"Win by much?" asked the Sailor, his heart suddenly beginning to beat under his seaman's jersey.
"Three two," said Ginger.
"At Brum?"
"No, at Sheffle, in foggy weather, on a holdin' turf."
The Sailor's eyes glowed. And then with his chin in his hands he gazed deep into the fire.
"I once seen the Villa," he said in a dreaming voice. It was the proudest memory of his life.
Ginger withdrew his mind from a consideration of the Police Report and the latest performances of the Government.
"At the Palace?" Ginger's tone was deep as becomes one entering upon an epic subject.
"No," said the Sailor, the doors of memory unlocked. "At Blackhampton. The Villa come to play the Rovers. My! they could play a bit. Won the Cup that year. Me and young Arris climbed a tree overlookin' the ground. Young Arris got pinched by a rozzer."
Ginger was not impressed by the reminiscence. It seemed a pity that a chap who had been six years before the mast, and not a bad sort of fellow, should give himself away like that. From the style and manner of the anecdote it was clear to this exact thinker that the Sailor had begun pretty low down in the scale. In the pause which followed the Sailor shivered like a warhorse who hears the battle from afar. The memories of his youth were surging upon him. In the meantime, Ginger, who appeared to be frowning over the Government and the Police news, was watching the Sailor's eyes very intently. He was watching those strange eyes with a cool detachment.