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 toward him.
It was evident from the millionaire’s demeanour that he had seen nothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. He sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.
“Jones,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you. I want a word with you.”
“A thousand, if you wish it,” said Clarence, courteously.
“Now, look here,” said Mr. Rackstraw. “I want to explain to you just what this game means to me. Don’t run away with the idea I’ve had you fellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry and bright. If Houndsditch wins to-day, it means that I shall be able to hold up my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead of crawling round on my stomach and feeling like a blackbeetle under a steam-roller. Do you get that?”