The Sailor Part 31

Suddenly there was a mighty surge by the crowd in the farthest corner of the ground, which called for all the address of the mounted police to restrain.

"Sailor, you've sold the match."

The ugly words were being bellowed at him out of the night. He could hear the loud and deep curses of the Rovers' partisans; he imagined he could see their fists being shaken at him. He wished he was dead, but he had to stand there another twelve minutes exposed to the public ignominy.

In that twelve minutes, Duckingfield Britannia scored four goals more.

All was darkness and eclipse. The Rovers, n.o.ble warriors as they were, had done all that mortal men could do; in the case of the heroic Ginger, they might even be said to have done a little more. But fate was too much for them. The last line of defense, on which all depended, had played them false. The Sailor muddled hopelessly everything that came to him now. The end of the game was not merely a defeat for the Rovers, it was a disaster, a rout.

The referee blew his whistle for the last time, and Act One of the tragedy was at an end. But its termination was merely the signal for Act Two to begin. The crowd, in a frenzy of rage, surged over the ground. "Sailor's sold the match," was the cry of the angry thousands.

The oncoming hordes had no terrors for Henry Harper. Let them do with him as they liked. Death would have been more than welcome as he leaned against the goalpost, not seeking to escape the tender mercies of the mob.

It was Ginger who realized the danger.

"d.i.n.k," he called hoa.r.s.ely, "Mac, Peter, Joe, they are coming for Sailor. They'll kill him if they catch holt on him."

It was true. And it seemed that the sternest fight of that terrific day was yet to be. An angry mob is not responsible for its actions.

There was a fierce set-to between a handful of good men, with help from six mounted constables, and many hundreds bereft by an excitement which at that moment made them little better than savages.

"Scrag 'im! Scrag 'im!"

Henry Harper could hear their voices all about him, but little he cared. Indeed they were almost pleasant to his ears. Again it was a case of hard pounding, with the police bearing a gallant part, and the goalkeeper's escort taking blows and freely returning them.

There was a vision in the mind of Henry Harper which he never forgot, of the blood streaming down the face of Ginger as he dealt out blows to the right and to the left of him. He never forgot the look on the face of d.i.n.kie as they kept driving on and driving home.

Times and again it seemed as if the Rovers' partisans must tear their late hero in pieces. But his escort got him somehow to the dressing-room, and a strong force of the Blackhampton Constabulary watched over it for a solid hour by the pavilion clock. By that time, the crowd had dispersed, the ground was clear, and Henry Harper was able to go home.

XX

"You are late for your tea, Mr. Harper," said Miss Foldal. "It's twenty past seven. It will be supper time soon."

The Sailor apologized in his gentle, rather childlike way.

"Do you know where Ginger Jukes is, miss?" he asked, in a queer voice.

"He came in for his tea and then went out again," said Miss Foldal, regulating her tone with care.

She had been told already by the _Evening Star_ that the Rovers, after leading by a goal within twenty minutes of the end of the game, had suffered a crus.h.i.+ng and incomprehensible defeat, that the crowd had made an infuriated attack on Harper, the goalkeeper, and in the blank s.p.a.ce reserved for the latest news, it said that in deference to public feeling, the committee of the club had decided to hold an inquiry into his conduct.

Miss Foldal was far too discreet to refer to the match. But if ever she had seen tragedy in a human countenance, it was now visible in the face of this young man. She poured out a cup of tea for him, which he declined. Then he said, in that queer voice which did not seem to belong to him, that he would not be in need of supper.

"If you want my opinion, Mr. Harper," said Miss Foldal, "you have been working too hard. I really think the best thing for you is bed."

The young man stood white as a sheet with a face not pleasant to look upon.

"I do reelly. Go to bed now, and I'll bring you a basin of gruel with a little something in it."

A basin of gruel with a little something in it was Miss Foldal's specific for all the ills to which flesh is heir. Mention of it was clear proof that Mr. Harper's present condition gave cause for anxiety.

"I don't want nothing, miss," said the young man, in a voice quite unlike his own. "It's very kind of you, but the only thing I want just now is to be let be."

Had Mr. Jukes or any of her other lodgers made that speech it would have seemed uncivil, but Miss Foldal knew that Mr. Harper was incapable of any kind of intentional rudeness. He was as gentle as a child.

Perhaps that was why the look now in his eyes hurt her so much.

Without saying anything else, the young man went up to his bedroom.

Time pa.s.sed. The supper hour came and went. Mr. Jukes did not return and Mr. Harper did not come down again. But it was this latter fact that disconcerted the landlady. She could not get the look of those eyes out of her brain. Only once had she seen such a look in the eyes of any human being, and that was in those of her Uncle Frederick just before he destroyed himself.

Nine struck. There was no sound from the room above. Miss Foldal grew horribly afraid. Memories of her Uncle Frederick had descended very grimly upon her.

Perhaps Mr. Harper had gone to bed. She hoped and believed that he had. And yet she could not be sure. It was her duty to go up to his room and inquire. But it was too much for her nerves to be quite alone in the house. Ethel, the maid-servant, had gone out shopping as it was Sat.u.r.day night, and Mr. Jukes had not yet come in for his supper.

Miss Foldal was not a brave woman. Her deepest instinct was against going up those stairs. It was much to her credit that she did go up at a quarter past nine. The door of Mr. Harper's room was shut, but a light was coming from under it.

She knocked so timidly that a mouse would not have heard her.

No answer.

She knocked again, a little louder, as she imagined, but no louder in reality.

Still no answer.

"It is exactly as I feared." Miss Foldal began to shake, and the spirit of her Uncle Frederick crept out from under the door.

She wanted to scream; indeed, she was about to act in this futile manner, when it suddenly occurred to her that screaming would be no use whatever. Far wiser to open the door, if only out of deference to the manes of her uncle, whose end had taught her that suicide was not such a terrible thing after all.

At last Miss Foldal opened the door of the bedroom. A great surprise was in store, but it was not of the kind that had been provided by her Uncle Frederick.

Mr. Harper, wearing his overcoat and cap, was in the act of strapping together a bag full of clothes. The relief of Miss Foldal was great; at the same time a quaver in her voice showed that she was full of anxiety.

"Why, Mr. Harper, you are never going away?"

"Yes, miss."

"Without your supper?"

"Yes, miss."

"Mr. Harper, wherever are you going to?"

"Dunno, miss." The gentle voice had a stab in it for the woman's heart of his landlady. "'Ere's my board and lodging, miss." He took a sovereign from his pocket, and put it in her hand. "I'll be very sorry to go. I'm thinking I'll never 'ave another 'ome like this."

Miss Foldal thought so too. Somehow she was not the least ashamed of the sudden tears which sprang into her eyes. There was some high instinct in her, in spite of her rather battered and war-worn appearance, which seemed to urge her to protect him.

"I cannot hear of you going away like this, Mr. Harper, not at this time of night and without your supper, I cannot reelly."