THE BACK NUMBER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2598, 4 September 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE BACK NUMBER.

Crowded about the playing arena were 30,000 roaring, cursing, cheering, hooting—humans. ‘ Sternfaced men, with teeth grinding into the pipe-stems, and skin-tightened jaws, as the battle swayed against their favorites; then the quick relaxation as one of their idols blocked the tide, and sent it rushing back. Women with flushed faces, whose voices made a shrill accompaniment to the deep bass of the men’s. • Mercurial youngsters, who never missed a point in the game, and yelled derisively when a player misjudged the ball, made a faulty pass, or mulled a “mark.” Away on the left wing of the grassy oval Pallet, of the Redslashes, was being systematically beaten by his opponent, the young giant, Medford, oi the Dark-blues, and Pallet was beginning to feel his impotence, and it hurt him. He -was a true sport, and these many years had clung to the old club, come fat, come lean. Inducements from other clubs had been held out to him iu his heyday, but he brushed, them quietly aside. “When I leave the Redslashes,” he had said, “I leave them with the knowledge that I’ve always honestlj tried to do my little bit towards putting them on top. I cou.dn t play against them—it ’ud seem too much like endeavoring to throttle a pal.” The cries and yells of the crowd reached him, for the most part, like a rising and falling wave of unmeaning sound; but occasionally when engaged in a tussle near the barrier, the sounds took on significance.

“Yah! why don't yer git off the earth, Pallet?” came to him once, as he slipped in doing a quick turn, and fell heavily. “l r er in yer own road—he’s boatin’ yer ev’ry time!” Again the ball came sailing towards them. Pallet felt, rather than saw, Medford at his side, and his muscles grew tense. Ho would get it this time, —he must. He gathered himself for a mighty spring, and soared upward. or a moment he felt the ball his finger-tips; then, like a flash, it was hit from him, and the next instant Medford was strea'king with it 20 yards away, while a terrific vexed cry of rage j and joy went up from the spectators. One infuriated partisan, with an evident intention of “getting to” Pallet, began to scale, the harrier, but an opportune policeman thrust him hack. And so the game progressed, and Pallet’s opponent out-manoeuvred him with the utmost regularity. Then came the crowning shame of all. It was close on time, the Redslashes were fivo pointy | to the bad, and were pushing the game. The captain ordered all his men forward in one last despairing assault on the Dark-blues’ goal. Belmore, one of the Redslashes forwards, had the ball at an almost impossible angle. With a quick glance ho saw Pallet standing alone almost in front of the goal, and with a short skimming kick he sent the i ball unerringly towards, him. Pallet bugged the. leather like a father might his "beloved child.' His chance had come at last. He would retrieve all that : ho had lost that day, and they j

a ridiculously easy shot, that he could not miss! With one hand he brushed the sweat from his eyes, then placed the ball carefully. He wouldn’t take any risks. Standing at his mark ten yards away was his bete noire, Medford. A great silence had fallen on the hug® assemblage, and 30,000 pairs of eyes were gluc<! ori Pallet, as he stepped back preparatory to taking his kick. Simultaneously with Pallet’s kick, Medford sprang into the air, receiving the ball on his broad chest, and as the pent-up cry aird delight and disappointment burst forth, the bell rang. The Dark-blues had won by five points. How he got off the ground Pallet never dearly remembered. He came to himself as he was elbowing his way into the dressing-room. “You lost the game for us! Time you took to bowls!” and a lot more came to him as he pushed onward with drooping head. In a dim way h® remembered how this crowd had carried him shoulder high only the preceding year, when he had been the hero of a hard-fought victory. The crowd was the same, only 'he was different. “Vae victis,” he muttered, almost unconsciously. A man with a savage light in his eyes, and dishevelled clothing, pushed through the jesiling throng, till he gained Pallet’s side. “How much are you making out of this lot, Pallet?” he asked, pantingly. as he thrust forward his red f race. It was the last straw—to be accused of that. Pallet drew back his arm, and sent a crashing blow on the insulting mouth. Then a couple of policeiaes got him into the dressing-room. Z<s dropped limply on to n seat, and began methodically to unlace his grass*stained jersey. “If we had half a man up against Medford we’d have won comfortably, hut with Pallet—” The captain broke off in disgust. Pallet got up as though to speak, but sank back with his hands still fumbling blindly with the laces of his jersey. The eucalyptus-laden air was choking him. A smart slap on the shoulder and Belmore’s voice came to him —

“Chirp up, old man! Better luck next time. Medford was extra-special today. Strikes me if some of those loudspoken chaps had been up against hks all the afternoon they wouldn’t hc quite so talkative.” Pallet shook his head wearily. “There’ll be no next time for me,” he said huskily. “I never thought of it before, hut it came to me out there to-day. Medford is 23. I think; I’ll he 33 next month. Ten years is a gulf that may not be bridged, Belmore, that’s the trouble.” With a sudden movement he pulled off his jersey, and laid it across his knees. Then he laughed in a strained kind of way. “I’ll bury it to-night with due ceremony, Belmore,” he said, absently tapping his jersey, “'and then I’ll take my proper pcsitien on the shelf, and wsd'-' for the dust.”