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.
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