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 Northcountrymen to
uphold the honour of the London club.
And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian 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.
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