It had been her idea that he should join the Free Library. He had promptly done so, and from the perfectly amazing wealth of the world's literature garnered there had led off with the "Pickwick Papers," which he had heard was, next to the Bible and "Barriers Burned Away," the greatest book in the English language. His instinct pointed to "Barriers Burned Away"—he had read little bits of the Bible already, of which Miss Foldal had a private copy—but he felt that "Pickwick Papers" was the less difficult work of the two. For the present, therefore, he must be content with that famous book.
Miss Foldal reassured him wonderfully. She was convinced that Mr. Jukes took an extreme view. She had never read any of the works of Dickens herself, she simply couldn't abide him, he was too descriptive for her, but she was sure there was no harm in him, although she had heard that with Thackeray it was different. Not that she had read Thackeray either, as she understood that no unmarried lady under forty could read Thackeray and remain respectable.
The Sailor was strengthened by Miss Foldal's view of Dickens, but her reference to the rival and antithesis of that blameless author was in a sense unfortunate. Mr. Harper wanted to take back "Pickwick Papers" at once; he had had it three weeks and had only just reached Chapter Nine; he would exchange it for the more lurid and worldly works of the licentious Thackeray. But Miss Foldal dissuaded him. For one thing, she had the reputation of her household to consider. She had once had an aunt, an old lady very widely read and of great literary taste, who always maintained that the "Vanity Fair" of Thackeray ought to have been burned by the common hangman, and that nothing but good would have been done to the community if the author had been burned along with it. Miss Foldal allowed that her aunt had been an old lady of strong views; all the same, she was of opinion that Thorough must be Mr. Harper's motto. He had begun "Pickwick Papers," and although she allowed it was dry, he must read every word for the purpose of forming his character, before he even so much as thought about Thackeray.
"Rome was not built in a day," said Miss Foldal. "Those who pursued knowledge must not attempt to run before they could walk. Thackeray was so much more advanced than Dickens that to read the one before the other was like going to a Robertson comedy or Shakespeare before you had seen a pantomime or the Moore and Burgess Minstrels."
The ethics of Miss Foldal were a little too much for the Sailor. But one fact was clear. For once Ginger was wrong: no possible harm could come of reading Charles Dickens.
Thus Henry Harper was able to continue his studies in ease of mind. And at the beck of ambition one thing led to another in the most surprising way. His appetite for knowledge grew on what it fed. Reading was only one branch; there was the writing, also the ciphering. The latter art was not really essential. It was rather a side-dish, and hors-d'oeuvre—Miss Foldal's private word—but it was also very useful, and in a manner of speaking you could not lay claim to the education of a gentleman without it.
The Sailor did not at present aspire to a liberal education, but he remembered that Klondyke had always set great store by ciphering and had taught him to count up to a hundred. It was due perhaps to that immortal memory rather than to Miss Foldal's somewhat fanciful and romantic attitude towards the supremely difficult science of numbers that Henry Harper persevered with the multiplication table. At first, however, the difficulties were great. But his grit was wonderful. Early in the winter mornings, while Ginger was still abed, and Miss Foldal also, he would come downstairs, light the gas in the sitting-room, put on his overcoat and sit down to three hours' solid study of writing and arithmetic. Moreover, he burned the midnight oil. Sometimes with the aid of Marlow's Dictionary, he read the "Pickwick Papers" far into the night, with a little of the Bible for a change, or the Blackhampton Evening Star. And if he had not to be on duty with the club, he would spend all his time in these exacting occupations.
In the meantime, the Blackhampton Rovers were making history. They were an old established club; for many years they had had one of the best teams in the country, and although on two occasions they had been in the semi-final round for the Cup, they had never got beyond that critical stage; therefore the long coveted trophy had not yet been seen in the city of Blackhampton.
However, the Cup was coming to Blackhampton this year, said the experts in football with whom the town was filled. The Rovers had not lost a match since September 12. They had won three cup ties already, beating on each occasion a redoubtable foe, of whom one was that ancient and honorable enemy, the Villa. One more victory and the Rovers would be in the semi-final again.
As far as local knowledge could discern there was none to thwart the Rovers now. In the words of Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, every man was a trier, the whole team was the goods. They had the best goalkeeper in England, and Ginger, in whom he had never really believed, had turned out mustard. The proprietor of the Crown and Cushion, with that largeness of mind which is not afraid to change its opinions, expressed himself thus a few minutes before closing time in the private bar when he took "a drop of summat" to stimulate the parts of speech and the powers of reason.