BRITISH COMICS
NINETY-MINUTE NAPPER
First
episode taken from The Hotspur issue: 930 September 4th 1954
STONER
SHOCKS
Napper Todd, a growing lad of sixteen, finished his
tea. A faint aroma of kippers hung in the air. It was an evening in August.
“Let’s hurry and do the washing up,” he said urgently.
Grandpa Todd chuckled gruffly. “I’ll wash up,” he said. “Go and have your game
of football.” “How did you guess what I was going to do?” exclaimed Napper. “I
didn’t have to do any guessing,” said Grandpa. “You haven’t eaten you tea so
quickly since April.” Napper grinned. “It’s only a kick about with the lads,”
he said. “Ain’t you finished with the Rovers?” asked Grandpa. “I shall keep an
eye on ‘em,” answered Napper on his way out. Napper stayed with his Grandpa, a
former tug-boat engineer, in the ground floor of a house in Hill Terrace, which
provided a view of the estuary at Riverport. His father, a ship’s engineer, had
been killed in an explosion at sea. Uncle Herbert, a debt collector, and Aunt
Cora, had the upstairs rooms in the house. If anybody had accused Napper of
being football daft he could not have denied it. Now he’d reached a stage when
his great ambition of being signed on as a junior professional by Riverport
United, the town’s First Division club, was likely to be fulfilled. Napper was
boot boy at the club, and during the summer, had made himself useful both on
the ground and in the office. He would soon be seventeen, and then he was sure
that Mr William Stoner, the manager, would sign him on. The United ran four
teams, the league side, the Central league side, the A team, which played in
the County Combination, and the Athletic, which appeared in the Eastshire
Junior League, and which consisted of amateurs, lads who were likely to make
the grade. Without flattering himself, for trainer Billy Bindle had told him
the same, Napper felt pretty sure of his place as inside-right in the A team.
Napper left the house by the back door and decided his cycle’s front tyre
needed a spot of air. He was doing some vigorous pumping when an upstairs
window opened. Uncle Herbert poked his head out. “I heard a bit of gossip in
the town, Napper,” he said in his whining voice. “Is it true that Mr Stoner has
left the United?” Napper chuckled. “He was there half an hour ago telling the
groundsman what he wanted done,” he answered. Uncle Herbert sniffed. “It just
shows you can’t always believe what you’re told,” he said. Aunt Cora appeared
at the window. She had a beaky nose and lips like razor blades. “How much did
the sweep charge for doing your chimney?” she asked. “I think it was six and
six,” said Napper. “Six and six,” snapped Aunt Cora. “And you let him take the
soot away as well! I won’t pay such an outrageous charge! Herbert, you’ll have
to borrow some brushes and sweep our chimney!” Napper left ‘em to it, and rode
on the pedal to the back gate. Then he headed for the flats, a piece of made-up
ground on the waterfront where there were numerous football pitches. The view
up the river had altered during the summer with the completion of a big new
factory for the Werner Engineering Company, the manager Mr Falke Werner, had
displayed a great enthusiasm for football and had been elected as chairman of
the United in succession to old Alderman Hogan. There had been a lot of
criticism in Riverport about a stranger coming into the town and getting on to
the board of directors straightaway, but it appeared that Falke Werner and one
or two associates had contrived to buy the majority of the shares. It wasn’t a
matter which had interested Napper greatly, for he always looked on William
Stoner as the boss. Stoner was a dour, reserved man, but he knew football
inside out. Under his management the United had won the cup and then the
Championship. Napper soon arrived on the flats. He was going to have a game
with his old team, South End Rovers. The lads all understood that he’d be
playing in a higher grade of football this season. But Napper had helped them
to league and cup success in the previous season. Their numbers had increased
and Bert Poole had been elected captain. On a bench sprawled a gawky lad in a
British Railways cap and overalls. “Hiya, Storky,” whooped Napper. “Hiya,
Napper,” yawned Storky Stookey, who was a fireman on the railway and played
outside-right for the Rovers—though his promising play had been noted by Mr
Stoner. “Why are you stretched out there?” taunted Napper. “I’m tired,” said
Storky. “Come off it,” growled Napper and rolled him on to the ground. Tosh
Tooth came striding along. He worked on the United’s ground staff and was also
in Mr Stoner’s notebook as a goalkeeper to be remembered. “Hiya, Tooth Tosh,”
said Storky from the ground. “I thought your game was rugger?” “It is, but I’m
going to play soccer,” replied Tosh. The other Rovers arrived in a crowd, and
Horace Knibbs, the secretary, brought the old ball. “Come on, Bert, let’s get
organised,” whooped Napper. “Remember the Hungarians and what we’re going to do
to ‘em in a few years.” Two teams were arranged and from the kick-off Napper,
who hadn’t let off training during the summer, ran through the opposition and
scored a goal. A minute later, from a rasping centre by Storky, Napper headed
another goal. It was his skill with his head that had earned him his nickname. By
this time youths and boys were playing on nearly all the pitches. There was a
surprise when a Rolls-Royce, driven by a chauffer, turned off the roadway and
stopped on the flats. From a small shabby car that pulled up in the road, a
photographer got out. The man who was sitting by the chauffer got out. Napper
recognised him as Falke Werner, as he’d seen him once or twice at the ground.
With an affable look on his florid face, Werner opened the rear door of the
Rolls and at least twenty new footballs bounced out. Werner was a man under
forty with one hard chin and one soft underneath it! He was swiftly surrounded
by a crowd of boys. “I’m all for encouraging football,” he said breezily.
“There’s a new ball here for every team which plays on the flats!” Cheers burst
from the lads. The photographer was busy as Werner distributed the footballs.
The Rovers shoved Bert Poole into the queue and he duly received a ball. “Gee,
it’s one of the best makes,” he chirped when he brought it to show his team mates.
“You’ve got a good boss, Napper.” “I blew the balls up,” chuckled Napper, “but
I never guessed what they were for.” Somebody called for. “Three cheers for Mr
Werner,” and the response was terrific. “It’s given me a lot of pleasure to
present the footballs,” Werner said when the cheering subsided. “I’m the
chairman of the United now, and I can tell you that you’ll be watched and that
any lad who looks worth a trial will get it.” This remark was greeted with more
applause, for Werner spoke in a convincing way and made the youngsters feel
that the eye of the United would be upon them whenever they played in the
future. The Rolls-Royce glided away and the games resumed. Napper scored five
more goals in the first half. Then he was shifted to the other side and managed
to equalize the scoring before dusk. From the flats, Napper biked into town,
heading for the office of the “Riverport Morning Post.” Each night he acted as
a runner for the reporters and sometimes did some telephoning. The cash he
picked up was more than useful, but he expected that when he became a
professional footballer he would have to give it up. Napper used the side
entrance and went bounding up the steps to the corridor from which the
editorial offices opened out. In the reporters’ room the walls within reach of
each telephone were covered in penciled phone numbers, shortened notes, and
general doodling. Dave Jennings, the chief reporter, had one pipe in his mouth
and three or four more within reach. Extra half-crowns often came Napper’s way
for bringing in news items. “Have you heard about Mr Werner giving away
footballs?” he asked. “I saw a photographer was there.” “Yes, we know,” grunted
A NEW BROOM
Napper’s first job when he got to the ground in the
morning was to go down to the boiler-room under the grandstand and stoke up.
He’d taken on the task because the dressing-room attendant and odd job man was
on the sick-list.
He opened the furnace and raked out the slag. The
players would have baths when they finished their training session. Napper was
far from getting over the shock of Stoner’s sensational resignation. It was the
talk of the town since the news was published in the “Morning Post.” A man like
Stoner could run a club for twenty years without leaving the imprint of his
strong personality upon it, and it was doubtful if the photograph of Werner
distributing footballs to youngsters on the Flats would reduce the widespread
criticisms of his allowing the manager to leave the United. Napper got the
shovel, stoked the furnace with coke, pulled the damper well out, and ran up
the steps. He went to the boot room and was putting the players running shoes
on the table when trainer Billy Bindle, looking far less cheery than usual,
came in. “You won’t have much to do this morning, Napper,” he said. “You can
train with the players.” “Gee, thanks,” exclaimed Napper. Then he blurted out.
“What d’you think of Mr Stoner going?” “Least said, soonest mended,” muttered
Bindle. “I hope you won’t be leaving, too,” Napper said. “We’ll see how things
go,” rapped Bindle. “Take the shoes across to the dressing-room.” Half an hour
later Napper was out on the pitch doing stretches and bends with the P.T.
squad. The players were all flabbergasted by Stoner’s departure. As Nim Galt,
the captain said. “He was a proper schoolmaster, but you knew where you were with
him and he gave you a square deal.” Billy Bindle had just given the squad a
stand easy, and some of them needed it, when Falke Werner strolled down the
gangway and came out on to the pitch. He regarded the players affably. “Well,
chaps, I suppose my ears ought to be burning for I expect I’ve been called some
hard names this morning,” he said. “I’m sorry Bill Stoner’s gone. We didn’t see
eye to eye over one or two things, but I was astonished when he tore up his
contract. I’m not contemplating any drastic changes. Why should I? I’m talking
to the champions. I want to see the United stay at the top of the ladder, so
we’ll carry on the same good old way. Go on doing your best and we shall all be
happy.” There was no doubt that Werner had made a favourable impression, though
Willie West, the little inside-right, said he was too smooth-tongued for his
liking. Events over the next few days went according to routine, with Billy
Bindle in charge and Werner only occasionally glimpsed. On a Wednesday morning,
when the players had knocked off, Napper took three or four balls out to the
pitch. He wanted some shooting-in practice and Tosh was more than willing to
co-operate. From the far side of the penalty-spot Napper cracked in a shot at
which Tosh hurled himself but failed to touch. “Who d’you think you are,
Cannonball Kidd?” inquired Tosh. “I wish I could shoot as hard,” said Napper at
the mention of
WHAT’S THE
GAME?
Napper was stoking up on the Friday evening when Billy
Bindle called to him down the cellar steps. “Shan’t be a sec,” Napper answered.
He tossed in some more coke, shut the furnace door, and hurried to find out
what the trainer wanted.
Bindle stood in the corridor with a piece of paper on
which names had been penciled and some crossed out. “Napper, I’m short of an
outside-right for tomorrow,” he exclaimed. “Ed Bates should have played but
he’s got a bad cold.” He spoke of the promising winger who played for the
Colts. “D’you think you can get hold of Storky? It’ll be a big chance for him.”
“Gee, I’d like him to play,” said Napper excitedly. “I’ll contact him.” “Fine,”
grunted Bindle. “I want to win this game. Mr Bucke seems to think that his
former lads will make rings round us.” Napper wasn’t sure what Storky’s working
hours were that day. He was in the Special Link at the Riverport loco depot and
that meant that, with his driver, Mr Davis, he did not stay on the same job.
They might do anything from working a meat train to going out with the pilot
engine on an express. From the football ground Napper made straight for
Storky’s home. Mrs Stookey, who probably had a lot to put up with from her son,
but who remained cheerful, said he was knocking off at
ROOF-TOP
ANTICS
Napper had a piece of potato on his fork at the
dinner-table on Saturday, but, at a thud from overhead, did not put it
immediately in his mouth. “What’s going on upstairs?” he exclaimed. “Is Uncle
Herbert doing the rumba?”
Grandpa chuckled. “Didn’t you know he’s borrowed a set
of brushes and is sweeping their chimney?” he said. “Oh, he’s out to save a few
bob, is he?” grinned Napper and ate the potato. “Ay, but it sounds as if he’s
having a tug-of-war,” guffawed Grandpa. “Finish the potatoes, lad.” Napper
shook his head. “I’m playing football,” he said. “It ought to be a good game,”
remarked Grandpa. “I read a bit in the paper about it.” “They’re going to give
the gate money to the F.A. Benevolent Fund,” said Napper. “Have you got a
strong team?” Grandpa inquired. “It ought to be useful. It’s a mixture of A
team and Athletic players,” answered Napper. “Then if you show up well you
should be picked for the A team when the season starts,” said Grandpa. “That’s
what I’m out for,” Napper exclaimed. A thump interrupted him. Then the door
opened. Napper blinked and Grandpa gave a startled gasp at the sight of the
sooty figure in the doorway. Uncle Herbert was only recognizable by the whites
of his eyes. “Blow me down, have you been up the chimney?” exclaimed Grandpa.
“It’s no laughing matter,” wailed Uncle Herbert. “I’ve pushed the brush out of
the top of the chimney. Now the rod has come away and I can’t get it down.”
“How on earth did you get into such a mess?” Grandpa roared. “I was having a
look up the chimney when a piece of soot fell on m’ head,” spluttered Uncle
Herbert. Aunt Cora, whose face was so spotted with black that she seemed to be
wearing a veil, appeared behind her husband. “You never saw such a mess as the
sitting room’s in,” she moaned. “Herbert kicked the sack over when he was
trying to get the brush down.” “I’m wondering if Napper could crawl out of the
attic skylight and pull the brush out of the chimney,” Uncle Herbert pleaded.
“You be careful, Napper,” warned Grandpa. “Don’t take any risks.” “I’ll have a
look,” said Napper. He ran up to the attic, stood on Grandpa’s old sea chest,
and, after a struggle because the ratchet had rusted, pushed the skylight open.
He had another laugh at the sight of the brush sticking out of the chimney.
“Can you get it?” inquired Uncle Herbert, who had followed him up. Napper gave
a nod. He put another box on top of the sea chest and when he stood on it was
able to get his head and shoulders out at the side of the raised skylight. Then
he raised himself nimbly on his hands and elbows and squirmed out on the roof.
On hands and knees he made the ascent to the ridge and crawled along it towards
the chimney. Grandpa and Aunt Cora watched from the backyard. When Napper
reached the chimney he worked up into a standing position. He grasped the
brush, gave a hard tug, and fetched it out. Napper crept back along the ridge
and then began to wriggle down. He had to get to the side of the skylight since
it opened upwards. A slate slipped and started him sliding. An instant
afterwards there was a terrific crash as his legs went through the glass and
smashed the frame. He caught his ribs against the edge and dropped with a thud
on to the sea chest. Just missing the box which he had used for a step. Uncle
Herbert gawped at Napper as he sprawled across the chest. “Ave you hurt
yourself?” he asked.
A GREAT GAME
Billy Bindle shot a startled glance at Napper as he
limped into the dressing-room an hour later. “Have you fallen off your bike?”
he demanded.
Napper had a strip of plaster over his right eye.
There was a scratch across his cheek. There was a bandage round his right
wrist. His left thumb was tied up. Worse than these scratches was the ache in
his ribs. He forced a grin. “I’m all right,” he said. “I only slipped through a
skylight.” “I might be able to find a reserve,” exclaimed Bindle after further
details of the mishap. “Eh? No fear,” gasped Napper. “It’s nothing! I’ll be O
K.” Outside the spectators were pouring into the ground in large numbers than
had been anticipated. Supporters of the United came along to talk over the
sensational departure of Stoner and the initiation of the new regime. It could
certainly be said for Arnold Bucke that, during his period of management,
Riverport United Colts
Tosh Tooth; Danny Fuller (Captain), Reg Birtles; Nevil
Prentice, Ray Moore, Stan Swinton; Storky Stookey, Napper Todd, Les Laker, Tim
Thacker, Valentine Gomez.
Browning; Clark, Tranter; O’Farrell, Bowcott
(Captain), Harden; Twistle, Rae, Ollery, Robinson, Brickhill.
On the Riverport team, Danny Fuller, Ray Moore, and
Stan Swinton were 17-year-old professionals. Val Gomez was the son of West
Indian parents who had settled in the town. Nevil Prentice, the right-half, had
recently left the High School, where he captained the XI. Falke Werner had
genial smile for the people sitting near the directors’ box. He insisted that
the chairman of the supporters’ club should come and sit next to him. Arnold
Bucke appeared on the pitch with the teams, smiling broadly as usual, and
offering no objections when the photographers asked him to pose for them.
Napper, now that he was wearing shorts, showed that he also had a bandage round
his right knee. The moment Napper had been waiting for since May came when the
referee gave a long blast on his whistle for the kick-off and Les Laker, a
newcomer to Riverport, tapped the ball to him. Napper turned and passed the
ball back to Nevil Prentice and ran forward in case the half-back let him have
it again. When he ran he felt as if he had the stitch, but he did not slow
down. Prentice lobbed the ball. Napper leapt to it and headed wingwards. Storky
ran the ball along with his shins and then hooked it into the middle. Les Laker
should have tried a first-time bang. He trapped the ball and the chance was
lost as O’Farrell threw in a hard tackle. Something like five thousand
spectators had turned up, and they saw some bright play. The Wrenstone Colts
passed snappily. A mistake by Ray Moore let their centre-forward through.
Napper caught his breath anxiously. Ollery, his mop of hair tossing about,
blazed in a shot. Tosh made a pounce, smothered the ball, and kicked away. The
Riverport Colts forced a corner after Val Gomez had raced along the left wing.
From the flag-kick Napper nicked in a header. The goalie beat the ball out.
Napper nipped on to it again. Harden, who could give him a stone, banged into
him, and his elbow cracked on Napper’s ribs, in the sore spot. The referee did
not twig the offence, and, rocked off the ball, Napper lost possession. All
through the half Napper was on the move whenever the ball came his way, and he
was always alert to position himself in an open space for a pass. It was just
on half-time that Rae hit the crossbar with a hard drive. The ball reached
Robinson on the rebound, and he shot past Tosh from close range. The second
half soon became a thriller. With the crowd shouting for them, the Riverport
Colts attacked persistently, but met a keen defence. Napper was having a tough
game, for Harden kept throwing his weight at him. It was coming up to time when
Napper chased the ball in midfield and beat Rae to it. He came along fast,
although each step gave him a throb of pain. He showed the ball to Harden and
then tricked him. He slicked a pass out to Storky, who cut in and lashed it
back head high. Napper took off at full speed, rammed the ball with his head,
and saw it hit the back of the net as he fell. “Goal!” he yelled jubilantly.
The whistle went soon afterwards, and Napper limped off the field.
On Monday morning, whistling while he worked, Napper
was in the boot room when Billy Bindle looked in. “Mr Bucke’s asking for you,
Napper,” he said. “How are the cuts and bruises?” “Oh, I’m fine,” chirped
Napper. “You certainly didn’t let them affect your game,” chuckled the trainer.
Napper went cheerfully along to the office. Arnold Bucke sat behind his desk.
“Close the door, Todd,” he said, and gave a cough. “Ah, ha, I am afraid you
will be disappointed, but you will understand that we can’t keep a limitless
number of boys on the staff.” The smile faded from Napper’s face. “I’m very
sorry, but you will have to go,” said Bucke smugly. “Your standard of football
doesn’t quite come up to my standard, and so there is no point in your staying
on as ball boy. Ah, ha, I don’t believe in prolonging the agony, and so you can
collect a week’s wages and leave today.”
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007