VI
The Gladiators
HEY'VE come up from the Midlands taking everything before them and they've got such jolly swelled heads by this time that they think themselves invincible."
"Who?" said I dreamily. I was not a footballer, and I happened at the moment—inconsiderately no doubt—to be thinking of other things.
"Why these puffed up Gladiators," Georgie explained indignantly. "Conceited brutes!"
"Can't you beat them?" I asked.
Georgie stood up with his back to the fire, and his candid brow wrinkled to a frown.
"That's the devil of it," said he sadly. "We've no team just now. Craig's in Germany at his beastly chemistry, and Cockram's had his head bashed in. The town's never had a weaker set of backs, and the forwards—well! Two of 'em funked last week against that Yorkshire club. They're not reliable, Martin, and I can't spread myself all over the field at once. They'll just wipe the ground with us."
"You had such a strong team at Christmas," said I, trying to show a friendly interest I was far from feeling.
Georgie flung himself moodily into a chair and stroked his close-cropped hair.
"We had the Linnet then, you see," said he quietly.
"And what's become of him now?"
His blue eyes clouded.
"Didn't you know? Poor devil went off his chump. His father's a Manchester shipper and he sent the Linnet out to South America to sell rags for his beastly firm. He had fever twice in Ecuador, and then got a touch of sun in Chili. He seemed all right at first, but after a bit he got a nasty kick on the head and began to get dangerous. He laid out a Wesleyan Minister at Chester station. The Parson had a brown box, and poor Jimmy thought he was the muleteer he had had in the Andes, and accused him of stealing his sample trunks. They locked him up after that.
"Poor chap," said I.
"Yes," said Georgie sadly. He was a good sort. We had no end of a time together before he took that cursed trip. There was a football tour in the Midlands—"
He stopped to smile to himself—at some utterly disgraceful memory no doubt.
"The last time I saw him," he said slowly, "he was standing in the High Street without his coat—December, you know, and beastly cold—asking a policeman to put him on a car for Valparaiso."
"Is he shut up?" I asked.
Georgie flushed.
"Yes, a beastly shame too. He's in a kind of private asylum; Gaythorpes Hall they call it, and he got no exercise at all till his father made a fuss. They've got a covered asphalt tennis court now, but he was always too much of a sportsman to tootle about at tennis with a lot of girls. Might as well have given him a battledore or a hoop. Martin, that chap was the finest tackier I've ever seen! And as for his fielding! If he'd been all right we could have made a jolly good stand against these beggars even if they licked us. As it is—"
He groaned and words failed him.
"I'd rather cancel the match," said he earnestly. "After our record! We shall lose by at least thirty points. But the other chaps are as keen as they can be. They've too much blooming self-confidence. 'Fight a good fight for the honor of the town' sort of idea, don't you know. There's too much bally esprit-de-corps about our club, and I can't make 'em realize what a thundering good licking we're going to get."
"That kind of spirit goes a long way towards victory, doesn't it?" I asked mildly. "I thought you yourself—"
Georgie moved impatiently.
My kind's different," said he quickly. "It's a higher sort. Mine makes me sick to think of the way they're going to wipe the ground with us. There's esprit-de-corps and esprit-de-corps! And I've got the sense to know when we're out-classed. The score will play old Harry with our season's record."
"I see."
"And it'll discourage the new members. There are some very promising chaps coming on for next season, and it damps off beginners like anything to be badly beaten. Discourages 'em like old boots. I'd give a good deal to see Jimmy's old mug amongst us on Saturday."
"Is he too bad to play?" I asked incautiously.
Georgie brought his tilting chair down with a crash and stared at me.
"By Jove!" said he.
"Of course he is," I cried hastily. "I wasn't thinking of what I was saying. Poor boy—it is a pity."
Georgie's thoughtful look made me uneasy.
"Can't you get anyone down to play for you?" I asked hastily changing the subject. "Why not write to—"
"Do you suppose they guard 'em very carefully in those places?" he asked slowly.
"Naturally," said I. "He will be under constant supervision."
"I suppose one couldn't get him out by bashing a warder, or chucking a rope-ladder up to his window?" he asked eagerly.
I grew seriously alarmed.
"Georgie! Don't think of such an insane thing. If the poor lad is violent, it would be most wrong to attempt to get him out, and grossly unfair to the authorities. Besides, I don't for a minute suppose you could do it. You don't even know that he would come." This again was very unwise of me. I ought to have known better than to dare Georgie to anything.
"Ah," said Georgie. "That's where you slip up. It would be a giddy lark to try, if it was nothing else, and if you think the Linnet wouldn't jump at the chance of playing in a ripping good match again, you're jolly well mistaken."
"Look here, Georgie," I began anxiously. But he interrupted me.
"It would be rather a good plan to go and visit him—just you and me—and perhaps you could even manage it by exchanging clothes with him. Make up to look sandy, don't you know. You need only stay there till the match was over, and it wouldn't matter what they said about it afterwards. What do you think?"
I was horrorstruck.
"I think," said I firmly, "that your own brain is going and that you had better join him in his padded cell. That's what I think."
"But just look at it in a reasonable light," murmured he. "People have done much more unpleasant things than that for their countries and relations and things. Surely you can do a little unselfish thing like this for the credit of the town. A real sportsman would jump at the chance. I'd do it myself if I wasn't wanted so badly on the field."
"I daresay, said I calmly, "and I never pretended to be a sportsman. To begin with such a disguise wouldn't deceive an infant. Linwood is a good four inches taller than I am and broad in proportion. His eyes are light and mine dark. You must be mad."
"You wouldn't have called it mad if you'd suggested it yourself," said he shortly. "You don't like anyone else to have brilliant ideas. I've noticed that before."
I gasped. When I am away from Georgie, I often wonder why it is that we tolerate his rudeness at all. His personal charm must be pretty strong to make us pass over these candid speeches of his. No one can excuse him on the ground of not meaning them, for he is essentially single-minded. At the moment Georgie means literally everything he says.
"When you came in," I said coldly, "I was up to the eyes in a most important chapter of 'The Lost Columbine.' If you have nothing more to say, suppose you leave me to it."
Indeed I was thinking all through his discontented talk, of that crowning piece of delicate poetical word-painting. Even as he broke in, the dryad was finding my Columbine crying in the wood over the fallen statue of the little stone Cupid. Half hidden in the long dank grass, it had that moment caught her eye. She had taken it to her heart and the dryad, hearing her sobs, was coming towards her through the beech trees.
My heart, too, was in the beechwoods, and for Georgie to come blithering about his football woes at such a moment was—oh, infernal. And all my polite attention was to be repaid with insult.
"Get out, Georgie," said I, "and for heaven's sake let me do my work."
"Anyone would think you'd be glad to be cheered up, and have your mind taken away from your beastly old book," he said as he took himself off.
The next day but one, however, he came again, and this time wildly exultant.
"A determined strong-willed chap can do anything in the world if he makes up his mind and goes straight for what he wants."
"Very often," said I mildly. "What have you done?"
"What I meant to do," said Georgie. "Your discouragement was all I wanted to buck me up to the point. There's nothing like a little cold water to pull one together if one feels slack, and for the real genuine article straight from the crystal spring, I've only got to come to you. There's never any reflection for the want of it here."
"Did you throw a rope ladder up through the asylum window?" I asked with some interest. "Did you send a note in to him hidden in a loaf of bread? Or a file in the golden heart of a pat of butter? Is he going to tear up the bedclothes and let himself down from the window, or shall you burn the house to the ground and trust to his escaping in the agitation of the moment and the smoke from the smouldering rafters?"
"Go it." Georgie tilted back my oak chair (a habit I loathe) and lit a pipe. He had taken a dislike to cigarettes lately, and pipes had come in for him, as his elaborate waistcoats went out.
"When you've finished scintillating, I'll tell you all about it. You're too funny to live this morning."
"What have you done?" I asked meekly. I could see Drusilla through the window, putting Matthew Arnold, all scarlet cloth and brown fur, into the mail-cart, and I wanted to go out with them and see if the frost was likely to hold. I did not share Georgie's anxiety as to the fitness of the ground.
"What have you done?" I asked.
"Yesterday," Georgie said, "I went to Gaythorpes to see the Linnet. I got a pass from his father, and went boldly in to see him. He's as sane as I am."
"Impossible," said I gravely.
"You needn't hint things." He flushed.
"He's as sane as you if you like it better, and he's simply dying for a game. His piffling asphalt tennis and badminton have kept him in form lately, and he thinks he's in a convalescent home for his liver. He says most of the other chaps are inebriates—see things, don't you know, and his fancying that, was the only queer thing about him. The doctor's a jolly, hearty old beggar, and the assistant is quite a decent chap. He's the man who keeps up the athletics in the place, and he played for Guy's when he was walking the hospitals. He's no end of a sportsman. It's a fine old place kept up just like an ordinary country house, and they've a ripping little stage in the recreation room. I don't believe the poor devils have half a bad time. I didn't care for the matron—thought she had shifty eyes, don't you know, but I don't suppose that's her fault. It must be awfully difficult to look straightforward, when you're always on the watch and expecting the patients to give you the slip.
"Linwood looked splendidly well. He seemed as jolly as anything. The first thing he did was to ask me about the club. Wanted to know who was playing centre now, and I told him we'd never had a man who was worth his salt, since he went away. He was pleased. I was jolly glad I'd gone when I saw how it cheered him up to know what a lot of rotters we'd had for backs lately."
"Too much blooming esprit-de-corps," I repeated dreamily.
Georgie flushed.
"Poor chap, you can't expect him to be sorry he's missed," said he, "he's only human after all. And we shall never have a centre three-quarter in the town to touch him. I told him about the Gladiators, and you should have seen his eyes blaze. He said he'd give everything he'd got to come over for the afternoon, and help us to give them beans."
"Poor lad," said I compassionately. "I wonder if he will ever be quite well again."
"He's well now," Georgie said doggedly. "And even if he isn't I've a theory about him."
"Well?" said I doubtfully, for I had little faith in Georgie's theories.
"You know they said that it was a kick on the head which turned him silly in the first place, and it seems to me, that if he had the luck to play in a match, and get kicked again in the same place, it might make him quite well again. What do you think?"
"I think it's a wild improbability," said I slowly.
"Well," Georgie went on, "it was the junior doctor who was with us when we were talking, and he got quite keen about the match. He said he would persuade the head doctor to let him bring the Linnet over on Saturday, and that if everything—his health and so on—seemed favorable he would let him play. He said he felt quite strongly how much the honor of the town was at stake; said that he knew one of the Gladiators personally: a blithering ass who was at Guys with him, and he thought nothing would ever give him such pure unadulterated pleasure as to see the starch thoroughly taken out of him. He's no end of a sportsman."
"He must be," I said meekly. "Of course he knows his business, but it seems to me a bit risky. Suppose Linwood gets one of his violent fits on the ground? Suppose—"
"Oh, you're an old woman." Georgie went home in disgust.
I couldn't help feeling that under the circumstances Linwood was more likely to lose the game for them than to win it, but I went wisely back to my "Lost Columbine" and forgot him.
•••••••
On Sunday morning when Drusilla was in church and I was left alone, with Matthew Arnold, rampant and much starched on my Vicuna rug, Georgie plunged in and at the sight of his face I remembered the match and guessed the result.
"Come here, old Muffin face." He picked the boy up and collapsed with him into the most comfortable chair in the room.
"You've come to tell me all about it," I said patiently. Indeed I was really pleased to see him then and to feel that the responsibility of Matthew Arnold would now be divided. "Did the Gladiators turn up?" I asked in a tone of friendly interest.
Georgie carefully took his pocket knife away from his young friend and laughed.
"I should think they jolly well did," said he. "My hat! Martin, you should have seen 'em stripped. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh on one of 'em. They were a hefty lot. Directly I saw 'em I guessed we should have a sultry time. And we did."
"Linwood didn't turn up, of course?" said I.
Georgia laughed.
"That's where you slip up," said he quietly.
"What—was he there?" I really was surprised.
"He was very much there. The doctor was there too. He is a decent chap. Said he'd brought his bag with him in case any of our fellows cried off. Said he wanted to meet Gummery on the field of battle once more for the sake of old times. Gummery was the Guys man, and he was playing full back for the visitors. He was the leanest beggar I ever saw, and directly the Linnet came into the pavilion he edged up to him and began to talk. The poor devil seemed to fascinate him, and I'm sure I don't know why, for he looked just like anyone else. Kept on asking him rotten questions. You'd have thought he was madder than Linwood. I tried to keep him off, but it was no go. And then the Linnet began to get angry and lie to him. I'd have done the same myself. Beastly cheek! Fancy asking a chap when he was dressing for an important match if he was fond of music!"
Georgie ruffled Matthew Arnold's hair indignantly. I laughed.
"I should think it was unusual," said I. "How did Linwood take it?"
Georgie smiled.
"Played up like a good 'un. Said he was—passionately, and told him the triangle was his favorite instrument. You'd have thought that would shut him up, but the fool went on and asked him next what he did to keep so fit. The Linnet eyed him over and his eyes began to glitter. Then he told him a whole lot of utter rot. Said he lived the simple life, and went out at three every morning for a dew-bath. Said he made a point of eating nothing but grape nuts and bananas, and that he always wore sandals and celluloid shirts in warm weather. Gummery was quiet then for a bit, but I could see he kept on watching. I never was in such a state of horrible suspense in my life. I can tell you I was jolly glad when we got out of the pavilion onto the field."
"About the match," said I, gently urging him to the point.
"It was a curious game;" Georgie chuckled at the memory. "But the anxiety was so awful that I couldn't enjoy it. We won the toss and played with a slight wind. The Gladiators had a big Cambridge forward and he led off with a fine kick right over to Linwood. It was like my luck. He mulled the catch and let the beastly ball bounce from his chest bang on to the toes of their pack. It was awful. I dived for it, but I knew at once that I'd misjudged the distance. Their forwards got there before me; kicked it past me, and were arguing about who'd scored the try before I knew where I was.
"Our captain—Rogers, you know—looked at that wretched Linnet, but I'm glad to think he didn't say what he was going to, when he saw the agony in the poor chap's face. They had scored right under the post! And as if that wasn't bad enough Linwood charged at the ball before it touched the ground, for the place kick. I suppose he was trying to make up for his first mistake, but I wish he'd left it alone, because they appealed for 'no charge' then—got it, and Ernhill (the big forward) kicked a goal. We were five points down after one minute's play. Looked healthy for us, didn't it?"
"It did rather," said I pulling myself together. I had followed his account with some difficulty.
"Well, we kicked off, and things were pretty even till half-time. There was no more scoring. Linwood didn't make any serious bloomers, but he was as nervous as a hen and his one idea was to get rid of the ball as soon as he got it. Our chaps were in the secret, of course, and most of 'em pretty anxious about him, though they hadn't the responsibility I had. I was watching him when I ought to have been thinking of the game, and all at once I noticed that his eyes were getting wilder. The Gladiators began to suspect that there was something queer about him. One of their halves was a giddy humorist. I saw him touch his head and say, 'Give me a ha'penny, I'm soft.' I was wild. I told him if he'd come round afterwards and remind me, I'd punch his silly head for him."
"And did he?" I asked with interest.
"Yes," said Georgie, earnestly. "And I did it too. He was too funny to live. There won't be so much sparkling wit sticking out all over him in his next match."
"I can well believe it," said I. "Go on with your story. What happened in the second half?"
"A good deal," said Georgie thoughtfully. "It started much the same as the first though, only this time it was the return from our kick-off that Linwood mulled. I can tell you I did wish then that I'd never thought of putting him on. I was in a blue funk the whole time. But I needn't have worried. He recovered himself finely—made a ripping save by chucking himself on the ball at their feet, just as it was on our line."
"That was first rate," said I encouragingly. Though I knew no more than Adam what had happened. "I'm glad the poor lad did something decent."
"It wasn't so jolly decent for him," Georgie said gloomily. "He got a beastly kick on the head for his trouble. Sort of thing you might expect from those rotten Gladiators."
"Was it very serious?" I asked.
His face fell still lower.
"I should think it jolly well was. It was so serious that it sent him stark staring off his chump. I saw that at once and tried to coax him off the field quietly. The other chaps wouldn't have known anything more than that he 'd had a bad cut."
"He wouldn't go then?"
"Go? Not he. He looked me up and down and smiled. Sort of smile that makes you feel cold water down your back, and then he said something absurd about 'the cold gray dawn of the morning after.' I knew he couldn't make more of a fool of himself than he had done, so I said no more and let it rip. There was a scrum the next minute on our line, and our forwards got possession and heeled it out—against instructions of course. Our half, Powell, was picking up the ball when the Linnet rushed up, bashed him in the jaw with the flat of his hand; seized the ball; handed off the visitors' half in his old festive way; feinted to pass to his wing; doubled in, beating the centre; was threatened by their full-back; and then passed to Wood, his wing man. My hat!" He stopped for breath.
"Well?" said I, concealing gracefully how very Greek this all was to me.
"Well, you know what Wood is. He can do his hundred yards in a fifth of a second outside even time, and none of the Gladiators could touch him. He had a clear run in of three-quarters the length of the field and scored under the posts. I simply couldn't help kicking the goal after that; but those beggars scored far out from a forward rush and made the score eight points to our five."
I felt that I couldn't bear much more of this.
"Georgie," said I, "suppose you cut the technicalities and tell me what happened."
Georgie glanced at me contemptuously.
"You're not much of a sportsman," said he. "I hope you'll bring this poor little chap up to be more manly in his tastes. Why did you pretend that you were so interested if you weren't?"
"Go on about the Linnet," said I wearily.
Georgie laughed.
"You should have seen him," said he. "He played like a man possessed after that. Ran regularly Berserk, don't you know. He couldn't do wrong. His tackling and kicking were a dream, but somehow we couldn't score. Time after time our men were held up on the line. I was in a fever because time was nearly up, when from a scrum just in their half Powell got possession and passed to Linwood. I thought he'd try to break through again, but he didn't. He had a wild drop at goal, and the ball just dropped over the bar. It was an awful moment for us, but it did the trick."
"Why," said I innocently.
"Put us a point ahead." Georgie eyed me compassionately. "Linwood gave a howl when he saw what he'd done and rushed off to the pavilion. He'd won the match for us, that's all. There was no more scoring after that. By Jove, I am glad to think we got the better of those damned Gladiators! It's taken 'em down a peg I can tell you. They'll sing a jolly sight smaller for their next few matches I'll bet my boots. I only wish I dared tell 'em they'd been beaten by a lunatic. But I shouldn't be surprised now I come to think of it, if they guessed. There was that ass Gummery."
"How did you find the Linnet when you went to dress?" I asked with some curiosity.
Georgie's face fell.
"We didn't find him. When we reached the pavilion we couldn't get in. Chap held the door with benches and tables and things. We heard a rustling and clinking and scuffling and someone breathing hard inside, but we couldn't get in. We were afraid of smashing the door at first, but after a bit we got mad and went for it. It gave quite suddenly and Gummery went in head first and nearly broke his silly neck over my bag. You'd have laughed if you'd seen that dressing-room, Martin."
He chuckled at the memory.
"What was he doing?" said I.
Georgie laughed.
"He wasn't doing anything. He was'nt there. But he'd left us something to re- member him by before he went."
"What do you mean?"
"Well he'd had a giddy little game of Tom Tiddler's Ground," Georgie said.
"You never saw such a mess"
"You never saw such a mess. He'd turned out our pockets; piled all our watches in a heap in the middle of the floor; strewed the money in a tasty circle round 'em; stuck the scarf pins in a chunk of soap; and chucked the match-boxes and cigarette-cases into Gummery's bag. He'd left his own clothes as a legacy, but he'd not gone without. He'd borrowed a vest from one chap, pants from another, and socks from me. He'd taken a new tweed suit from someone else, and the two teams spent a couple of happy hours sorting their jewelry with sulphurous language and shivering with cold. The worst of it is that those cursed Gladiators can't find all their precious heirlooms, and I shall have to make it good. In common decency I must do that. But I don't believe the Linnet's a kleptomaniac, anyhow."
"What had become of the Linnet?" I asked again.
Georgie looked uneasy.
"The window at the back was open," he said. "I hope to goodness he isn't any the worse for the game. I went out while they were grabbing at their paltry property, and looked about for him. The groundsman came up to me at last. Silly fool! 'It's not my fault, sir.'" Georgie was an admirable mimic. "'He bounced out o' that there little winder as hagile and hactive as a leapin' roe. I couldn't 'a' stopped 'im. You couldn't 'a' stopped 'im. No one livin' couldn't 'a' stopped 'im. Not Sandow couldn't nor Hackenschmidt neither. I couldn't 'elp—'"
"I told him to stop jawing," Georgie finished, "and asked him where he was now. Chap sniggered and said: "Is friends 'as bin an' took 'im home, sir.'"
"And had they?" I asked.
Georgie sighed.
"Yes. The doctor and a warder chap were waiting and caught him on the rebound as it were. I think on the whole it was time."
"It does rather seem to have been," said I thoughtfully.