Short Fiction · The Goalkeeper and the Plutocrat (2/2)

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 goalkeepers 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 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 today, 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 black-beetle under a steamroller. Do you get that?”

“I do,” replied Clarence.

“And not only that,” went on the millionaire. “There’s more. I have put up my Bloomer boot against Mr. Dodson’s Meredith ball as a side bet. You understand what that means? It means that either you win or my life is soured forever. See?”

“I have got you,” said Clarence.

“Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day for keeping goal as you’ve never kept goal before. Everything depends on you. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch are safe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It’s one thing or the other. It’s all up to you. Win, and there’s four thousand pounds waiting for you above what you share with the others.”

Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Mr. Rackstraw,” he said, “keep your dross. I care nothing for money. All I ask of you,” proceeded Clarence, “is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.”

Mr. Rackstraw looked sharply at him.

“Repeat that,” he said. “I don’t think I quite got it.”

“All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.”

“Young man,” said Mr. Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, “I admire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so far that you’d need to look for it with a telescope.”

“You refuse your consent?”

“I never said you weren’t a clever guesser.”

“Why?”

Mr. Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs that hit you like a bullet.

“How would you support my daughter?”

“I was thinking that you would help to some extent.”

“You were, were you?”

“I was.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.

“Well,” he said, “it’s off. You can take that as coming from an authoritative source. No wedding bells for you.”

Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter smile curving his expressive lips.

“And no Meredith ball for you!” he cried.

Mr. Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into him.

“What?” he shouted.

Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Rackstraw, “you wouldn’t let a little private difference like that influence you in a really important thing like this football match, would you?”

“I would.”

“You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?”

“Every time.”

“Her white-haired old father?”

“The colour of his hair would not affect me.”

“Nothing would move you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then, by George, you’re just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry Isabel; and I’ll take you into partnership in my business this very day. I’ve been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we’ll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has ever seen. Shake hands.”

For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and he spoke.

“Mr. Rackstraw,” he said, “I cannot deceive you.”

“That won’t matter,” said the enthusiastic old man. “I bet you’ll be able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we’ll be the greatest⁠—”

“My name is not Jones.”

“Nor is mine. What does that matter?”

“My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views⁠—”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Mr. Rackstraw. “What are political views compared with the chance of getting a goalkeeper like you into the family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I didn’t know who you were then.”

“I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,” said Clarence, eyeing him doubtfully.

“Then I’ll be one too,” cried Mr. Rackstraw. “I own I’ve set my face against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I’ll ring up the Prime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself.”

Clarence’s last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man’s hand, outstretched to meet his.

Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.

Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.

“Wah?” he says.

“That?” said Isabel. “That is the ball Mr. Meredith used to play with when he was a little boy.”

She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her lip.

“Hush!” she says. “We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in there cornering wheat.”

And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.