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.