American Scenes and Christian Slavery: A Recent Tour of Four Thousand Miles in the United States

I should like to start by saying that all this happened two days after my sixteenth birthday, when my hair was still down, so that I hadn’t anything to live up to, and it didn’t matter what I did—or not much, at any rate. That’s how it was. It all began at breakfast on the Saturday. We were going to play Anfield that afternoon. Anfield is a town a few miles off, and the match is one of the best that Much Middlefold plays. So that I wasn’t surprised that father was annoyed when he got the curate’s letter. He opened it at breakfast, just after I had come down. I was pouring out the coffee when I heard him snort in the way he always does when anything goes wrong. I said, “What’s the matter, father dear?” “Here’s a nice thing,” he said, waving the letter. “Morning of match—most important match—team not any too strong—wanting everyone we can possibly get, and here’s Parminter writing to say that he can’t play