X. – THE DUEL NEAR THE FOOTBALL FIELD, AND THE CAUSE OF IT
"And you tell me, Frank, that the old ground is at last cut up to form a railway embankment?" said Bob Smith to Frank Green (whose sister, by the way, had got married to Pate Brown last season), as they met one evening at Crosshill.
"They will be long in finding a ground like Hampden Park, I'm thinking," replied Green, with the recollections of pleasant games and glorious victories for the Black-and-Whites, to say nothing of numerous gains to Scotland in matches with England and Wales.
Since this meeting of Bob and Frank, however, the said Black-and-Whites have got pretty far forward with a new ground quite close to Hampden Park, and it is now being levelled up and put into condition. The railway embankment referred to is part of the Cathcart Railway, which will assist very considerably in opening up rapid communication between Glasgow and the whole of the suburban burghs lying south.
While referring to the Southern Suburbs, which, it may be mentioned, are closely associated with the rise and progress of Association Football, I cannot refrain from alluding to several genial souls who have helped to make them what they are. None, however, is entitled to claim more consideration and credit than Provost Goodfellow, of Suburbopolis, whose official life, so to speak, has been spent in the cause of suburban organisation, accompanied, of course, with a due regard for Association Football.
You must know, my brave Scotch readers, and those hailing from South of the Tweed, that the Provost of a Scotch burgh or town occupies the exact position of the English Mayor. He is the head of the municipality, and is, in fact, a kind of ruler of all he surveys, but about his "right to dispute," particularly when the November election comes on, why that is purely a matter of opinion.
Well, the ruler of Suburbopolis was not a despotic man. He was certainly a little pedantic, and who, I should like to know, would not be inclined to lean that way if they had taken part in a great annexation fight with the chiefs of the big bouncing city of Glasgow, and beaten them too?
Some years ago, it may be briefly explained, the Glasgow authorities devised a scheme, whereby all the suburban burghs were to be taken under the wing of Glasgow and lose their entire independence, and Suburbopolis, being close on the touch-line, was to be attacked first. Glasgow, in fact, was to act as the veritable annaconda, and swallow it up, but she didn't.
Scotch Radicals, talking politically, had not hitherto much faith in what they considered an effete hereditary legislature, such as the House of Lords, but if there was one thing more than another calculated to bring about a Conservative reaction among the Glasgow suburban authorities, it was the attention paid to their vested interests by the Peers.
The Commons had spurned their entreaties to maintain independence with scorn, and even relegated them to Bumbledom, but their lordships, to whom the case was appealed, literally strangled the said annaconda before she began to devour, and Suburbopolis, along with other five thriving burghs, were saved from municipal death, and still retain their Provosts. Provost Goodfellow was a most genial soul, and particularly fond of Association Football.
He could talk about dribbling, passing, and backing-up, as if to the manner born. The only thing, in fact, which he did not fully understand was the "off-side rule," and many of greater pretentions were as far at sea regarding that said rule as the worthy Provost. He was the life and soul of Charity Cup Ties, and never failed to turn out to patronise them. Even the charming young ladies of the family (for you must know his honour had three handsome daughters) knew a good deal about the rules, and had several excited discussions with their brother Archie (who was a member of the Camphill), and Bob Lambert (of the Black-and-Whites), as to the respective merits of sundry clubs.
These young ladies, too, had a long string of admirers, and no family acquaintance was more eagerly sought after than that of the Goodfellows. Suburbopolis, however, was by no means devoid of a galaxy of feminine beauty and well-developed male forms, who might have been seen of an evening leaving the handsome villas and terraces around the Park (for which the inhabitants were not taxed).
There were, of course, the families of Colonel Black (an old warrior, who had been through the Crimea and Indian Mutiny), the Redpath girls, whose mother was a widow, the Snodgrass young ladies (three in number), the Misses Bland, residing at Jessimine Lodge, and, of course, many more lesser luminaries. The Colonel's daughters, or "Golden Slippers," as one of them was called by several members of the Camphill, who had caught her in the act of watching a practice game on the eve of a big Cup Tie, wearing a pair of fur-lined slippers, and had her heart set on the Camphill beating the Black-and-Whites, was, indeed, the most handsome girl in the burgh.
I would not dare to attempt a pen-and-ink sketch. It would fail in its effect. It's all very good for you fellows who have no soul for feminine loveliness to talk about girls, like babies, being all pretty much alike, but you are wrong – entirely wrong. Jenny was, in fine, a "bonnie, bonnie lass," and scores of young fellows, I know, would have gone considerably out of their way to have received "ae blink o' her bonnie black e'e." Emma, although scarcely so tall, was very like her sister, only shorter in the temper.
After sundry matches at the field, Jack Black used to take a few of his companions up to the Hillhouse, and the young ladies received them graciously – congratulating them when they won their matches, and "chaffing" them unmercifully when they lost.
There were at least three suitors for the hand of Jenny, but one of them resided in London, and the other at Skyview Villa, a couple of hundred yards from Hillhouse. It can be easily imagined that the local man had the advantage in the courtship, being, as the special correspondent always prides himself in adding to his communications, "on the spot."
Bob Lambert was, to be sure, a welcome visitor at Jenny's residence, and a fast companion of her brother Jack, and what was more, Bob was quite a favourite with the old Colonel, who admired his fine appearance in the football field, and the brilliant manner in which he could "back-up" when that was needed to win a game. Bob, I must confess, was really a nice-looking fellow, with black curly hair, and a good broad chest. His features were well formed, and he possessed penetrating dark grey eyes. There was one thing, however, which told against Bob in many ways, and that was his hasty temper. He could brook no rival in his position as the best forward in the Black-and-Whites, and a word or two from the captain at a practice game was sure to upset him. He sometimes, in fact, took the pet altogether.
Once, when playing a Cup Tie with the Athletic Park, he met his match in Charlie Walker (another of Jenny's sweethearts), who played at half-back, and the work done all through that eventful match was seen between the pair. Talk about coming in contact with "mother earth," why that was positively child's play when the two met.
Walker was also a powerful fellow, and it was a case of Greek meeting Greek. "Bumping at Oxford," to use an aquatic term, why it was nothing! At one time Bob was seen tossed up in the air as if from the horns of an infuriated bull, and at another Charlie was observed lying on the field at Bob's feet. What did they care about the ball being fifty yards off? Not a straw, so long as they tackled and kept each other away from it. "That's not football," says one, "it is horse play." "Never mind about football in a Cup Tie," says another, "let the heaviest team win; go into the fellow." "Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, fie, fie, Association Football is an amateur game, and as long as I play it," said the captain, "there shall be no cruelty done on either side."
Little did the spectators know the real cause of the inordinate tackling done by Bob and Charlie, but the secret soon came out. The pair had previously been rivals for the hand of Jenny Black, and Bob was looked upon as the winner. At least Charlie had not been seen at the Black's Villa for two or three months, and before this he always made it his house of call. But what about Harry Carts, Jenny's English sweetheart? Why, I had almost forgotten him.
A team of Cantabs had played the Black-and-Whites just a year previously, and Harry was one of them. He had been invited to spend an evening at the Colonel's house, and had fallen desperately in love with the bonnie Scotch lassie. Bob was also specially invited and was present that evening, and although trying to be as affable as possible to the friendly stranger and opponent, could barely hide his jealousy when the gallant English forward kissed the lovely girl's ruby lips in a game at forfeits.
Bob said nothing about it to Jenny, but Emma, the youngest sister, whispered to her brother Jack that Bob's eyes had a wild look that evening. The matter, however, was soon forgotten, as Harry Carts left Glasgow the next evening for London, after his gallant team had played a drawn game with the Scotch Black-and-Whites – the first one ending in that way, be it observed, that had ever been played between them and an English team on Scottish ground in the memory of the proverbial "oldest inhabitant."
Harry Carts, to give him his due, was one of the best Association football players ever England produced. When Mr. C. W. Alcock and a few choice spirits in London, it is true, first opened the eyes of many football players to the value of the Association rules, and inaugurated the Football Association in 1863, Harry was a mere child. Appearing at college, however, he soon showed a liking for the dribbling game, and never lost a moment in doing his best to acquire everything he was likely to know about it.
Just the season before our story opens, he had been chosen from an imposing array of names sent in by his club, and also the branch Associations, for an honourable place in the "Great International." His superiority, in fact, put his place beyond doubt, and he stood to represent his country first, and club afterwards, in a tussle which proved disastrous to England; but it was admitted by all who witnessed the match that Harry was one of the best men on the Field, and, in company with his half-back, showed the best form and pluck – the victorious Scotchmen notwithstanding. How the pair above mentioned tackled and passed up, to say nothing of backing and nursing the ball, I know full well, for I saw the game. Harry and his companion, in fact, were again and again cheered for their magnificent dribbling, and when the eventful game was over Harry was carried shoulder-high, in real Scotch form, to the Black-and-White's pavilion.
The incident did not escape Jenny and her sister, who were standing on the gravelled walk in front of the pavilion. Jenny was sympathetic when she saw the handsome young Englishman cheered by the excited crowd, and when the excitement culminated into carrying him shoulder-high to the pavilion, a brilliant flash from her eye told the tale of regard. The young lady, despite assertions to the contrary, must have at least admired the young Englishman; and among the blithe and gentle faces who swept their cambric handkerchiefs over their heads, none were more demonstrative than the Black girls. They saw, with something akin to pride, Harry let gently down at the pavilion door, followed by their brother Jack, Jim Wallace, and Bill M'Clelland, all of whom had done great work in the big match.
Harry did not lose sight of the handsome face which had haunted him all the previous summer, notwithstanding his flirtation with the Italian girls in Venice. Venice, beautiful Venice! It was in thy classic city, close to the scene of the great Italian poet's labours and triumphs, that poor Jack Vincent (who used to play left wing in the Swifts) was found drowned, after attending a ball. Poor Jack, I think even now I can see his handsome, but withal, comical face, when he used to dodge sundry half-backs while playing for his club. Poor fellow! grave hints were held out at the time that he had met with foul play, but nothing more was ever heard about the matter, and Jack's friends never got any satisfaction.
I am, however, going off the line with my brief story. Carts, in fact, felt Jenny's face haunting him wherever he went, and on the earliest opportunity came back to Scotland, asked the dear little girl to be his wife, got the crusty old Colonel's consent, and the pair were all but apparently engaged to be married at an early date. Harry was splendid company either on the field, at the Black-and-White's room in Battlefield Hotel, or at the villa. He could sing a good song, tell a good story, and crack a wild joke. Harry used to sing a new song about football, the chorus of which jingled out:
"In measured blow, the dancing feet,
Now moving slow, now galloping fleet;
With a leap and a curl,
With a sweep and a twirl."
He declared that the song was original, but Archie, who was a bit of a book-worm, and never neglected taking in the "Monthlies," expressed grave misgivings about having seen something like it applied to a skater in "Scribner's Magazine."
Bob Lambert and Charlie Walker, the other two young fellows who were looked upon as Jenny's admirers, were terribly shaken in heart and spirit when they heard of her flirtation with the handsome young Englishman; but such a thing as an engagement between them was never for a moment entertained. Bob was too much a man of the world to suppose that Jenny would ever give him up for another; and poor, soft-headed Charlie, why, he was sure the Colonel's favourite daughter loved him still.
Matters went on in this way for some time. The football season was now about closed, as the month of May was at hand, and all the big matches had been lost and won, including the Challenge Cup Tie, which Dumbarton had carried off. For several evenings Bob and Charlie had not come across one another (although Charlie was also a member of the Black-and-Whites, as well as the Athletic Park). Bob had blamed Charlie for telling some stories about a fine young girl whom the former had promised to make his wife a year previously. The poor girl, it was hinted, had been jilted to such an extent by Bob, that she had broken her heart, and pined away and died.
One evening the pair met at the entrance to the pavilion on Hampden Park, where a lot of the players were lounging about smoking, after having done with their sides. Most of the club fellows knew that Lambert and Walker had not spoken to each other for a long time, even to the extent of exchanging the usual salutations about the weather. They were, therefore, much astonished to see them in earnest conversation. Menacing looks were exchanged, and something like curses – not deep, perhaps, but loud – were heard from the rivals' lips.
The fact was, the men had arranged to settle their "little difference" with swords. What do you think of that, my nineteenth century intelligent reader, with all your boasted approach to civilisation and sacred respect for life? Why, a cold-blooded duel with swords, and in the French fashion, too! Both hot-headed youths knew comparatively little about the handling of the chosen weapons, nothing more, indeed, than what they received while training in the Volunteers; but it was a "point of honour," and they would do their best.
Several of the Black-and-Whites, who had heard about the proposed "meeting," had a secret consultation with Ned M'Gill and Davie Merricks, who, it was whispered, had taken the friendly job of "seconds," and the whole affair was "adjusted." With swords this was impossible, and they resolved to resort to the respectable and honourable weapon, the revolver.
The two men who were to face each other in terrible earnest, you may be sure, slept little or none during the preceding night. "Four o'clock sharp, mind, at the grass field, near Hagg's Castle," said the brave seconds, "and it will be all over in a few minutes." Charlie shuddered when he heard the last words (which, by the way, were deliberately intended for him).
"A few minutes, and all will be over," Charlie muttered; "what if I should be killed?" His very teeth (which he used to whiten with cigar ashes, and was so proud about), were chattering. Thousands of ideas floated across his heated imagination. He saw his past life before him, and the only consolation, if it could be called one, lay in the thought that, should it come to the worst, Jenny Black's eyes would be dimmed with tears at his misfortune. He felt sure the dear lassie loved him, and he would brave death a thousand times rather than endure the anguish of seeing her married to a useless fellow like Bob Lambert.
Bob, on the other hand, was really a cool and determined fellow; and while Charlie was in the throes speculating about probable dissolution before the morrow's sun should rise, Bob was actually priding himself on superior ability in handling a revolver. He was, in fact, far too arrogant a man to imagine that he could be shot by a silly boy like Walker. He had made up his mind to shoot straight when the signal fell, and indulged in the devilish pleasure it would afford him to read a "true and particular account" of the duel in the Glasgow evening papers, if good luck would favour him in escaping to the Continent.
"These fellows are not going to come up to the scratch," said Ned M'Gill to the other honourable gent – as they passed the Clydesdale Cricket Ground a few minutes to four o'clock on that memorable morning. Ned, however, was wrong. Through the grey dawn a muffled figure was observed crossing the Pollokshields Athletic Club's Park, and making direct for the old castle. Almost simultaneously came a second individual from the vicinity of Crossmyloof, smoking a cigar. There was no doubt about it, for on closer inspection the figure was that of Lambert, who generally indulged in a good cigar, as he had a friend in the Anchor Line who was always supplying him with "weeds."
A very short time sufficed to measure the distance, but the would-be murderers, no doubt, considered it an age. When the seconds advanced along with their men to the fatal spot, and placed them twenty paces apart, Charlie put one in mind of the poor misguided boy in "The Rivals." His hand shook, and his knees almost touched one another.
The signal was given, and bang went the revolvers from both sides. None of the young men, however, seemed to have been hit; and while Charlie was almost sinking on the ground from excitement, Bob might have been seen examining his weapon with suspicion, at the same time casting a glance at his rival and wondering why he did not fall. A second or two more, and the latter fired another shot, and this time poor Charlie dropped his pistol and fell back on the grass.
Bob was satisfied he had done the business now, and taking the advice of Davie Merricks, he fled for his life; getting the early train for Greenock and thence per steamer "Golden Eagle," to the Isle of Man.
The "seconds" (and a few strange figures that were seen lurking about) of course, lifted the supposed dying man from the grass, and as his "life's blood ebbed away," they whispered about being willing to fill a last request. Poor Charlie's brow was covered with blood, and as he himself expressed the terrible sensation of "feeling a pistol ball bobbing about in his brain," arrangements were hastily made for having him consigned to relatives. Accordingly his lodgings were sought after and easily found by the excited hansom driver who had taken them near the fatal spot.
All the time the affair was going on the driver threw out grave hints about reporting the whole matter to the police. When they reached Greenfield Avenue, however, there was still some life in Charlie, but he said he "knew he was dying," and forgave everybody who had taken part in the rascally business.
Higgins, the hansom driver, was as good as his word, and after leaving the place, went direct to the Suburbopolis Police Office, and got the whole matter reported. Not very long after the police surrounded the house in Greenfield Avenue, and Provost Goodfellow (who, it may be remarked, was the only magistrate at home when the affair took place, and had to be aroused for the purpose), came in all haste to take the "dying deposition." Meanwhile Dr. Barrister, one of the best of the local surgeons, was in attendance.
The doctor, however, suspecting something soon after feeling the supposed wounded man's pulse, and judge of the surprise, to say nothing of indignation, when the doctor, and then the Provost, began to indulge in a hearty fit of unrestrained laughter. The "seconds" knew their business well, for they had loaded the weapons with blank cartridges and a few drops of bullock's blood, and some of the contents of Bob's pistol had hit Charlie on the brow.
Poor Charlie, he was so terribly shaken and nervous after being hit that he was long in getting the better of the fright. Like the French prisoner whom the cruel authorities of the "Inquisition" determined should be experimented upon as a victim of imagination in the way of supposed bleeding to death, Charlie, although he had not received a scratch, thought he was dying fast, till the doctor informed him of the imaginary wound.
A few days afterwards the affair was "hushed up," and nobody was better pleased when he heard the true state of matters than Bob Lambert himself. His friend Jim Campbell had sent a letter to Douglas Post Office, to be called for, under a fictitious name, and Bob soon returned to Glasgow.
When little Jenny Black was told the same morning of the duel, that Charlie Walker had been shot by Bob Lambert, she fainted clean away, and afterwards refused to be comforted. "To think that she, a poor weak girl, should have been the cause of such a terrible tragedy," she was heard to say to her sister, "I'm afraid I'll never get over it." When the true state of matters, however, was revealed, and the whole affair brought up in its real light, it afforded immense merriment all over Suburbopolis, and when football players met to spend a social hour, the duel between Bob Lambert and Charlie Walker is, of course, alluded to as a standard joke.
A few months afterwards there was a nice wedding at Colonel Black's villa, and strange as it may seem, both Lambert and Walker were there, together with quite a crowd of football players and their sweethearts.
The reader will, of course, easily make out who wore the bridal dress, and looked lovely in it, too. Surprise, however, not, it is to be hoped, altogether unmixed with satisfaction, will be expressed, when the bride-groom appears in the person of Charlie Walker, Jenny's own love. Harry Carts, the handsome Englishman, she certainly admired, but did not actually love sufficiently to make a husband of. He, in fact, seemed to have been too fond of company, and in correspondence a coldness had sprung up between them, and ended in two parting letters.
Jenny loved Charlie Walker best, and accordingly gave him her heart and hand. "What he had suffered for her sake," the young lady was heard to express to a confidant, "no one but himself knew." They are, however, now a happy pair, and when Cup Ties and big matches are being played near Suburbopolis, you will be sure to see Charlie and his handsome wife on the field.
As for Bob Lambert, who was forgiven, he became more of a man in subduing his temper and general disposition, and one evening told his old rival that he would never forget till his dying day – "The Duel near the Football Field."