BRITISH COMICS
NAPPER TODD–
Football is his game
Taken from The Hotspur issue 860 May 2nd 1953
Napper’s arms and head are covered with bandages—But he still has two
good legs.
THE
INVITATION
“Cheer up, Napper,” said Grandpa. “Don’t you like getting up on a Monday
morning?” Napper Todd did look a bit mournful as he ate his breakfast. “I was
just thinking it’s tough the United were pipped by a point for the League
Championship,” he explained. “They can’t bring off the ‘double’ now.”
“Well, they’re in the Cup Final,”
snorted Grandpa. “They meet Branston Wanderers at Wembley on Saturday. Napper’s
favourite team was Riverport United, the town’s First Division club. They had
had a grand season but an unexpected defeat had lost them the League
Championship at the last minute. Napper’s ambition was to play for them when he
was older. He was nuts about football and played for South End Rovers, a bunch
of under-17’s in the Riverport Minor League. They had “double” worries too!
They’d won the Minor Cup, and on Wednesday evening were due to play Castle Park
Scarlets in what was to be a decider as to who would win the Minor League.
Napper’s play had attracted the attention of Mr Stoner, the United manager, who
had wanted an interview with him. But Brad Bales, the United boot boy who was
jealous of Napper, had made sure the lad had not received the manager’s
invitation. Grandpa and Napper lived on an island in the middle of the estuary
at Riverport. They had made a home in the hut there, when Napper’s mean
relatives Aunt Cora and Uncle Herbert, had tried to force Grandpa into an Old
Folk’s Home and to send Napper to an approved school. When Napper and Grandpa
had saved a cargo ship from going aground during a gale, the authorities had
discovered Aunt Cora’s and Uncle Herbert’s trickery and meanness, and in
gratitude, had let Grandpa and Napper stay on the island rent free. “Have
another cup of tea,” said Grandpa, and reached for the tin teapot. “There’s
nothing like a cuppa to cheer you up.” Napper looked at the clock. It was
nearly
“Dear Napper,
Mr Stoner is very busy this week
but will see you on Wednesday at 12.45.
Please confirm that you will be
there.
Yours sincerely
A. Harper.”
“Yipee,” whooped Napper. “Go easy,”
gasped Mr Billingham. “You’re not at a football match.” “I reckon I’m halfway
to getting a job with the United,” exclaimed Napper. “Then when I’m old enough
I can sign on if I’m good enough.” “Being a professional footballer is no
life,” warned Mr Billingham. “It’s the life for me,” said Napper, and stuffing
the newspapers into the big bag, set off on his rounds. He was in the street
not far from the football ground, when Brad Bales came along on his new bike.
He was bitterly resentful of the prospect of Napper getting a job with the
United. “You won’t win the league,” he said as he went by. He turned his head.
“The Scarlets will wipe you up—” There was a crunch as, not looking where he
was going, he bumped over a low kerb and into a lamp-post. Brad fell backwards
into the gutter while his bike, with a buckled front wheel, dropped on top of
him. “Lummy, you want wiping up now,” chuckled Napper.
THE CAR CRASHER
On Wednesday morning Mr Tasker, the School Attendance Officer and no
friend of Napper, backed his small saloon car out of his garage and into the
road. He was getting out to close the garage doors, when Brad came along and
touched his cap politely. Mr Tasker knew him well as he played for the Select,
the School team run by the Truant Officer.
This
season it had not brought him much reflected glory, as it was bottom of the
Minor League. “Have you heard that Napper Todd is after a job with the United,
sir?” asked Brad. It was like waving a red rag at a bull. Mr Tasker had always
been Napper’s enemy. Also he’d been made to look a fool, when his efforts to
send Grandpa back into the Old Folk’s Home, and Napper to an approved school
had failed. “Tut, tut,” he exclaimed. “Is that really a fact.” “Yessir,” said
Brad. “He’s going to see the manager at a quarter to one. The United are going
away today but Mr Stoner is seeing him first.” “I shall intervene,” snapped Mr
Tasker. “The boy is unreliable and deceitful. I will call on Mr Stoner and give
him my views. He will listen to me. Brad grinned nastily. He felt sure himself
that the manager would take the opinion of such an important official as the
Truant Officer. Napper put in the morning handing the tools to Careful Cowell,
the plumber for whom he worked. They were engaged in putting in a new cistern
at a warehouse. Napper who was keeping a close eye on the time, remarked that
it was getting on for half-past twelve. “No, it’s only twenty-past,” said
Careful Cowell looking at his watch. “Still, you can push off if you like. I
hope you get the job. Summer ain’t a good time for plumbers, so I might not
have been able to keep you. A good hard winter with plenty of frost is what we
want for our trade.” Napper had a good wash—he needed it—and then stripped off
his overalls. He was wearing his best clothes underneath and, after he’d rubbed
the dust off, the polish on his boots would have satisfied the eye of a
sergeant-major. Full of hope, he rode to the football ground. He left his bike
against the fence and walked through the gateway into the enclosure at the back
of the grandstand. A motor-coach was standing there. That afternoon the United
were leaving for a hotel near Wembley, where they were staying until the Cup
Final. Billy Bindle, the trainer, and Brad came out of the grandstand carrying
a big hamper. Watched by the driver, they lifted it into the luggage
compartment at the back of the vehicle. “Now, are you sure all the boots are
in?” Bindle asked sharply. “Yes, I checked them,” said Brad. “That’s the lot,
then,” remarked Bindle. As the driver closed the luggage compartment, the
trainer beckoned to Napper. “Come and wait inside, my lad,” he said. “Mr Stoner
will send for you when he’s ready. He’s very busy as you can guess, but he’s
going to fit you in.” Brad’s expression was sour, as he watched Napper go into
the grandstand with the trainer. “What’s keeping Tasker?” he muttered. “Why
hasn’t he turned up?” Brad hurried to the gateway and looked down the street.
At almost the same moment, the Attendance Officer turned the corner in his car.
He’d been held-up at the police court where he’d been giving evidence against
parents for not sending their children regularly to school. Riding with him was
Uncle Herbert whom he’d picked up to help blacken Napper’s character. “He’s in
the nick of time,” exclaimed Brad gleefully and, with a swing of his arm,
signalled Mr Tasker through the gateway. Brad turned and uttered a screech of
alarm. In looking for Mr Tasker, he hadn’t noticed that the driver was backing
the motor-coach. “Stop!” Brad yelled. With a bellow of alarm, Mr Tasker saw the
back of the coach looming over him. He braked but was going too fast to stop.
There was a tremendous crash as his car rammed the coach. The radiator was
smashed and a wheel knocked off. The fender on the back of the coach was
snapped off, but otherwise it did not appear to suffer a great deal of damage.
The sound of the mishap brought people rushing out from the grandstand. Mr
Stoner, Billy Bindle, Miss Harper and Napper were among those who dashed out.
Dan Samson, the goalkeeper, Willie West, the inside-right, and Ron Harland, the
right-half, were among the players who rushed to the scene. Mr Tasker tottered
out of his car. Uncle Herbert discovered he had bitten his tongue and seemed to
think he was bleeding to death. “Why didn’t you look where you were going?”
shouted the bus driver angrily. Brad tried to slink away, but Mr Tasker pointed
a bony finger at him. “That young imbecile waved me in,” he snarled. “I never,”
wailed Brad. “Yes, you did,” snapped Miss Harper, the terror of the United. “I
was looking out of the office window and saw you.” Mr Tasker looked at his
damaged car and his rage increased. “I wonder you haven’t found out Bales
before,” he roared. “He’s shiftless and untruthful.” Mr Stoner gave a stern
nod. He had put up with a lot from Brad. This was the last straw. “We’ve
finished with you, Bales,” he said grimly. “We’ll pay you and you can go.”
Brad’s complexion would have matched up with a beetroot. He was wild. He’d lost
one of the most-coveted jobs in Riverport because he’d tried to play a last
dirty trick. Miss Harper snapped at him to come and get his money and his cards
and with a sullen look at Napper, he trudged away. Mr Tasker turned on Mr
Stoner. “I understand you are thinking of offering employment to Napper Todd,”
he snapped. Mr Stoner eyed him coldly. “What business is it of yours?” he
asked. “It is my business to know the character of all the boys,” spluttered Mr
Tasker indignantly. “I don’t give much for your judgment,” retorted Mr Stoner.
“You seem to have forgotten that you gave Bales an excellent testimonial. It
was largely on your recommendation that we took him on.” Mr Tasker gulped as if
he’d got a tennis ball stuck in his mouth and Uncle Herbert sniffed miserably.
Mr Stoner told Napper to come along and took him into his office. The interview
was held-up by a telephone call. Then the manager hung up the receiver and
regarded Napper. “You’re team, the South End Rovers, had been doing pretty
well, hasn’t it?” he asked. “Yes, sir, we’ve won the Minor Cup and now we’re
after the league,” said Napper breathlessly. Mr Stoner smiled. He asked Napper
a number of questions and seemed satisfied by the answers. “How will this suit
you?” he asked. “You can help the groundsman during the summer and then take
over Bales’ job as boot boy when the football season comes along.” Napper could
not answer for a moment. All his dreams were coming true. “I can start next
Monday, sir,” he blurted out. “Aren’t you going to ask how much we’re going to
pay you?” inquired the manager. Napper, would have done it for nine pence a
week, mumbled that he didn’t mind what he was paid. “We shall start you on
three pounds a week,” stated Mr Stoner. “Mind you give us value for the money—”
His phone rang and he told the boy to run along. Napper managed to walk calmly
out of the room but, when he’d closed the door, he went down the corridor doing
handsprings. He got outside to find that the coach had been drawn away from Mr
Tasker’s car which resembled a concertina. For the moment nobody was about.
Napper was walking by the coach when he gave a sniff. He could smell burning
rubber. Then he saw a faint drift of smoke issuing from the coach’s luggage
compartment He yelled an alarm, turned the handle of the compartment and
staggered back as the acrid smoke gushed into his face. He snatched a deep
breath and plunged into the smoke. Flames started to lick up. Billy Bindle came
haring out of the grandstand. “The kit!” he shouted. “Get an extinguisher—” Out
of the smoke and flames pitched the hamper. Out of the hissing acrid cloud flew
the two bulky kitbags in which the players’ football boots were packed. Napper
appeared like a wrath in the smoke, staggered and fell gasping in the trainer’s
arms. Dan Samson and other players rushed out with extinguishers and smothered
the flames in foam. By the time the fire was put out the luggage compartment
was gutted and the back of the coach badly damaged. There was no doubt that the
outburst had been caused by the collision with Mr Tasker’s car, possibly by
damage to the wiring of the rear lamps, which had created a short circuit. Dan stood
back with a dribbling extinguisher. “That lad had a good nerve,” he exclaimed.
“Ay, he deserves a medal,” said Willie West. “I wouldn’t have fancied playing
at Wembley in a new pair of boots.”
THE
BANADAGED HERO
Storky legged it from the corporation bus into
“Lummy, I nearly didn’t make it,”
he panted. “Trevor Hall wasn’t ‘arf in a mess.” “D’you mean Harry Hall’s
brother?” exclaimed Horace Knibbs, the Rover’s secretary, goalie and captain.
“Naw, I’m talking about a railway engine, one of the Hall class,” growled
Storky. “Where’s our Napper?” “We’ve heard he’s in hospital,” wailed Horace.
“He’s been burned to death or nearly.” Storky suddenly grinned. “It’s the first
time I’ve seen a corpse riding a bike,” he chortled. Napper dropped off his
bike and ran across the goal. He was in his football togs, but his hands, arms,
and head were swathed in bandages. “Are you fit to play?” gasped Horace. “I
haven’t come to watch,” retorted Napper. “What about your burns?” Horace asked.
“They’re not too bad,” said Napper. “I’ll manage.” The referee blew his whistle
and Horace went to toss up. Two or three hundred people had turned up to see
the vital match and the League Shield was on view on the veranda of the
pavilion.
The line-up was:—
Scarlets—Wickham;
Marbell,
Rovers—Horace;
Les Lee, Barney Moore; Syd Smith, Bert Poole, Tadpole Thomas; Storky, Napper,
Sandy Shaw, Dan Davis, Bodger Bird.
Napper could feel his hands
stinging, and there was still a tightness in his chest from the fumes he had
inhaled. It didn’t show when he promptly made a dash. He screwed the ball out
to Storky who toed it high over the goal. “Sorry,” muttered Storky. “Ain’t got
my sights yet.” The Scarlets were cheered on by their supporters. Brad Bales
had turned up in the hope of seeing the Rovers licked, and added his voice. The
danger man was Will Wick, the outside-left, who had a rare turn of speed. He
ran away from Syd Smith, dodged Les Lee and centred. Horace jumped out to punch
the ball and missed it altogether. Cliff Cairns had the open goal to aim at—and
shot wide. “Whew,” gasped Napper. “What was Horace thinking about?” The
Scarlets had a let-off just afterwards, when
In the glory of Wembley, with the flags flying
and the vast crowd cheering. Napper ran to fetch the ball. With a neat kick, he
returned it to the field for the Branston Wanderers goalkeeper to take a
goal-kick. Napper’s burns had responded to treatment and he had the bandages
removed. It was the greatest day of Napper’s life. It all seemed like a dream.
He’d had lunch with the team and travelled with them to the stadium. He’d been
in the dressing-room, he’d listened to the community singing and to the music
of the Guards. He’d witnessed the Royal presentation ceremony. Then, just
before the interval, the sun seemed to go dim as Dan Samson was beaten all ends
up by a crashing shot from the Wanderers dashing centre-forward, Turnhouse. In
the second-half the United’s attacked hard without being able to penetrate the
Wanderers defence in depth. It did not seem to be United’s day when Willie West
hit the cross-bar. From the rebound the ball was cleared. Napper watched
tensely as the Wanderers worked it down the field. “Gosh, if they score again
now we’ll be licked,” he muttered desperately. He held his breath as the ball
was flicked to Turnhouse. The supporters of the Wanderers uttered a tremendous
roar. It looked as if the centre-forward must score, as he raced down on the
goal. Dan Samson started to go out of goal to narrow the angle. The thwack of
boot on ball as Turnhouse shot was heard all over the ground. Napper saw the
ball streak just wide of the post. He jumped and put his head to it. The force
of the impact knocked him over but, from his head, the ball flew into Samson’s
hands. He dabbed it down on the line and, without taking a run, kicked to
Harland. The right-half flashed the ball ahead to Willie West and the
inside-right was closing in on the Branston goal before Napper had picked
himself up. Wham! Willie shot and then a terrific din broke out as the ball
flashed into the net. Dan turned and beamed on Napper. “That was your goal,” he
boomed. “You were so quick that we caught ‘em bending.” Napper grinned
delightedly and rubbed his head. Gosh, the shot had been a stinger. Still,
under the circumstances, he wouldn’t have worried if he had a headache for a
week. The goal put the United right back in the game and just on time Willie completed
a flashing passing movement with the goal that won the cup. Napper watched,
spellbound, as the players went up to receive the Cup and their medals. He was
still standing there when they came down again to get their photographs taken
with the Cup. It was Dan Samson who broke Napper’s reverie. “Where’s Napper?”
the goalie asked. “He deserves to hold the Cup. It was his header that helped
us to score.” Napper was grabbed by the joyful United players. He was hoisted
on their shoulders and, with the Cup in his hand and to the roars of the
spectators, he was carried into the dressing-room. Napper was the happiest lad
on earth. He’d had a tough time for many months, but now he felt on top of the
world. It just showed that if a chap stuck things out and did his best, he got
his reward in the end.
THE END
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007
