The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
difference. He says I shall only marry a man who works.'
'I am going to work, dearest,' said Clarence. 'I am going to work like a
horse. Something--I know not what--tells me I shall be rather good at
work. And one day when I--'
'Good-bye,' said Isabel, hastily. 'I hear papa coming.'
* * * * *
Clarence, as he had predicted, found no difficulty in obtaining
employment. He was signed on at once, under the name of Jones, by
Houndsditch Wednesday, the premier metropolitan club, and embarked at
once on his new career.
The season during which Clarence Tresillian kept goal for Houndsditch
Wednesday is destined to live long in the memory of followers of
professional football. Probably never in the history of the game has
there been such persistent and widespread mortality among the more
distant relatives of office-boys and junior clerks. Statisticians have
estimated that if all the grandmothers alone who perished between the
months of September and April that season could have been placed end to
end, they would have reached from Hyde Park Corner to the outskirts of
Manchester. And it was Clarence who was responsible for this
holocaust. Previous to the opening of the season sceptics had shaken
their heads over the Wednesday's chances in the First League. Other
clubs had bought up the best men in the market, leaving only a mixed
assortment of inferior Scotsmen, Irishmen, and Northcountrymen to
uphold the honour of the London club.
And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian had flashed upon the world
of football. In the opening game he had behaved in the goal-mouth like
a Chinese cracker, and exhibited an absolutely impassable defence; and
from then onward, except for an occasional check, Houndsditch Wednesday
had never looked back.
Among the spectators who flocked to the Houndsditch ground to watch
Clarence perform there appeared week after week a little, grey, dried-up
man, insignificant except for a certain happy choice of language in
moments of emotion and an enthusiasm far surpassing that of the
ordinary spectator. To the trained eye there are subtle distinctions
between football enthusiasts. This man belonged to the comparatively
small class of those who have football on the cerebrum.
Fate had made Daniel Rackstraw a millionaire and a Radical, but at
heart he was a spectator of football. He never missed a match. His
library of football literature was the finest in the country. His
football museum had but one equal, that of Mr Jacob Dodson, of
Manchester. Between them the two had cornered, at enormous expense, the
curio market of the game. It was Rackstraw who had secured the
authentic pair of boots in which Bloomer had first played for England;
but it was Dodson who possessed the painted india-rubber ball used by
Meredith when a boy--probably the first thing except a nurse ever
kicked by that talented foot. The two men were friends, as far as rival
connoisseurs can be friends; and Mr Dodson, when at leisure, would
frequently pay a visit to Mr Rackstraw's country house, where he would
spend hours gazing wistfully at the Bloomer boots, buoyed up only by
the thoughts of the Meredith ball at home.
Isabel saw little of Clarence during the winter months, except from a
distance. She contented herself with clipping photographs of him from
the sporting papers. Each was a little more unlike him than the last,
and this lent variety to the collection. Her father marked her new-born
enthusiasm for the game with approval. It had been secretly a great
grief to the old gentleman that his only child did not know the
difference between a linesman and an inside right, and, more, did not
seem to care to know. He felt himself drawn closer to her. An
understanding, as pleasant as it was new and strange, began to spring
up between parent and child.
As for Clarence, how easy it would be to haul up one's slacks to
practically an unlimited extent on the subject of his emotions at this
time. One can figure him, after the game is over and the gay throng has
dispersed, creeping moodily--but what's the use? Brevity--that is the
cry. Brevity. Let us on.
The months sped by; the Cup-ties began, and soon it was evident that
the Final must be fought out between Houndsditch Wednesday and Mr Jacob
Dodson's pet team, Manchester United. With each match the Wednesday
seemed to improve. Clarence was a Gibraltar among goal-keepers.
Those were delirious days for Daniel Rackstraw. Long before the fourth
round his voice had dwindled to a husky whisper. Deep lines appeared on
his forehead; for it is an awful thing for a football enthusiast to be
compelled to applaud, in the very middle of the Cup-ties, purely by
means of facial expression. In this time of affliction he found Isabel
an ever-increasing comfort to him. Side by side they would sit, and the
old man's face would lose its drawn look, and light up, as her clear
young soprano pealed out over the din, urging this player to shoot,
that to kick some opponent in the face; or describing the referee in no
uncertain terms as a reincarnation of the late Mr Dick Turpin.
And now the day of the Final at the Crystal Palace approached, and all
England was alert, confident of a record-breaking contest. But alas!
How truly does Epictetus observe: 'We know not what awaiteth us round
the corner, and the hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatched
oft-times doth but step on the banana-skin.' The prophets who
anticipated a struggle keener than any in football history were
destined to be proved false.
It was not that their judgement of form was at fault. On the run of the
season's play Houndsditch Wednesday _v_. Manchester United should
have been the two most evenly-matched teams in the history of the game.
Forward, the latter held a slight superiority; but this was balanced by
the inspired goal-keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the keenest
supporters of either side were not confident. They argued at length,
figuring out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils and the backs of
envelopes, but they were not confident. Out of all those frenzied
millions two men alone had no doubts. Mr Daniel Rackstraw said that he
did not desire to be unfair to Manchester United. He wished it to be
clearly understood that in their own class Manchester United might
quite possibly show to considerable advantage. In some rural league,
for instance, he did not deny that they might sweep all before them.
But when it came to competing with Houndsditch Wednesday--here words
failed Mr Rackstraw.
Mr Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the _Manchester Weekly Football
Boot_, stated that his decision, arrived at after a close and
careful study of the work of both teams, was that Houndsditch Wednesday
had rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a stuffed rat in
the Battersea Dogs' Home. It was his carefully-considered opinion that
in a contest with the second eleven of a village Church Lads' Brigade,
Houndsditch Wednesday might, with an effort (conceding them that slice
of luck which so often turns the tide of a game), scrape home. But when
it was a question of meeting a team like Manchester United--here Mr
Dodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair,
and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen.
Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching match was
discussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions of Liverpool,
one question alone was on every lip: Who would win? Octogenarians
mumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired City men, trampled under foot in
the rush for their tram, asked it of the ambulance attendants who
carried them to the hospital.
And then, one bright, clear morning, when the birds sang and all Nature
seemed fair and gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps.
London was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details, to
describe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like a
tornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightest
softening of the editorial austerity and the thing would have been
done. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on.
Houndsditch Wednesday met Manchester United at the Crystal Palace, and
for nearly two hours the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down the
corrugated foreheads of the patriots in the stands. The men from
Manchester, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles and
proceeded to pile up points. It was in vain that the Houndsditch backs
and halfbacks skimmed like swallows about the field. They could not
keep the score down. From start to finish Houndsditch were a beaten
side.
London during that black period was a desert. Gloom gripped the City.
In distant Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scowling husbands at
the evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboys
called the extras in a whisper.
Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw.
Leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigal
son, he encountered Mr Jacob Dodson, of Manchester.
Now, Mr Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings.
He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should have
abstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition to
be magnanimous. Sighting Mr Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously to
the task of rubbing the thing in. Mr Rackstraw listened in silent
anguish.
'If we had had Jones--' he said at length.
'That's what they all say,' whooped Mr Dodson, 'Jones! Who's Jones?'
'If we had had Jones, we should have--' He paused. An idea had flashed
upon his overwrought mind. 'Dodson,' he said, 'look here. Wait till
Jones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anything
you like a side in my private park.'
Mr Dodson reflected.
'You're on,' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'
Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.
'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot against
your Meredith ball. Does that go?'
'I should say it did,' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wanting
that boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.'
'Very well,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up.'
Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. I
particularly wished at this point to introduce a description of Mr
Rackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private football
ground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a double
purpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a fine
stimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of home
they would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved their
money. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. You
give it up? It was Brevity--brevity! Let us on.
The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch.
Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customary
finely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with a
swelling heart. Presently he found an opportunity to slip away and
meet Isabel. I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers.
I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching of
their breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is at
just such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have grown
discouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence had
reached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among goal-keepers
of the First League, when Isabel broke from him with a startled
exclamation, and vanished; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarence
observed Mr Daniel Rackstraw moving towards him.
It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seen