A few of the Red Cross and Cedargrove forwards sometimes gave him a fright, and in one match with the Leven Crowers he was fairly outwitted by Boyd and Ned M'Donald in a cup tie. I fought hard in that memorable battle myself, and never got such a saturation with water and mud in my career; but we were beaten. I will not easily forget Dixy as he came to the field on that occasion, carrying his umbrella to the goal-posts, and laying it against the left one. He, poor fellow, expected his club would have an easy victory, and this belief was shared in by not a few of the eleven besides, including my master, who had, by the way, emerged into a centre forward since the last match with the Kilmarackers, and as a consequence he gave me a deal of extra work as a backer-up to Mat. Angus. In fact, not long after I was carefully laced and ready for the fray that wet afternoon, the Conqueror's eleven had a confab about the tactics they should pursue, and Joe Sayler, our captain (who is now no more, and lost to his club for ever), remarked it would take them all their time to beat the Crowers. He had, I could see by his anxious looks, grave doubts on the issue. At the outset of the game the rain poured down in torrents, and as most of the play was on the Crowers' portion of the field, the umbrella was put up, amid the laughter of the partisans of John's contingent and the pent-up indignation of the followers of the Crowers, who mustered strong on the occasion, and demonstrated a strength of lungs truly astonishing. John, by and by, when the battle became hot, had to discard his old friend and comforter, and work in front of his fortress in a way that he had never done before, and when the terrible tussle ended, the Conquerors were beaten by two goals to one. When chaffed on the "umbrella incident" ever afterwards Dixy was silent, and declared that in using it he did not hold his opponents too cheaply, but simply with a desire to save himself from a ducking. John was also a capital oarsman, and when he was suddenly cut away in the pride of his manhood, he was barely 30 years of age. He was greatly lamented, and his handsome figure is missed from the football field.

John's death reminds me of a young and promising forward named Smith, who used to play on the left wing of the Cedargrove in company with a smart companion named Seward. Young Smith was a very enthusiastic football player, and missed few, if any, practice games. Poor lad, I met him twice in one season in matches with the Cedargrove, and it took all my master knew to prevent him from getting clean past the Conquerors' backs and scoring. He was a nice dribbler, and like Fred Adamson (an old member of the same club), went straight ahead with a splendid hold of the leather. Talking about Fred, I remember that player, in company with Johnny M'Phedran and James Wilton, going for big Thomas, who was then the Conquerors' captain, and played at half-back. Thomas was an awful fellow to meet in a charge, and a hundred to one was sure to send his opponent to grass. Johnny, however, who was a little bandy-legged, held tenaciously to the ball, and while Thomas was eagerly watching his opportunity, Fred sent him flat on his back, and the ball was close on goal in an instant. There was a hard scrummage, and in the nick of time, Joe Sayler (who was then the crack sprinter of the Conquerors), dashed up and got the ball clear before it reached the keeper. Poor Smith, he caught a severe cold one evening, and eventually succumbed to a painful malady. The Cedargrove were at one time hard to beat. In fact, in the early history of the Scottish Football Association Challenge Cup, they pressed my master's club hard for the trophy, and were only vanquished—after three games—by one goal to none.

The Red Cross were also dangerous opponents, and possessed not a few capital players. There were John Huxter, Sandy Kenneth, Jack Williams, Joe Drummond, and Bill Millins. They were not easily beaten. Sandy Kenneth, though rather a quiet-looking customer to meet in the street, developed into one of the finest half-backs that Scotland ever produced. He was always cool and collected, and, although by no means a very hard kicker, could judge the ball to a hair-breadth. Sandy was especially clever in tackling, which he could manage without deliberate charging. If the ball got up close on the goal which he defended, he would follow the dribblers, and with a clever manoeuvre on the left foot, obtain possession, and after nursing the ball for a few minutes, would, amid the applause of the spectators, send it spinning down the field. Then there was Bill Summons. He was rather a volatile customer, and a perfect football coquette. There was scarcely a club of any pretensions in Glasgow but what Bill had wooed. He, however, stuck well to the Red Cross, and did some splendid service in their best matches, but eventually left them and joined the Conquerors, who, by the way, were just a shade too ready to take over the best men of other clubs by holding out tempting baits in the shape of big matches. Bill, with all his faults, was a grand back, and I question if anybody in Glasgow could make a finer kick when he set his mind to it. He had his failing, to be sure, and who hasn't? He was sometimes most erratic while playing important matches, and, especially on a windy day, would make grave mistakes with too heavy kicking.

Jack Huxter, too, of the Red Cross, was a very fine player, and a "caution" to get past at back (poor fellow, he, too, like Dixy, has gone to his account). He was a dangerous man to meet in the heat of a tussle near the goal-line, and woe betide the daring forward who would attempt to take the ball from Jack there. His only weakness was a frequent desire to "go" for the man instead of the ball, and charging rather heavily. Although a back, he was by no means an inferior dribbler, and possessing good speed, sometimes astonished the members of his own club by the smart runs he would now and again make in company with the forwards when the leather was in an opponents' territory. He stuck like a veritable leech to the Red Cross, and turned out most faithfully to all their important matches. I must not forget Willie Millins, who was one of the neatest dribblers of his day. He has given up football now. Getting a clear start, many an exciting and clever run he made for the Red Cross. I heard my master say that in a match for the Association Cup between his club and the Cedargrove, he once made a goal after dribbling the ball almost the entire length of the field.

Then there was a lot of smaller fry, including good players belonging to the Dumbrook, North-Eastern, Gallowgate Rovers, the Locomotive Slashers, Thornians, Northern Jumpers, Edinburgh Irishmen, Partick Unfortunates, and last, though by no means least, the Flying Blues. There was no club in Scotland, except, perhaps, the Vale Crowers, that had made so much progress in the game as those Flying Blues, and few, if any, were gifted with the same amount of self-confidence. The Blues, nevertheless, had good reason to feel proud of some of their members, for they were young and active, and the very ideal of smart football players. It was a lucky thing for them when they migrated from the north and established themselves in the old ground vacated by the Cedargrove. Had it not been for that lucky arrangement, they might have wasted their football lives in obscurity, and gone down to Association posterity "unhonoured and unsung." Their success was as remarkable as it was swift and decisive. Possessing any amount of pluck, they tackled all and sundry in the district, and the second year, after gaining something like a first-class reputation, won nearly every game they played. Their captain, Tom Vincent, was a grand back, and, indeed, one of the crack men in that position, of whom Scotland has now so many to select from; and then there was Bentback, Bill Donoup, Jack Drummer, and Mat Neil, all fine players at their respective positions. Never shall I forget the match between the Blues and the Conquerors for the Association Cup a dozen years ago, about the last big match in which I took an active part. My master's team had had bad luck though, for after pressing the Flying Blues till within a few minutes of the game, the Blues beat the Conquerors by one goal to none, Bill Donoup sending the ball under goal at the last minute, although the story goes that he had a bet of a "sov." that the Conquerors would win, and it was even admitted that he was heard to say, when kicking the goal, "Here goes my blooming sovereign!"

Although now stowed away in the corner of a large chest, side by side with jerseys, caps, knickerbockers, and other football requisites, as a remnant of the glorious game, my master sometimes visits me to think over the past, and I often hear him say that, although he does not play now, he still goes to see some of the leading contests, and at them picks up many queer stories of the modern players. Last year's crack men, as he sees them crowding in his "mind's eye," are not, he says, unworthy representatives of those of the past.



VI.—HOW CLUBS WERE STARTED LONG AGO.

When the summer game of cricket was far more extensively played in Glasgow and District than it is now, those who understood the feelings and aspirations of young men engaged in it repeatedly considered the question in all its aspects, and a combination of circumstances have occurred within the last decade which had seriously affected that game. The City of Glasgow could not, of course, afford to remain in a stationary condition to suit the convenience of a few thousands of cricketers. New streets had to be formed, new houses built all round, and with this advance upon civilisation came the deadly blow to cricket—at least juvenile cricket—and those clubs soon disappeared from the field. Ground after ground was swallowed up, and on the scene of many a hot and exciting match blocks of houses, railway stations, churches, and public works may now be seen. The Scotch youth, and for that part of it (just to give the sentence greater weight), the British youth, loves some kind of manly sport. Cricket he could no longer play for want of good and level ground, but then there was another game which, at least, could be played or learned under easy circumstances, even on a quiet street or big "free coup," and that was Association football. They soon took to it kindly, and many of them struggled hard and procured a ground. Not one, of course, like that on which they used to have their cricket matches long ago, but one on which Farmer Lyon grazed his cows and sheep, and they had it for a trifle. What did they care about ridges and furrows, or that it was a difficult matter to see the lower goal-posts when you were at the east end? Not a straw. The only matter which annoyed them (and this only happened occasionally) was Lyon's bull. Their club colours were red jerseys, with a small white stripe, and "Jock" (that was the animal's name), used to scatter the lads about on the Friday evenings when they were engaged in a big side. The players generally managed to clear out in time, but the infuriated animal once goared the best ball the club had, and next morning, as they had to play the "Invincible" of Glasgow Green, a subscription had to be raised for a new one. Football can thus be played under much more favourable conditions than cricket, or almost any other out-door game, at less expense, and this, in a great measure at least, is the secret of its popularity amongst the masses. It can also be played under nearly every condition of the atmosphere. Nothing seems to frighten the Scotch Association football player. Rain, hail, snow, and even frost, is treated with cool indifference. In England the ball is quietly laid aside with the advent of April and forgotten till the Autumn leaves are yellow and sear, but in Scotland Association football seems to have no recognised season at all, so far as the younger clubs and even a few of the seniors are concerned. With the sun making one's hair stick to his head with perspiration, and the thermometer at 90 degrees in the shade, they play away in the summer-time, and at Christmas attempt to dribble in half-a-foot of snow. Meantime the question about football being blotted out can, I think, be easily answered in the negative, and upon these will depend the future prospect of Association Football in Scotland. There are, in fact, "breakers ahead," and a strong and determined hand will have to take the wheel. The greatest of these is the "professional" football player, and the next the "greed of gate-money." "O! we never heard of a professional football player in Scotland," exclaims a chorus of voices; "there is no such thing. It's only in England." My remark, of course, is only beginning to be realised. The definition of professional in athletics "is one who runs (plays) for gain." Everybody knows what that means. If you receive any money whatever, directly or indirectly, from your club (except out of the private purses of the members), you are a professional. Are there not clubs, with great reputations, who have such members? If these are allowed to continue on the club books simply because they are good players, the committee are doing a great injustice to the other members, it may be under a mistaken notion. Now, as football has always been looked upon as a purely amateur game, and played by young men for their own amusement, it is to be hoped that the day is far distant when the professional football player, or even worse, the professional football "loafer," who does not work, but preys upon his fellow-members, will appear in a general form. In all conscience, if the public wish to see professional football (and I know from experience they don't), what would they think of the All-Scotland Eleven against the Champion Eleven of England? That might sound all right, but with the recollection of how professional athletics of all kinds (with the remarkable exception of cricket) are now conducted, and their low associations, woe betide football when the professional element is introduced. It will assuredly be the signal for its decline and fall. As for the greed of gate-money, of which some clubs are so fond, much might be said. When I refer to the clubs who try to gather as much cash as they can during the season in order to pay their legitimate obligations and meet the heavy item of ground rent, I show up an honourable example, and one worthy of imitation; but when I hear of clubs who have gathered ten, yea twenty times more than is required for such purposes, and even get handsome donations besides from their patrons, deep in debt at the end of the season, I begin to wonder where all the money has gone. I ask a young gentleman who has only lately become a member, and he tells me he knows nothing about the finance committee, but throws out grave hints about sordid motives and bare-faced applications for pecuniary assistance. In this respect clubs must be above suspicion, if they want the delightful game to hold its own and prosper. As a quid pro quo for this vicious practice, however, there is no game whose players are so charitable as those connected with Association Football. There is not a club in the Association that is not ready to play a "Charity Match," and far more has been given to the funds of charitable institutions by the actions of Association football clubs than all the other games in Scotland put together.



VII.—THE GREAT INTERNATIONAL;

OR,

NED DUNCAN'S DREAM.

Scotland v. America, 1901.

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.

"They had annihilated space and bridged the Atlantic in earnest, and the 'electrics' (once called steamers) could go from Glasgow to New York in little over twenty-four hours. Yes. 'Daily to New York, Montreal, California, and New Mexico. Splendid accommodation for first-class passengers: 120 knots per hour, and no vibration.' So read the advertisement in the leading Glasgow newspapers. Why! what did it all mean? One hundred knots per hour—3000 in twenty-four hours! To New York in a day! I had certainly heard of the swallow taking an early breakfast at the uttermost part of England and picking up a late dinner on the shores of Africa, all in one day; but 120 knots an hour with an 'electric,'—it was just enough for flesh and blood to comprehend at once.

"'Well,' said a friend of mine with some experience in the marine engineering line, 'I have long thought on electricity as the great motive power of the future, provided it could be properly stored, and now you see what it has come to.'

"In fact, our coal supply—one of the sources of Britain's greatness—was getting exhausted, and electrical appliances had become an absolute necessity. The strain could no longer be borne of one huge vessel consuming 500 tons of coal in twenty-four hours, and those blessed electrics were not introduced a moment too soon.

"The learned men of France, who had long been working earnestly to solve the problem of electric economy, were beaten in the race, and a perfect system of stored electricity introduced and successfully applied to the propulsion of ships, patented by Professor Scotland Thomson, nephew of the late Sir William Thomson, of blessed memory.

"Lots of other remarkable events had been occurring in our history, but none so marked as the introduction of the 'electrics.' The people of Scotland had very nearly lost their individuality. Old Caledonia was to be simply a name. Englishmen invaded Glasgow, Edinburgh, Dundee, and even Ultima Thule, and overran the country with their ideas of social life. They made slow progress at first, but came in hordes, and the invasion was irresistible. They, of course, introduced all their newfangled ideas about games and pastimes, and compelled us to submit.

"Parliament had got so mixed up and thoroughly disgusted with the question of Irish Home Rule, which cropped up every session, that in an evil mood it had threatened puir all Scotland with assimilation of the Law of Jurisprudence, but failed. King Albert the First, however, had, out of respect to the great city of Glasgow—the Second City in the Empire—created his third son Duke of Glasgow, for you must know the House of Peers was still extant, but greatly reformed and limited in power. It could only veto a law passed by the Commons once, and there was no more about the matter.

"The match, you may be sure, was the general topic of conversation all over Scotland several weeks before it came off, and on the Friday evening, when the Americans arrived and put up at the Express Hotel, Glasgow, the excitement was great. The preparations and arrangements for the struggle were on a grand scale, and good weather alone was wanting to make it a success. That evening several of the Scotch team strolled into the billiard-room of the Express Hotel to welcome the young Americans, and had a chat with them about football in general, and the spread of the rules all over the world.

"The eventful day at last dawned, and a finer April morning could not have been desired. Play was announced to begin at 3.30 p.m., and long before that time Bruce Park, Cathcart Road, was half-filled with spectators, and presented a fine sight.

"The crowd around the field was certainly the most remarkable that had ever gathered together in Glasgow. As the game was no ordinary one, they flocked from all quarters. Most of the towns in Scotland supplied their quota to swell the multitude, and as railway travelling was cheap and convenient now compared to the original football days of the Queen's Park, Clydesdale, Vale of Leven, Rangers, Dumbarton, Granville, 3rd Lanark Volunteers, Partick, Clyde, Alexandra Athletic (of which poor Duncan was hon. secy.), and a host of other clubs, a two-hundred-mile journey, which was easily accomplished in an hour, was considered next to nothing. They were there—young men and maidens from London, Manchester, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Blackburn, Darwen, Bolton, and Sheffield—all bent on making a day of it. The road to Bruce Park, indeed, was a sight to see, despite the fact that the Cathcart Railway carried its thousands that afternoon to the south-side. There were not a few buxom country girls in the crowd, enticed thither by no great love of the game—which, of course, they did not understand—but by their sweethearts, just to let the young persons of the place see that they had lads as well as their neighbours. There was one winsome lassie among them, however, who would have done credit to Burns' incomparable 'Queen o' the Glen.'

"Emma was the only sister of a young farmer in the district. It is a mistaken notion to suppose that farmers in Scotland are by far too plodding a class to indulge themselves in anything savouring of English games and pastimes, particularly football, but this is a mistake. I know several farmers in the country who love the dribbling game dearly, and do their best to promote its interests in the way of supplying ground to not a few young clubs dotted over the country. In fact, Emma was the beauty of the whole parish, and all the young men for miles around were well aware of it. No one could deny it, and even the most unreasonable of fellows, Charley M'Gowan, the schoolmaster, and Alfred Walker, the lawyer's clerk, were forced to acknowledge it.

"'Talk about Sydney's heavenly Geraldine,' said young M'Gowan to me one afternoon on the road to practice, 'she beats her hollow.' M'Gowan, however, was a bit of a cynic, and Emma soon cast him off for Walker. He was a fine singer, and in after years, when he became a confirmed bachelor, delighted to sing songs about the inconstancy of the fair sex. He used to hum out Goethe's 'Vanatos,' and more particularly that verse with reference to the fickle fair ones, which ran

"'I set my heart upon woman next— Hurrah! For her sweet sake was oft perplexed; But ah! The false one looked for a daintier lot— The constant one wearied me out and out— The best was not easily got.'

The Yankees, however, had a high opinion of our feminine beauty, and the impressions made on the gallant youths that Saturday afternoon were of the most favourable order. The Romans, in fact, were not more captivated with the beauty of the Sabean maidens than were the young Americans with the lovely Scottish girls who gave them such a hearty reception at Bruce Park in April, 1901.

"Walt Vanderbilt, their captain, was a fine-looking young fellow, about 25 years of age. Ere this the young Americans had completely discarded whiskers, and Walt formed no exception to the rule, with his closely-shaven cheeks and well-formed moustache. Good work in the field in the way of practice had made Walt's form show complete development, and I am inclined to think that a finer specimen of a football player never toed a ball. The goalkeeper of the team, too, young Lincoln, was rather a nice-looking fellow, nearly six feet high, and well-proportioned, with eyes sparkling with humour, but he lacked the fine open countenance of his captain.

"The other members of the team were much of the ordinary type of humanity, just like our average football club men, with any amount of nerve and energy. If they felt excited at the magnitude of the work they had in hand they concealed it well, and looked as if they were merely entering the field to do a little practice. They wore the sign of the American eagle, dotted over with the emblematical stars and stripes. Our fellows had also an imposing appearance, with the lion-rampant on their jerseys, and, although looking rather douce and uncertain about the game, determination was depicted on every face.

"The names of the gentlemen who entered the field were as under:—

"Scotland.—F. Wallace (South-Side Swifts), goalkeeper; T. Glen (Queen's Park), D. Smollet (Vale of Leven), backs; W. M'Millan (Dumbarton), F. M'Neil (Rangers), half-backs; K. M'Geake (Pollokshields Athletic), P. Livingstone (Kilmarnock), K. Watt (Edinburgh Rovers), T. Stewart (Volunteer A.C.), T. D. Coats (Paisley Combination), and G. F. Turnbull (Clyde), forwards.

"America.—W. R. C. Lincoln (New York Caledonian), goalkeeper; V. H. Grant (Texas Rovers), W. C. Vanderbilt (Hamilton State Swifts), backs; J. H. Armstrong (Chicago Association), D. Steel (Nebraska Electric), half-backs; D. C. Bramey (Victoria Boys), R. S. Chandler (Utah Gentiles), P. Whitehouse (Newhaven), J. S. Bryan (Alaska Pilgrims), W. D. Bangle (San Francisco Racers), and T. Lawrence (Washington House), forwards.

"Umpires.—J. W. Marindin (South Australia), and D. Y. Jones (Canadian Association). Referee.—W. H. Littleton (English Association).

"Before the game began, the Yankees offered to bet level money, and some of their red-hot plungers even went the length of two to one on their chances; but they were promptly told that the days of betting and wagering at football matches, cricket, horse-racing, and all genuine sport, were now numbered with the past in the United Kingdom.

"Gentlemen, in fact, who loved and enjoyed sport for its own sake, and for that part of it, ladies too, had voted betting 'low and unmanly,' and even degrading, and as Parliament had been repeatedly petitioned on the subject, a bill was almost unanimously passed in the dying year of the nineteenth century abolishing betting.

"The Loyal Irish Party (late Home Rulers), and the Rado-Toro Democratic Party (led by Lord Randy Chapel-Mountain), whose hair was beginning to get silvery-grey, and his long moustache to match, did not even oppose the bill, and it passed. Never did a legislative enactment work such improvement among the masses as this bill. It completely banished all needy souls and black-legs from the arena of honest sport, and left the field to those who came out of an afternoon and evening to enjoy themselves in an honest way.

"The coarse language, too, of which our forefathers justly complained twenty years ago, had almost disappeared, whether through the effects of the School Board, I would not like to say, but one could now take sweetheart or wife to enjoy themselves, provided always, of course, the weather was at all suitable.

"As for professional football players, no such thing had been heard of for years. They certainly died hard, but eventually no club would have anything to do with them.

"'What is that?' 'Oh, it's the bell to begin.'

"Well, the game did begin in earnest, immediately after a fair lady had thrown out the leather ball from the Grand Stand at the right-hand side of the field. There was no tossing for choice of ends, for a new rule had been just added to the revised code enacting in a most chivalrous way that strangers or visitors be allowed to select the side of the ground they preferred to play on for the first half-hour—for you must know, my readers, the term now allowed for the game was one hour, and that when the ball was kicked into touch, there was no throwing back into play with the hands, but it was kicked from the touch-line straight out before play was again resumed.

"For some time the forwards kept the leather close to themselves, and the Yankees on the left wing, by a fine piece of manoeuvring, were successful in getting it away, amid tremendous cheering. Chandler, who was one of the fastest sprinters in the world, and had beaten the record in San Francisco in the fall of last year, got through his men in brilliant form, and came down on the goalkeeper like 'winkum.' Just as he was poising himself, however, for a final shot, M'Neil deliberately crossed the field from the opposite side, and after dodging about the young American, rushed in and took the leather away, and keeping it between his feet for a couple of seconds, kicked it clear of the Scotch goal. A good deal of heading afterwards occurred near the home goal—the ball getting close on the lines several times, and even passing them. Many considered before the game began that the Americans would never have a 'look in' at all, and great was their dismay when they actually beheld their champions hotly pressed on their own ground, and look like losing the day. With a brilliant charge the Yankee forwards crowded round the Scotch sticks like a hive of bees on a June morning, and a straight shot from the foot of D. Steel, who rushed in from his place at half-back, caused the ball to glide past the Scotch goalkeeper like a rocket.

"This was the signal for tremendous excitement. Crowds of partisans and friends who had come over with the strangers, and many enthusiastic lovers of the game and fair play, raised a loud cheer, again and again renewed, at this piece of grand play on the part of the Yankees. The intensely interested Scotchmen, however, while they certainly admired the pluck and fine play of the visitors, and cheered in a mild kind of a way, even though an enemy wrung it from them, kept very quiet, and not a few white faces might have been seen about the wire fence which kept spectators and players apart on Bruce Park on that memorable day. They, however, kept their own counsel, and quaintly said to the Yankees who chaffed them on the point, that howling was a very good thing in a way, but it should not be indulged in till people were out of the wood.

"The teams then faced each other in midfield, and the ball had no sooner left the Scotch captain's foot than it was taken away, and dribbled down the centre by Bryan, Whitehouse, and Lawrence, and when half-time was called the latter was just finishing a good shy, which sent the ball over the bar. According to the new rules a quarter of an hour was allowed as an interval, and during that time speculation ran high as to what was destined to be the final issue.

"To indulge for a moment at the idea of the Americans beating the Scotch on their own ground in the great International was a sore point for the bulk of the spectators with Scotch faces, but they said very little. They had a secret hope that their champions would eventually pull off the game, even though they had a goal to make up, and only half-an-hour to do it. They had, it was remembered with pride and satisfaction, pulled through many a doubtful match before, and Scotchmen, it was well known, were not easily beaten.

"The young lady again threw up the ball, and Tam Glen, getting a good hold of it at his left foot, made one of the finest fly-kicks ever seen in a match, and the forwards on the Scotch side following well up, completely puzzled the Yankee backs and half-backs by their brilliant passing. Before you could say Jack Robinson, M'Geake shied for the American goal, and the ball knocked off the cap of the goalkeeper, and, hitting the bar, bounded back into the field of play. A hard and exciting scrimmage followed, and amid breathless excitement the Yankees cleared their goal. Five minutes of very even play followed, and then the Scotchmen set their teeth and made a desperate effort for victory.

"Only ten minutes of the game now remained to the good, and there was, you may be sure, no time to lose. One goal behind, and at the great International, too! It would never do to allow America to whip creation, even at football! One final effort; no, two final efforts, and it was done.

"The Scotch captain was seen to whisper something to his team, and in a few minutes the grandest run which was probably ever witnessed since football became a scientific sport in the world, was started, and, before the American backs, half-backs, and goalkeeper could realise their position, the Scotchmen bore down on the visitors' goal, and literally dribbled the ball clean through. This was, you may be sure, the signal for an outburst of cheering, which must have been heard over the half of the big city of Glasgow, which now contained over a million of inhabitants.

"The game, however, was not yet won—it was only a tie—and when the representatives of Brother Jonathan again started the ball only four minutes remained, but it proved a bad four minutes for the representatives of the stars and stripes. Another run, backed up by a shooter from the left foot of Turnbull, settled the great International for that year at anyrate. Those who had hitherto viewed the game in moody silence began to come out of their shells (talking piscatorially) and join in the universal huzzah.

"The Yanks were now fairly cowed, and when another grand piece of play by Stewart, backed up at the proper moment by Watt, put a third goal to the credit of the Scotchmen, the visitors, in the most gentlemanly way, heartily joined in the cheering for the victors. When the referee's whistle was sounded, the Scotchmen were declared the winners of a hard-fought field by 3 goals to 1. The crowd completely besieged the pavilion at Bruce Park at the close, and cheered lustily as the Scotch champions made their way up the steps. Nor were the vanquished Americans forgotten. They came in for a round of hearty cheers for their pluck.

"There was a dinner given to the distinguished strangers in the evening, and the usual complimentary toasts proposed and duly acknowledged; but, as I was not present, I am unable to say who spoke best and gave the most enjoyable song.

"At anyrate, a happy evening was passed, and, after spending a day in Glasgow, the Yankees sailed on the following Monday morning for New York, where they duly arrived without any mishap, after the fastest passage on record, having covered the distance from Greenock to Sandy Hook in twenty-three hours fifty-nine and three-quarter minutes."

Such is "NED DUNCAN'S DREAM; OR, THE GREAT INTERNATIONAL."



VIII.—THE PATRONS, SPECTATORS, AND POPULAR PLAYERS.

They are to be found in all ranks and conditions of life, from the lord of the manor down to the apprentice-artizan and newly-fledged young man from shop and warehouse. Like love, football, for the time, at least, levels all distinction; and albeit I know, for that of it, many a well-matched pair, who have met for the first time on the grand stand at Hampden Park, looking back with feelings of intense pleasure to the time when their "infant love began." Were it not, in fact, that Caledonia is at times so "stern and wild," and that football and frost can never flourish together, the game would be far more extensively patronised by the fair sex. At a cup tie or an International match, it is quite a common thing to see the Convener of an adjacent county,[A] the city magnate, the suburban magistrate, the Free Kirk minister, and the handsome matronly lady, standing side by side with the horny-handed mechanic, the office-boy, the overgrown schoolboy, and the Buchanan Street "swell." They all watch the game and surroundings in their own particular way. I once heard a quaint, but nevertheless true, idea of how some of the more familiar visitors give way to a certain failing, which in itself can scarcely be called such, but is not unfrequently looked upon with amazement by the stranger. The Scotchman, it is said somewhere, is not so much respected for the manner in which he goes about a thing as the way in which he does it, and the remark, when applied to this particular case, will be all the more potent. Here it is:—"Where are you going to howl to-morrow (the query is put on Friday), Jack?" "Oh! the Queen's and Vale, of course; they will have a close thing of it, and there will be rare fun," says Jack. "Old Anderson was very indignant last Saturday, and declares that he will never stand near me again at any such matches. He was quite ashamed of my howling, and positively charges me with digging my thumbs into his ribs, and nearly strangling his youngest son at every scrimmage near each goal." "It serves you right, Tom. I was always afraid something of that kind would happen; you shouldn't be so demonstrative." Tom was silent. He was as jealous of his own propriety and good behaviour as anybody could be, but being of a most excitable nature, he did things in the heat of a tussle for which he was afterwards very sorry, and many ignored the fact that he was an old Rangers man, who scored the first goal for that then young club in a close and exciting game with the once powerful Clydesdale. As the Association rules are very easily learned in theory, the great bulk of the spectators show an acquaintance with them which is pleasing to see, and when an assumed infringement takes place, it is generally heralded from some part of the field by a partisan of the contending elevens. The only apparently unintelligible point to them is the "off-side" rule, and I have seen a goal kicked in this way hailed with deafening cheers and waving of hats and handkerchiefs. These manifestations, however, were turned into low growling when the leather was sent away by a free kick. The ladies, too, talk about "free kicks," "corner-kicks," "heading," "hands," "beautiful passing and dribbling," as if to the manner born. I cannot, however, dismiss the subject of spectators without referring to the use and abuse of a free and unrestrained vent to pent-up feelings. There is the low, vulgar fellow, whose collarless neck and general coarseness of exterior and language indicates that he possesses all the vices but none of the virtues of the "honest working man." Work he will not, except he is compelled, and although to "beg he is ashamed," he would be the first to do a mean action if he had the opportunity. It is he who, by his foul tongue and very breath, contaminates the atmosphere he breathes, and brings some of the matches into disrepute. Unfortunately he has paid his money at the gate (sometimes he gets over the fence), and you can't turn him out; but he makes hundreds miserable. He is, in fact, one of the "unimproving and irresponsible," and moral suasion has no power over his hard and stony heart. Sometimes in an evil moment his vulgar remark is challenged by one of the players on the contending sides, and this gives him an air of importance. There is nothing, however, which shows a want of gentlemanly bearing in a team more clearly than paying the least attention to exclamations from excited spectators. They should treat them with silent indifference, and if needs be, contempt, and play away as if there were nobody present at all. It is sometimes, nevertheless, very hard for country clubs to come to Glasgow and play for the city charities, and get howled at by this class of spectators at certain stages of the game. The great bulk of those around, however, are indignant at such conduct, and regret it all the more on account of being utterly unable to prevent it. There is another spectator, too, who not unfrequently forgets himself, and he is to be found on what might be termed the "touch-line" of society. He is the fast young man, who considers you a perfect nonentity if you don't bet. I don't mean betting on football pure and simple, for he only lays a few "bobs" on it, but on the latest quotations for the Derby, the St. Leger, the Waterloo Cup, or the University boat race. His "screw" is not very big at the best, but he can always lay "half a sov." on the event, whether his landlady's bill is paid or not, and touching that little account of Mr. Strides, the tailor, why, he'll pay it when he "makes a pile." He thinks too much of himself ever to get married, and the young ladies of his acquaintance may indulge in a sigh of relief at escaping from the toils of such a consummate fool. When he has something "on" a match, and sees that it is lost, he not unfrequently opens out, and is not over choice in his language. The game, however, goes on, and is greatly enjoyed by the general spectator, despite such drawbacks, and if you happen to go to the same locality on a similar occasion, you are all but sure to see old and familiar faces crowding round the stand and area.

[A] The late lamented Mr. A. B. Stewart, Convener of the County of Bute, was an enthusiastic admirer of the game, and many will miss his handsome firm and kindly remark when future matches are played on the leading grounds in Scotland.

The modern Association football player is a man of some ability. As a rule he is temperate in his habits, with a good appetite, and sound in limb. Long before he knew what football was, he was blessed with a large share of health. When a boy at school he used to be remarkable for punctuality, but occasionally got into trouble from neglected lessons, in consequence of a weakness for indulging in out-door sports. He loved the rude style of football, then played, dearly (he knew of nothing better), although goal-posts, touch-lines, corner-flags, and other modern appliances were totally unknown. As for "hacking," it was endured by all and sundry with the air of martyrs. Why, if you had not nerve enough to "give and take" in that line, your chance of getting near the "goal score" was remote indeed, and you were looked upon as a coward and the verriest noodle. He, of course, grows older, and by and by joins an average club, and gets on very well. The crack football players, however, have many maturities. They generally come slowly, but surely, and leave behind them powerful impressions. They are like the occasional planets, not the stars which are seen every evening if you care to look towards the "milky way." They are mostly fine-looking fellows, with pleasant countenances and grandly-moulded limbs. They have just passed a severe course of probation in the football field, without even an outward trace of anxiety. The vagaries of the game admit of no distinction of class. The crack player is, in fine, found among all classes—in the gentleman's son, in the clerk at the desk, and the lad in the workshop. There may be different ways of working out the latent ability, but sooner or later it begins to show itself. Some thought it was scarcely fair in the Duke of Wellington to say that "Waterloo was won at Eton." There is not the least possibility of doubt such a remark might be misunderstood, and many feel inclined to charge the "Iron Duke" with ignoring the services rendered by the non-commissioned officers and men of the British army, for everybody knows that none but the sons of the opulent class can ever gain admittance to Eton. It looked, in fact, very like the credit being given to the officers for winning that great battle. Wellington, however, had his eye on the football and cricket grounds when he spoke these words, and no doubt intended to convey the idea that these games went a long way in bracing up the nerve which served so well on the battle-field. Close adhesion to the practice of any game really and sincerely creates fresh possibilities of that perfection and discipline. And why should this not be so in football, particularly as it is a game regulated by sharply-defined maxims? Everyone can't be the captain of an eleven; and as for Wellington's remarks, the most humble member of the team may show the greatest ability. You may belong to the most "swellish" of clubs, and have a fair reputation, but you are not chosen to play in the International. Your father may be the "Great Mogul" himself, but that has no effect. The coveted place can only be attained by merit, and this is one of the most successful and meritorious traits in Scotch Association Football. You don't, as a rule, even get a place now by reputation, and so much the better. When clubs were few and good players fewer, you were not unfrequently favoured with one, whether you deserved it or not, but now the matter is different, and justly so, since we cannot go into a single town or village in Scotland without seeing the practice ground and goal-posts of the now omnipresent football club.



IX.—A DREAM OF THE PAST.

I am getting old and stiff now, at least in a football sense, but have seen and played in, perhaps, more big matches in my time than many will be inclined to give me credit for now. Somehow or other the modern player does not seem to go into the game for the pleasure it affords nearly so heartily as his representative of yore, but it may be that the Compulsory Clause in the Education Act has made him more refined, or, if you like it, a good deal more cunning in hiding his animal spirits and exuberance of innocent fun. Be that as it may, the Association Football of to-day does not really possess the same charm to me as it did ten years ago.

I was once a very fair player, but never considered sufficiently brilliant to get my name handed down to posterity as the crack half-back of the "Invincible Club" of bygone days, or proclaimed aloud in the secret recesses of the great "houf" where football players now retire to spend a social hour after finding themselves the victors of a hard-fought field. I must admit, however, that I did some clever things which the newspapers of that era ought to have at least given me a "puff" for, but they didn't; in fact, I never, like Byron (Lord Byron, I mean), awoke one morning to find myself famous, because my football was that of days long ago, in an obscure (to football, at least) country town; and, besides, the game then was conducted in rather a rude and undignified fashion. Talk about rules, we had those which might, for all I know, have been framed by the "Chief Souter of Selkirk" himself to suit the peculiar mode of playing on the streets at Shrovetide (a practice still in vogue near that Border land). Our captain knew nothing of such new-fangled devices as the Rugby code, and far less of the Football Association. Ours, in brief, was a sort of combination of both styles of play. To win a "hail," as it was termed, the opposing side, with shoving, hacking, and other descriptions of horse-play, had only to pass the ball over the line, and it was won. Touch-lines, corner-flags, twenty-five flags, and even upright posts, and the usual concomitants of the scientific game of to-day, were unknown. This leads me, then, to the point of tracing the rise and progress of the game in Scotland during the past dozen years, leaving its antiquity and origin, about which there are mere surmises, an "open question." That it was played, however, in Edinburgh and Glasgow at least twenty years ago, under rules somewhat similar to those now adhered to by the followers of the Rugby Union I can well remember, and this was the only kind of football known by the young athletes of that time. Over a dozen years ago many were the exciting contests engaged in by not a few of the clubs still in existence.

The oval ball, with its historical associations, has a charm for them. They then talked about the Association style of play with something akin to contempt. "What," they might have been heard to say, "is the fun of looking at people 'bobbing' a ball about with their heads, and the half of a team doing nothing, while a couple or so of the players are engaged at a time? Give us the closely-packed maul, the exciting individual run, with the ball under the arm, the gallant struggle to ground it over the opposing line, and, above all, the beautifully dropped goal." "But nobody goes to see your matches now," remarks a newly-fledged convert to the Association style of play, who has come to see the "Inter-City," "they got disgusted with your never-ending mauls and shoving matches, preferring to witness scientific manipulation of the ball in dribbling, and passing with the feet." "Pshaw! do you imagine we care a straw for gate-money? We play the game for the love of it, and the genuine exercise it affords," retorts the old Rugby adherent, "and respect it all the more on that account." "Oh! it is all very well to tell one that, but don't your leading clubs still charge for admission to their matches?" "Yes; but this is more in the way of keeping out the roughs from the field than for gain." Such conversation I have overheard myself, and none of the sides made much by it.

Well can I remember the birth of Association Football in Scotland, and look back to the time when there was not as many clubs as I could count on the fingers of one hand. In 1870, a semi-International contest, under Association rules, was played in London between Scotch men living in England and an English Eleven, and continued till 1872, when, on November 30th, the first real International match between England and Scotland took place in Glasgow. In that same year, early in the season, the celebrated Queen's Park Club (to whom Scotland owes the introduction of the game), entered the lists for the English Challenge Cup, and were drawn against the London Wanderers. It was at that point that the matches which had hitherto been played in London between London Scotchmen and Englishmen were given up in favour of an annual match between Scotland and England, to be played alternately in London and Glasgow, and, if possible, so to arrange the contest that the Association match might be played in England the same season that the Rugby match would be played in Scotland, and vice versa. It might be as well here to say that the celebrated Scotch club and the Wanderers, then in the zenith of their fame, played a drawn game with no goals on either side, but finding it too difficult a job to meet the Englishmen again, they scratched. Since then, however, the Rugby and Association Internationals take place regularly as each season comes round, in Scotland and England alternately. It is a curious fact, and one worthy of record, that the Scottish Rugby Football Union and the Scottish Football Association were both constituted in the same year—viz., 1873. The Union was formed after the International Rugby match at Glasgow, Dr. J. Chiene, of Edinburgh, being in the chair on the occasion. The Scottish Football Association was formed under the presidency of Mr. Robert Gardner, the once famous goalkeeper.

The annual competition for the Association Cup, when the clubs who entered for it the first year only numbered 16, were proceeded with in a much more gentlemanly way than is the case now, but the reason is obvious. Hitherto young and inexperienced clubs never dreamt of entering against opponents with whom they knew they had no chance, and, consequently, the competitions were left to be fought out among the cream of exponents of the dribbling game. As each year came round, however, and young clubs began to multiply exceedingly, many of them considered they should have a shy at the "Cup," and as the entry-money for membership to the Association was only a nominal sum, they competed, and were never heard of after the first tie. No one who has watched the progress of Association Football in Scotland can for a moment deny the fact that the Challenge Cup has been the chief factor in assuring its popularity and rapid development all over the Western District of Scotland, and when its original promoters inaugurated the competition, it was done with the honest conviction of spreading a knowledge of the Association rules, together with generating a spirit of friendly rivalry amongst clubs.

That it has been eminently successful in the former respect is admitted, but I can't say the same thing so far as "friendly rivalry" is concerned, and one has only to remember the manner in which some of the ties are conducted to point out that the term "questionable conduct" would be more appropriate. When I hear of men and lads deliberately kicking one another, and charging wildly when the ball is about ten yards away in front, I begin to consider that the time has positively arrived when the Scottish Football Association, if it wishes to retain its hold, should interfere, and make a selection of clubs to compete for the "blue ribbon" of Association glory. Quadruple the subscriptions to the Association if necessary, and, above all, revise the bye-laws in such a way that what is known as a "rough game" would be impossible. It is but fair, however, to the Scottish Football Association to state that they have long been alive to the fact, and have since taken the matter up while deciding protests.

The Association Rules, however, are immensely popular with the people, and in some of the big matches it is quite a common thing to see 10,000 or 15,000 spectators. I have heard of such people as those who actually hate cricket and football, and make it a constant aim to prevent those over whom they have some influence from engaging in the manly sport. They occasionally flit across one's path like an evil spirit, and disappear as rapidly, but leave behind a chilling effect on the imagination, far more intense than the terrible nightmare after a disastrous defeat. They cannot see the fun of spending valuable time in such a way. If you follow one of those gentle "cads," however, at the close of an evening, he may be seen, cue in hand, earnestly engaged at the billiard table. He is not in a happy mood, for he is one of the losing side, and there is a wild look about his eyes. He sometimes gets home rather early in the morning, and is not particularly careful of his choice of companions at times. They are childish amusements, these games at cricket and football, "and none but silly people," he continues, "would ever think of engaging in, or even encouraging, them any way."

And another thing. There is a sort of prejudice to football, and, in fact, to a lot of healthful out-door exercises, in Scotland, among the older people, who can scarcely endure the thought of spending time under any circumstances; and parents are often the cause of degenerating a kind of deception more common than one would believe—viz., playing under assumed names. Surely it is much better for the young men to spend a spare afternoon on the football field, enjoying the fresh air, than being, perhaps, engaged in questionable "time-smashing," in the way of playing cards, draughts, or drinking. On asking a well-known dribbler the other day how it came about that he played under a nomme de guerre, "Was he afraid to let his real name be known?" The answer was conclusive. The governor was sometimes inexorable, and treated him to a lecture on filial obedience and the inevitable consequences of neglecting business. He positively debarred him from playing again, but Tom was not to be done. Taking advantage of the old fellow's absence from home, he yielded to the solicitations of his captain, and played under an assumed name, dribbling and passing in such beautiful form that thousands of spectators applauded his efforts, and his side won in a canter. As the non-indulgent parent did not observe Tom's name in the papers, his little deception was never found out, and he continued doing duty for his club in this way for a couple of seasons. And of the yet fine player who thinks he will retire as each season comes round, something must also be said. His eye has not yet lost the gleam of honest rivalry, and he snorts like the war-horse as each season comes round to be in the thick of the fight. He retired, it may be, last season, for good, as he thought, but the fascinations of the goal-posts and flying corner-flags was too much for him as a spectator at the first big game, and he yielded for another year, but it will be his last, for Maud, his beloved and beautiful Maud, will claim him as her own before June. "We have been long engaged," he is heard to say to an old club companion, "but this blessed football, of which I am very fond, has been the cause of putting off the marriage."

I once knew a fine young fellow, a crack half-back, who was so anxious to play in an "International," that he positively swore he would never get married till he was one of the chosen team. He kept his word. He played twice for his country, got married, and, as the "unexpected does not always happen," is now the father of what may some day prove a race of stalwart football players. His handsome, though now slightly-bent form, is still often seen when a great event is being decided, accompanied by his wife and children, and woe betide the captain of his former club if he allows it to be beaten. "Well played; keep him off the ball, can't you!" he is heard to exclaim, till he is red in the face, and he goes home to dinner with something like an appetite.

None but those who have positively come through all the grades of football probation really know what amount of labour, to say nothing of self-denial, is needed to make a crack back, half-back, or skilful forward. Sometimes one has to be contented with a place in the Second Eleven for years, before some incident, it may be, brings him to the front, and reveals true merit. In football, of course, as in other things, I have found that the best men were not always in their best places, and when this was the case, what is known as favouritism came in bold relief, but in the end the club in which such stupidity was rampant suffered very severely. It did all very well when the club were engaged in ordinary contests with weaker opponents, but it came out in some of the big events, in which the guilty club predominated in the selection of men to represent a city, a university, and even a country. Fortunately, however, I can honestly say that during the last few years there has been little of this practised, and Scotch football under both rules is all the better in consequence.

While every enlightened mind is willing to go a long way in advocating equality, the line must be drawn somewhere, and I am inclined to think at that stage where gentlemanly feeling and courtesy are absent. A very obscure individual may, by his conduct on the field, show that he at least can be a gentleman. In all such manly sports social distinction ought to be sunk, and that great and noble equality—that equality and love of honest worth which is so dear to the Scotch (and let me also say English heart) be ever remembered, when team meets team on the football field. We are shown noble examples of how in days gone by, peer mingled with peasant on the cricket field, strove with each other on the curling pond, and why should not such things exist in football? Let me hope that as each succeeding season comes round the noble winter game will in proportion show greater improvement, both in club and individual integrity, as well as higher scale of moral worth.



X.—THE DUEL NEAR THE FOOTBALL FIELD, AND THE CAUSE OF IT.

"And you tell me, Frank, that the old ground is at last cut up to form a railway embankment?" said Bob Smith to Frank Green (whose sister, by the way, had got married to Pate Brown last season), as they met one evening at Crosshill.

"They will be long in finding a ground like Hampden Park, I'm thinking," replied Green, with the recollections of pleasant games and glorious victories for the Black-and-Whites, to say nothing of numerous gains to Scotland in matches with England and Wales.

Since this meeting of Bob and Frank, however, the said Black-and-Whites have got pretty far forward with a new ground quite close to Hampden Park, and it is now being levelled up and put into condition. The railway embankment referred to is part of the Cathcart Railway, which will assist very considerably in opening up rapid communication between Glasgow and the whole of the suburban burghs lying south.

While referring to the Southern Suburbs, which, it may be mentioned, are closely associated with the rise and progress of Association Football, I cannot refrain from alluding to several genial souls who have helped to make them what they are. None, however, is entitled to claim more consideration and credit than Provost Goodfellow, of Suburbopolis, whose official life, so to speak, has been spent in the cause of suburban organisation, accompanied, of course, with a due regard for Association Football.

You must know, my brave Scotch readers, and those hailing from South of the Tweed, that the Provost of a Scotch burgh or town occupies the exact position of the English Mayor. He is the head of the municipality, and is, in fact, a kind of ruler of all he surveys, but about his "right to dispute," particularly when the November election comes on, why that is purely a matter of opinion.

Well, the ruler of Suburbopolis was not a despotic man. He was certainly a little pedantic, and who, I should like to know, would not be inclined to lean that way if they had taken part in a great annexation fight with the chiefs of the big bouncing city of Glasgow, and beaten them too?

Some years ago, it may be briefly explained, the Glasgow authorities devised a scheme, whereby all the suburban burghs were to be taken under the wing of Glasgow and lose their entire independence, and Suburbopolis, being close on the touch-line, was to be attacked first. Glasgow, in fact, was to act as the veritable annaconda, and swallow it up, but she didn't.

Scotch Radicals, talking politically, had not hitherto much faith in what they considered an effete hereditary legislature, such as the House of Lords, but if there was one thing more than another calculated to bring about a Conservative reaction among the Glasgow suburban authorities, it was the attention paid to their vested interests by the Peers.

The Commons had spurned their entreaties to maintain independence with scorn, and even relegated them to Bumbledom, but their lordships, to whom the case was appealed, literally strangled the said annaconda before she began to devour, and Suburbopolis, along with other five thriving burghs, were saved from municipal death, and still retain their Provosts. Provost Goodfellow was a most genial soul, and particularly fond of Association Football.

He could talk about dribbling, passing, and backing-up, as if to the manner born. The only thing, in fact, which he did not fully understand was the "off-side rule," and many of greater pretentions were as far at sea regarding that said rule as the worthy Provost. He was the life and soul of Charity Cup Ties, and never failed to turn out to patronise them. Even the charming young ladies of the family (for you must know his honour had three handsome daughters) knew a good deal about the rules, and had several excited discussions with their brother Archie (who was a member of the Camphill), and Bob Lambert (of the Black-and-Whites), as to the respective merits of sundry clubs.

These young ladies, too, had a long string of admirers, and no family acquaintance was more eagerly sought after than that of the Goodfellows. Suburbopolis, however, was by no means devoid of a galaxy of feminine beauty and well-developed male forms, who might have been seen of an evening leaving the handsome villas and terraces around the Park (for which the inhabitants were not taxed).

There were, of course, the families of Colonel Black (an old warrior, who had been through the Crimea and Indian Mutiny), the Redpath girls, whose mother was a widow, the Snodgrass young ladies (three in number), the Misses Bland, residing at Jessimine Lodge, and, of course, many more lesser luminaries. The Colonel's daughters, or "Golden Slippers," as one of them was called by several members of the Camphill, who had caught her in the act of watching a practice game on the eve of a big Cup Tie, wearing a pair of fur-lined slippers, and had her heart set on the Camphill beating the Black-and-Whites, was, indeed, the most handsome girl in the burgh.

I would not dare to attempt a pen-and-ink sketch. It would fail in its effect. It's all very good for you fellows who have no soul for feminine loveliness to talk about girls, like babies, being all pretty much alike, but you are wrong—entirely wrong. Jenny was, in fine, a "bonnie, bonnie lass," and scores of young fellows, I know, would have gone considerably out of their way to have received "ae blink o' her bonnie black e'e." Emma, although scarcely so tall, was very like her sister, only shorter in the temper.

After sundry matches at the field, Jack Black used to take a few of his companions up to the Hillhouse, and the young ladies received them graciously—congratulating them when they won their matches, and "chaffing" them unmercifully when they lost.

There were at least three suitors for the hand of Jenny, but one of them resided in London, and the other at Skyview Villa, a couple of hundred yards from Hillhouse. It can be easily imagined that the local man had the advantage in the courtship, being, as the special correspondent always prides himself in adding to his communications, "on the spot."

Bob Lambert was, to be sure, a welcome visitor at Jenny's residence, and a fast companion of her brother Jack, and what was more, Bob was quite a favourite with the old Colonel, who admired his fine appearance in the football field, and the brilliant manner in which he could "back-up" when that was needed to win a game. Bob, I must confess, was really a nice-looking fellow, with black curly hair, and a good broad chest. His features were well formed, and he possessed penetrating dark grey eyes. There was one thing, however, which told against Bob in many ways, and that was his hasty temper. He could brook no rival in his position as the best forward in the Black-and-Whites, and a word or two from the captain at a practice game was sure to upset him. He sometimes, in fact, took the pet altogether.

Once, when playing a Cup Tie with the Athletic Park, he met his match in Charlie Walker (another of Jenny's sweethearts), who played at half-back, and the work done all through that eventful match was seen between the pair. Talk about coming in contact with "mother earth," why that was positively child's play when the two met.

Walker was also a powerful fellow, and it was a case of Greek meeting Greek. "Bumping at Oxford," to use an aquatic term, why it was nothing! At one time Bob was seen tossed up in the air as if from the horns of an infuriated bull, and at another Charlie was observed lying on the field at Bob's feet. What did they care about the ball being fifty yards off? Not a straw, so long as they tackled and kept each other away from it. "That's not football," says one, "it is horse play." "Never mind about football in a Cup Tie," says another, "let the heaviest team win; go into the fellow." "Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, fie, fie, Association Football is an amateur game, and as long as I play it," said the captain, "there shall be no cruelty done on either side."

Little did the spectators know the real cause of the inordinate tackling done by Bob and Charlie, but the secret soon came out. The pair had previously been rivals for the hand of Jenny Black, and Bob was looked upon as the winner. At least Charlie had not been seen at the Black's Villa for two or three months, and before this he always made it his house of call. But what about Harry Carts, Jenny's English sweetheart? Why, I had almost forgotten him.

A team of Cantabs had played the Black-and-Whites just a year previously, and Harry was one of them. He had been invited to spend an evening at the Colonel's house, and had fallen desperately in love with the bonnie Scotch lassie. Bob was also specially invited and was present that evening, and although trying to be as affable as possible to the friendly stranger and opponent, could barely hide his jealousy when the gallant English forward kissed the lovely girl's ruby lips in a game at forfeits.

Bob said nothing about it to Jenny, but Emma, the youngest sister, whispered to her brother Jack that Bob's eyes had a wild look that evening. The matter, however, was soon forgotten, as Harry Carts left Glasgow the next evening for London, after his gallant team had played a drawn game with the Scotch Black-and-Whites—the first one ending in that way, be it observed, that had ever been played between them and an English team on Scottish ground in the memory of the proverbial "oldest inhabitant."

Harry Carts, to give him his due, was one of the best Association football players ever England produced. When Mr. C. W. Alcock and a few choice spirits in London, it is true, first opened the eyes of many football players to the value of the Association rules, and inaugurated the Football Association in 1863, Harry was a mere child. Appearing at college, however, he soon showed a liking for the dribbling game, and never lost a moment in doing his best to acquire everything he was likely to know about it.

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.

Several of the Black-and-Whites, who had heard about the proposed "meeting," had a secret consultation with Ned M'Gill and Davie Merricks, who, it was whispered, had taken the friendly job of "seconds," and the whole affair was "adjusted." With swords this was impossible, and they resolved to resort to the respectable and honourable weapon, the revolver.

The two men who were to face each other in terrible earnest, you may be sure, slept little or none during the preceding night. "Four o'clock sharp, mind, at the grass field, near Hagg's Castle," said the brave seconds, "and it will be all over in a few minutes." Charlie shuddered when he heard the last words (which, by the way, were deliberately intended for him).

"A few minutes, and all will be over," Charlie muttered; "what if I should be killed?" His very teeth (which he used to whiten with cigar ashes, and was so proud about), were chattering. Thousands of ideas floated across his heated imagination. He saw his past life before him, and the only consolation, if it could be called one, lay in the thought that, should it come to the worst, Jenny Black's eyes would be dimmed with tears at his misfortune. He felt sure the dear lassie loved him, and he would brave death a thousand times rather than endure the anguish of seeing her married to a useless fellow like Bob Lambert.

Bob, on the other hand, was really a cool and determined fellow; and while Charlie was in the throes speculating about probable dissolution before the morrow's sun should rise, Bob was actually priding himself on superior ability in handling a revolver. He was, in fact, far too arrogant a man to imagine that he could be shot by a silly boy like Walker. He had made up his mind to shoot straight when the signal fell, and indulged in the devilish pleasure it would afford him to read a "true and particular account" of the duel in the Glasgow evening papers, if good luck would favour him in escaping to the Continent.

"These fellows are not going to come up to the scratch," said Ned M'Gill to the other honourable gent—as they passed the Clydesdale Cricket Ground a few minutes to four o'clock on that memorable morning. Ned, however, was wrong. Through the grey dawn a muffled figure was observed crossing the Pollokshields Athletic Club's Park, and making direct for the old castle. Almost simultaneously came a second individual from the vicinity of Crossmyloof, smoking a cigar. There was no doubt about it, for on closer inspection the figure was that of Lambert, who generally indulged in a good cigar, as he had a friend in the Anchor Line who was always supplying him with "weeds."

A very short time sufficed to measure the distance, but the would-be murderers, no doubt, considered it an age. When the seconds advanced along with their men to the fatal spot, and placed them twenty paces apart, Charlie put one in mind of the poor misguided boy in "The Rivals." His hand shook, and his knees almost touched one another.

The signal was given, and bang went the revolvers from both sides. None of the young men, however, seemed to have been hit; and while Charlie was almost sinking on the ground from excitement, Bob might have been seen examining his weapon with suspicion, at the same time casting a glance at his rival and wondering why he did not fall. A second or two more, and the latter fired another shot, and this time poor Charlie dropped his pistol and fell back on the grass.

Bob was satisfied he had done the business now, and taking the advice of Davie Merricks, he fled for his life; getting the early train for Greenock and thence per steamer "Golden Eagle," to the Isle of Man.

The "seconds" (and a few strange figures that were seen lurking about) of course, lifted the supposed dying man from the grass, and as his "life's blood ebbed away," they whispered about being willing to fill a last request. Poor Charlie's brow was covered with blood, and as he himself expressed the terrible sensation of "feeling a pistol ball bobbing about in his brain," arrangements were hastily made for having him consigned to relatives. Accordingly his lodgings were sought after and easily found by the excited hansom driver who had taken them near the fatal spot.

All the time the affair was going on the driver threw out grave hints about reporting the whole matter to the police. When they reached Greenfield Avenue, however, there was still some life in Charlie, but he said he "knew he was dying," and forgave everybody who had taken part in the rascally business.

Higgins, the hansom driver, was as good as his word, and after leaving the place, went direct to the Suburbopolis Police Office, and got the whole matter reported. Not very long after the police surrounded the house in Greenfield Avenue, and Provost Goodfellow (who, it may be remarked, was the only magistrate at home when the affair took place, and had to be aroused for the purpose), came in all haste to take the "dying deposition." Meanwhile Dr. Barrister, one of the best of the local surgeons, was in attendance.

The doctor, however, suspecting something soon after feeling the supposed wounded man's pulse, and judge of the surprise, to say nothing of indignation, when the doctor, and then the Provost, began to indulge in a hearty fit of unrestrained laughter. The "seconds" knew their business well, for they had loaded the weapons with blank cartridges and a few drops of bullock's blood, and some of the contents of Bob's pistol had hit Charlie on the brow.

Poor Charlie, he was so terribly shaken and nervous after being hit that he was long in getting the better of the fright. Like the French prisoner whom the cruel authorities of the "Inquisition" determined should be experimented upon as a victim of imagination in the way of supposed bleeding to death, Charlie, although he had not received a scratch, thought he was dying fast, till the doctor informed him of the imaginary wound.

A few days afterwards the affair was "hushed up," and nobody was better pleased when he heard the true state of matters than Bob Lambert himself. His friend Jim Campbell had sent a letter to Douglas Post Office, to be called for, under a fictitious name, and Bob soon returned to Glasgow.

When little Jenny Black was told the same morning of the duel, that Charlie Walker had been shot by Bob Lambert, she fainted clean away, and afterwards refused to be comforted. "To think that she, a poor weak girl, should have been the cause of such a terrible tragedy," she was heard to say to her sister, "I'm afraid I'll never get over it." When the true state of matters, however, was revealed, and the whole affair brought up in its real light, it afforded immense merriment all over Suburbopolis, and when football players met to spend a social hour, the duel between Bob Lambert and Charlie Walker is, of course, alluded to as a standard joke.

A few months afterwards there was a nice wedding at Colonel Black's villa, and strange as it may seem, both Lambert and Walker were there, together with quite a crowd of football players and their sweethearts.

The reader will, of course, easily make out who wore the bridal dress, and looked lovely in it, too. Surprise, however, not, it is to be hoped, altogether unmixed with satisfaction, will be expressed, when the bride-groom appears in the person of Charlie Walker, Jenny's own love. Harry Carts, the handsome Englishman, she certainly admired, but did not actually love sufficiently to make a husband of. He, in fact, seemed to have been too fond of company, and in correspondence a coldness had sprung up between them, and ended in two parting letters.

Jenny loved Charlie Walker best, and accordingly gave him her heart and hand. "What he had suffered for her sake," the young lady was heard to express to a confidant, "no one but himself knew." They are, however, now a happy pair, and when Cup Ties and big matches are being played near Suburbopolis, you will be sure to see Charlie and his handsome wife on the field.

As for Bob Lambert, who was forgiven, he became more of a man in subduing his temper and general disposition, and one evening told his old rival that he would never forget till his dying day—"THE DUEL NEAR THE FOOTBALL FIELD."



XI.—THE FINAL TIE FOR THE ASSOCIATION CHALLENGE CUP—1889-90.

TWO MEMORABLE MATCHES.

A couple of matches had to played before the final tie for the Association Challenge Cup was decided, and at the earnest request of numerous friends I have reproduced my articles on both games, which appeared in the Daily Mail, and trust they will be considered worthy a place in the volume. The following is the

First Match.

This important contest, which had to be postponed the previous Saturday in consequence of the dense fog which enveloped the city and suburbs in semi-darkness, came off at Ibrox Park, and resulted in a draw—each side scoring a goal. Early in the forenoon the weather in every particular looked like a counterpart of the previous Saturday, and it was not till well on in the day that the Association Committee finally decided to go on with the match. Even with this short notice, combined with the fact that heavy rain came on and continued till well on in the second half, the attendance of spectators was large, about 11,000, and this is borne out by the cash lifted at the gate, some L500. Of this the Association gets a third, and the other two-thirds are equally divided between the contending teams. The proceeds of the stand, however, went to the Rangers' funds, as that club gave their ground free of charge to the Association to play off the tie. Paisley Road and Govan Road presented a scene to be remembered from two o'clock till well on for 3.30 P.M., being thronged with vehicles of every kind, from the carriage and pair, the hansom and cab, down to the modest van. Pedestrians, too, were numerous, and on the Govan Road the Vale of Clyde Tramway Company, with extra cars, reaped a good harvest. On the way down, and in the field itself, the usual good-natured banter was largely indulged in, and as football enthusiasts, like the rest of impatient spectators, are only human, they were in better temper at the start of the contest than was the case at the finish. The meeting of the Queen's Park and Vale of Leven, in fact, revived old times among the once brilliant players of both clubs, many of whom were present on Saturday to "fight their battles o'er again." "Dae ye ken," said an old man as the game proceeded, "I wis present at old Hampden Park on the wet Hogmanay afternoon long ago, when the Vale licked the Queen's by two to one in a Cup tie, and I wish'd ye'd a' seen the Queen's Park committee men and their supporters that day when the bare fac' wis kent. I'm thinkin' they didna craw sae crouse, and maybe they'll get a fricht the noo." When the Vale scored their goal a wag, primed with a fair-sized pocket pistol, no doubt containing the best—well, every public-house salesman will tell you at anyrate, it is the "best," and charge for it, too, as "special"—began to lilt a verse of the popular pantomime song, "Their funeral's to-morrow," hinting heavily about the decline and fall of the Queen's Park. Many saw the point, and laughed; while others gave the jolly fellow a look that betokened contempt and dismay. "Wait till the second half," said a quiet supporter of the senior club, "and ye'll see what they can dae; they're only making some fun." In pressing forward, leaning against the pailings, were not a few critical rivet boys and iron-workers, whose running comments were amusing in the extreme. Of some young fellows who came down from the city dressed up in style, one of the "black squad" was heard to say, "Don't they look blooming 'swells,' with their gloves and G.O.M. collars, and you wid think that the whole landed property about is theirs, even to Ibrox Park itself. Crush up, Bob. We've paid our money as well as the lot, and must get share of the view. Crush up." "Man, jock, they've got a new ile for training and rubbin' up the fitballers noo. It's whit they ca' herbuline, and it keeps out the cauld and warms ye unca' much; but the smell's sae strong that it nearly blin's ye." No doubt some kind of specific was required on such a trying day as Saturday, for it was indeed a clear case of illustrating the old adage,