The Sailor Part 30

Ginger, with head of flame, looking more bow-legged, p.r.i.c.k-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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 n.o.ble 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," hoa.r.s.ely 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 c.o.c.k-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 Bra.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 d.i.n.kie 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 pa.s.s 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 d.i.n.kie 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 d.i.n.kie 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 t.i.tanic situation, but in times like these d.i.n.kie 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 d.i.n.kie, as his puir fulish Saxon comrade had; d.i.n.kie 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, d.i.n.kie, ma laddie," said Alexander MacFadyen, with d.i.n.kie 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. d.i.n.kie 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 s.e.xes 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 G.o.ds 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.