully determined to free himself of that eerie,

horrible feeling.

Had it not been for the face of Ginger perhaps all would have been

well. But it was lurking everywhere amid the gloom and byways of the

night. The place he was in was endless; it was a waste of bricks and

mortar. Even Liverpool and the waterfront at Frisco could not compare

with it. Then it suddenly came upon him that he was a guy. This place

was London. It was the only place it could be.

There was something in the mere thought which fired the imagination of

the Sailor. The Isle of Dogs had been London in a manner of speaking,

but this was surely the heart of the city. He could not remember to

have seen such houses as he was passing now. Liverpool and Frisco had

had them no doubt. But in his present mood the mass and gloom of these

great bulks addressed him strangely. This vastness immeasurable,

debouching upon the lamps at the corners of the streets, was instinct

with the magic of the future. It was as if this world of bricks and

mortar towering to the night was girt with fabulous secret riches.

Symbols of opulence spoke to the Sailor as he walked. Somehow he felt

he could claim kinship with them. He had his store of riches also.

No, it was not contained in the belt around his body. That was only a

very little between him and the weather; a man like Klondyke would soon

have done it in. But Henry Harper could now read and write, that was

the thought which nerved him to meet the future, that was his store of

secret and fabulous wealth.

God knew he had paid a price for Aladdin's lamp. A week ago that night

he had seen performed at the Blackhampton Lyceum the first play of his

life, "Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp." He had sat in the pit, Dinkie Dawson

one side of him, Ginger the other. He had now his own wonderful lamp.

It was glowing and burning, a mass of dull fire, in the right-hand

corner of his brain. It was a talisman which had come to him at the

cost of blood and tears; a magic gift of heaven that he must guard with

life itself.

On and on he went. Now and again the face of Ginger tried to overthrow

him, but the presence of the talisman meant much to him now....

After weary hours his pace began to fail. There were no more houses as

far as he could tell. Grass was under his feet; bushes of furze and a

clean smell of earth enveloped him. The darkness was less, but

everything was very still. Suddenly he felt strangely tired. And then

an awful feeling crept upon him.

A low wooden seat was near, and he sat on it. It was still dark, and

the weather was particularly chill February. As he drew his overcoat

across his knees, he was overmastered by a sense of terror. Somehow it

seemed more subtle and more deadly than all the fear he had ever known;

of Auntie, of Jack the Ripper, of the Chinaman, of the Old Man, of the

Island of San Pedro, of Duckingfield Britannia, of even that

blood-stained visage of which he could still catch glimpses in the

darkness. It was a stealthy distrust of Aladdin's lamp, the wonderful

talisman glowing like a star in the right-hand corner of his brain.

Long he sat in the February small hours. He would wait for the light,

having neither inclination nor strength to continue his journey into

regions unknown. It grew very cold. And then a new fear crept over

him. He felt he was going to become very ill.

However, he determined to use all the force of his will. This feeling

was pure imagination, he was sure. He would put it out of his mind.

It was a matter of life and death not to be ill now. And not for a

moment must he think of dying, now a wonderful talisman had been given

him which was about to unlock the doors of worlds beyond his own.

With fierce determination he rose from the seat unsteadily. And as he

did so he saw the cold, cold light of the morning paling the tops of

the distant trees. He began to move forward again. He would have to

keep going somehow if he was not to be overtaken by darkness and

eclipse. Whatever he did, he must hold on to his identity. Whatever

he did, he must keep secure the treasure rare and strange that was now

within himself.

Suddenly in the light of the dawn, he made out a man's figure coming

towards him. It was a policeman.

"What place do they call this, mister?"

"Barnes Common."

They moved on slowly in their opposite ways.