“Why, of course,” said Mary. “Half-a-crown, please, Horace. Yes, of course, put me down for ‘Arcadee’ and ‘Nelson’ and—now, do I ever forget?”
“No, you don’t, old girl,” said Horace Allwright humbly, and Johnny Dubosque echoed him.
“That’s all right, then. And don’t say another word to the man at the wheel, because we are losing money. Thank you, sir, so much. A very good cause—poor old Joe was one of the best.”
How she knew that poor old Joe was one of the best it would be difficult to say. But, at least, she seemed able to convince the reserved enclosure that the case of Joe’s widow and family was worthy of their charity, for when she delivered her box into the care of the secretary and manager soon after the game had re-started, that gentleman was astonished at the amount of money there was in it; moreover, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and paid a sincere and richly merited compliment to the celebrated lady from the Lane.
Mr. Philip in his new boots struggled manfully through the second half of the game, although there was precious little skin left on his toes by this time; and he wondered how he was going to live to the end, since there didn’t seem to be a breath left in him. But something of the old magic had come back. If he could only kick a goal for his side, he would feel that his life had not been lived in vain.
As luck would have it, this desire was gratified. Still, this may not be altogether surprising, having regard to the fact that every movement of those mutilated toes engaged the sympathetic interest of a mascot mighty in the North, and in the South also, if it came to that. There were only about ten minutes to play; the score was still one all, when another of those beautiful slow-stealing passes came from the center forward, and Philip, knowing that it was now or never, drew the bow at a venture in the inspired way he did in his prime. And somehow he happened to time his effort at the psychological instant,—just as a stalwart son of Caledonia knocked him right into the middle of next week.
That is how the Albion came to lose the match. Yet the result didn’t matter really; very spirited and skillful play had been shown by both sides, there was nothing at stake, and a good cause had prospered. But Philip was the proudest and happiest man in Brighthelmstone as he staggered to the dressing-room with his poor feet, and knowing full well that he would hardly be able to walk for a fortnight.
CHAPTER XXIII
IN WHICH GRANDMAMMA RENEWS HERS
When Philip and Mary returned to the King’s Parade with their inmost thoughts centered upon a dish of tea, a great surprise awaited them. The sitting-room overlooking the sea was in the occupation of no less a person than His Britannic Majesty’s Ex-Ambassador to Persia. He had come, it appeared, to thank Grandmamma personally for the loan of her apparatus, and to commemorate the amount of good it had already done the complaint from which they suffered in common.
It happened that Grandmamma, like other old ladies who have moved in the world, could talk to a lord as well as most people if she happened to be in the humor. Well, she had had a pretty good nap; the cap-with-the-Siddons’-lace was as straight as you please; and she had a distinct recollection of having met the Ex-Ambassador at Knebworth somewhere about the year 1881.