While on holidays, enjoying myself at a quiet and beautiful sea-side village on the shores of the Firth of Clyde, I received a note from a friend reminding me that an old football chum was still on the sick list, and making little or no progress towards recovery. In fact, his life, which had recently been enfeebled by an incurable malady, was slowly but surely drawing to a close. Last time I saw him he referred to the fact that he had some MS. which he wished Mr. John M'Dowall, his successor in the secretaryship of the S.F.A., and myself, to read over, and when this came into my mind I resolved to repair to Glasgow at once, ere it might be too late.
It was just as well that I did, for poor Ned Duncan was fast sinking when I got permission from his widowed mother to visit the bedside. Ned, I may mention, was one of the most enthusiastic players of his day that ever kicked a ball, but was obliged to give up practice in consequence of the unfortunate circumstances I have just mentioned, and of late had only been a spectator at the leading games. He received me that evening with a kind smile of recognition, and his pale face beckoned me to come near. I was certainly much touched with my old friend's appearance, and tried as much as possible to cheer him, but it was of no use.
He said he knew he was going to the silent land. The doctor, in fact, had told him he had only a few days to live, and he was glad I had come to bid him farewell, and take over some straggling notes he had compiled last summer about the football of the future. "Going home one evening," he continued, "after an International match, I fell into a deep sleep, and had a remarkable dream. I thought I saw a great match between Scotland and America. Real genuine players glided past, scrimmaging with each other for the ball; thousands of spectators, new and beautiful youthful faces, graced the area allotted to spectators; the hum of thousands of excited voices greeted my ears, and"——Here poor Ned's voice failed.
After a few minutes repose, the old player gasped, "But what need I tell you more. Here is the MS., and make what use of it you like."
My dear old friend is now under the turf he loved so well to play on when in the zenith of his fame.
Having eventually opened the packet, the first sentence which met my eyes was "Ned Duncan's Dream; or, The Great International of 1901."
I will, therefore, leave poor Ned to tell his own tale, and what he saw in his vision, which at any rate has the merit of originality about it. As more extraordinary dreams have come to pass, there is no saying what the beginning of the twentieth century may bring forth, for International football matches with Australia, America, and Canada have been talked of, and some of them even played, during the past year or two, and may become accomplished facts.
I must, however, return to the MS., which reads after the following style:—
"It was in April, 1901, on a Saturday afternoon, that the Yankees came to Scotland to play a match with our crack Eleven. The Universal Postal Service, which scattered letters all over the world at the rate of one half-penny per ounce, conveyed a formal challenge from the Americans to Scotland that the Yankees would be delighted to meet an eleven of that country in an even game of football. The New World men of course meant business, and our secretary, who was a capital fellow, much liked by the Scottish Football Association for his kind and obliging disposition, was instructed to accept the challenge and welcome the strangers to Glasgow.
"Previous to the time I speak of, the Americans had beaten the Australians and Canadians, and were considered by their own friends invincible even to the extent of a couple of goals. The Canadians, by the aid of the Electric Express Line's fast steamers, had been able to leave Montreal in the morning and return in the evening from New York, defeated but not disgraced. The Australians were a little longer on the way, as the improved appliances for driving ships had not yet attained that perfection there which had been shown in most of the ports and rivers of the British Isles. They were experimenting, however, and some good in that direction was looked for daily, and a new Express Company floated. The Americans had also beaten the Englishmen the previous year at New York, and, as their own newspapers had it, 'came over to crow in the Land o' Cakes.' The great shipping trade of the Clyde ere this was, so to speak, causing a new order of things to arise all over the world. Large and beautifully-built steel and bronze vessels left the Clyde every day for all parts of the earth.