"But surely," said Clarence, a dim recollection of something he had heard or read somewhere coming to him, "isn't cornering wheat a rather profitable process?"
"Sure," said his mother. "Sure it is. I guess dad's try at cornering wheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened-to the other fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-seven varieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lot of his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That's how it is."
"And on top of that, mind you," moaned Lord Runnymede, "I lose my little veto. It's bitter-bitter."
Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. "I don't see how we're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year," he said.
His mother crisply revised his pronouns.
"We aren't," she said. "You've got to get out and hustle."
Clarence looked at her blankly.
"Me?"
"You."
"Work?"
"Work."
Clarence drew a deep breath.
"Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows do work." he went on, thoughtfully. "I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's only yesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousin worked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know."
His father raised himself on the sofa.
"Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?"
"That's the difficulty," said Clarence.
"Can't you do anything?" asked his mother.
"Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take a new name. I'll call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a minute. Any club will jump at me."
This was no idle boast. Since early childhood Clarence had concentrated his energies on becoming a footballer, and was now an exceedingly fine goal-keeper. It was a pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot in the attitude of a Salomé dancer, with one eye on the man with the ball, the other gazing coldly on the rest of the opposition forward line, uncurl abruptly like the main-spring of a watch and stop a hot one. Clarence in goal was the nearest approach to an india-rubber acrobat and society contortionist to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was, in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods.
Scarcely had he uttered these momentous words when the butler entered with the announcement that he was wanted by a lady on the telephone.
It was Isabel, disturbed and fearful.
"Oh, Clarence," she cried, "my precious angel wonder-child, I don't know how to begin."
"Begin just like that," said Clarence, approvingly. "It's topping. You can't beat it."
"Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. I told papa of our engagement, and he wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a p-p-p-"
"A what?"
"A pr-pr-pr-"
"He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. He must be thinking of someone else."
"A preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos. He doesn't like your father being an earl."
"A man may be an earl and still a gentleman," said Clarence, not without a touch of coldness in his voice.
"I forgot to tell him that. But I don't think it would make any difference. He says I shall only marry a man who works."
"I am going to work, dearest," said Clarence. "I am going to wok 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 North-countrymen to uphold the honour of the London club.
And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresiliian 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 has 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 thought 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 desined to be proved false.