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.
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