In spite, however, of that unchallengeable statement, Cox's Piece was well represented at the up platform to London Bridge at five minutes to seven, or thereabouts, on the morning of Saturday, November 3. These enthusiasts, touched with scepticism as they were, deserved well of fate. It was not that they sympathized with Pouncer Rogers in his ignoble point of view; they believed that for the first time in its brief and rather checkered history, the Isle of Dogs Albion F.C. was coming into its own. An impressive sight met the faithful who were present on the up platform to London Bridge at a few minutes to seven on the morning of Saturday. Then it was that Ginger and the Sailor were seen in the booking-hall taking their tickets for Blackhampton. Each carried a brand-new and decidedly elegant Gladstone bag, brilliant of hue and affirming its ownership in bold and clear letters; W.H.J.--H.H. Moreover, both Ginger and the Sailor wore a brand-new cap of black and white tweed, a brand-new overcoat with velvet collar, a brand-new blue suit, undoubted masterpieces of Jago and Brown, 25 The Arcade, and at Finsbury Circus, the whole surmounted by lustrous boots, spotted necktie and spotless double collar. The effect was heightened by a previous evening's haircut and a close matutinal shave. Those of the faithful who had assembled on the up platform to wish _bon voyage_ to their club mates on their journey to High Olympus were rather staggered by the sight of them. Had the goalkeeper and the right full back of the Isle of Dogs Albion been going forth to play for the first team of the Villa itself, they could not have dressed the part more superbly. Such stage management, its inception due to the genius of Ginger, its execution, the fruit of the Sailor's fabulous wealth, filled their friends with awe. The unworthy doubt cast by Pouncer upon Ginger's _bona fides_ brought its own Nemesis. Pouncer was so completely overthrown by the spectacular appearance on the up platform that he sneaked out of the station _via_ alternate doors of the refreshment buffet, an illegal crossing of the main line, and a final exit by the booking-hall of the down platform. Seated in a third smoker, on the way to his natal city of Blackhampton, upon which he had not set eyes for seven long and incredible years, the emotions of Henry Harper were very complex. He was in a dream. He had been made to realize by the Force seated opposite smoking Log Cabin and reading _Pearson's Weekly_, that romance had come at last into a mean and hopeless life--into a life which had never looked for such things to happen. The Sailor knew now the ordeal before him. He was to be tried as a goalkeeper by the great and famous Blackhampton Rovers, the gods of his youth. The fact was very hard to believe, but according to the relentless Force to the wheel of whose chariot he was tied such was the case. And there was his new gear to prove it.