THE VALUE OF SPORT.
I.
It all started in a simple way. We were sitting about the hut, smoking
and reading, when Beefy blew in with the information that he had
managed to get the company officer to challenge B Company (our deadly
rivals) to a cross–country run next day.
‘Are they taking it on?’ asked Ginger.
‘You bet they are. And I hope we knock lumps off them. They are a lousy
lot; always swinging the lead about being top–dogs. It’s up to us to
squash them.’
‘You ought to be pole–axed,’ muttered Ginger.
‘Why?’
‘Haven’t we got enough to do without plugging for ten miles through
mud, brambles, cows’ dung, and water? If you’d develop your old fat
head, you’d do better. Cross–country run—confound you!’ and he hit
Beefy with a barrack pillow.
‘Silly ass! You’re a book–sucking hog. You want a run to shake your
liver up. Every blessed thing that comes up, you veto it. Why can’t
you follow the crowd?’
‘That’s for you, with your Clapham instincts and shallow brain. You
think Rugger and such like the be–all and end–all of our existence.
Sport was invented only to keep down your adipose tissue and turn you
into a decent citizen. I’ve got beyond that. Joseph Conrad will do me
to–morrow. I’m not on for your “follow the crowd” business.’
All this talk, although it sounds hostile, was not really so. It was
that frank byplay so characteristic of the army. Ginger regarded Beefy
as an over–healthy animal, only fit for Rugger and philandering; while
Beefy held the view that Ginger’s physical laziness was a menace to the
company and the Empire. In short, Beefy was all sport and Ginger was
all books. Each was a champion in that controversy which threatens to
remodel our present public school system.
‘Come on, boys,’ I said; ‘gather round the fire and let’s have this
out. Is Beefy right or wrong?’
‘He is, and he isn’t,’ said Billy Greens, looking up from his
beautifully kept notebook. ‘When he talks about beating B Company I’m
with him. But behind it all is that insane idea that games make the
superman, and those who won’t play are damned. Sport is all right in
its own place.’
‘Hear, hear, old Pieface!’ commented Ginger.
‘It’s like this, boys,’ said Nobby Clarke. ‘Beefy is an ass, in the
mental sense of the term. And he knows it. He’s hanging on to this
Games Committee job for all he’s worth. His whole reasoning is this:
“The company commander is an old Blue. If I [Beefy] can’t pull through
with my headpiece, I’ll pull through with my zest for games.” And he’ll
do it, for the old commandant believes in sportsmen. Beefy will make
a jolly good sub., but a rotten general. He will carry out any order,
and his rude health might even get him the V.C., but he couldn’t give
an intelligent order to save his life. He’s a prize–fighter, not an
officer. After the war you’ll see him as a chucker–out at a pub., or
throwing cannon–balls about the music–hall stage.’
‘That’s your rotten Nonconformist creed,’ shouted Beefy. ‘You got that
in one of those suburban schools where they breed lawyers, Radicals,
and Socialists. You can’t see any good in the public school system. I’m
not a saint, I know; but I do things in the light, and am not afraid to
talk about them. You’re a measly Covenanter. You couldn’t do ten miles
at a trot to save your old face. But you _can_ argue the point, and
pose as a moralist. I know your type. If games have made me a healthy
animal, I rejoice. I can take my punishment. Nobby, you’re a ruddy
fool.’
‘Question!’ ejaculated Tosher.
‘Oh! Here’s this “gaw–damned” materialist again,’ remarked Ginger
maliciously.
‘These two beauties [Ginger and Beefy] are wash–outs. One’s from
Oxford; the other’s from Cambridge. Oxford has made Ginger into a
cock–eyed wowser, and Cambridge has turned Beefy into a base–ball
looney. Ginger couldn’t sell ham, and Beefy can’t write a decent
letter. One’s all Homer; the other’s all beef. Out there [Canada]
these fellows don’t cut ice. They can’t work, and they won’t work. You
can see them with their tongues hanging out in Calgary saloons, or
cow–punching on Armour’s beef–canning stations. They ain’t soft, but
they ain’t wise. They’re all right in dress–suits doing the fox–trot,
but in dungarees—why, they just make me smile. And this prime cup of
oxo [Beefy] has got a lien on sport, but I’d get a bush–whacking kid to
lick him soft at wrestling, and knock him sick at running. You’re all
jaw and no push in this gaw–damned island.’
‘Now, I wonder if you’re right,’ said Billy, closing his notebook with
a snap and jumping up.
‘I guess so.’
‘Give him fits, old Pieface,’ shouted Ginger.
‘What are your qualifications to act as judge?’
‘I’m nootral, and they make us wise out West.’
‘But you’ve only seen the froth of things, and not the substance.
Ginger isn’t Oxford, and Beefy isn’t Cambridge. Ten minutes in the Old
Country doesn’t confer the right to shake us up and blow traditions
into smithereens.’
‘Tradition’s all moonshine, Billy.’
‘Perhaps; but all your grain–lumpers and pork–packers come here for
wives and knighthoods. You’d sell your soul to sleep in Buckingham
Palace, and pawn your trousers to eat with the Cecils.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tosher, ‘if we wanted to push through a
twenty–thousand–dollar deal.’
‘But aren’t we sportsmen? That’s the point.’
‘Sure! But sport won’t pay the rent or win the war, old child. You
can’t kill Huns with hockey–sticks, or use tennis–balls in a barrage.
Horse–sense and push–an’–go is a live scheme. You’re real good, real
kind; but it makes me tired to see the nootrals selling your grub to
the Kaiser, and using your papers to get the plans of the latest push.
You ain’t wise over here.’
‘And what’s good about us? Anything?’
‘Your soul. It’s as clean as the brook, and true as Lincoln. You’re
fools; but you ain’t willing fools. You’re old; but yet you’re green.
This island is a happy hunting–ground for Jews, Germans, and assassins.
But we can’t see you fall. The Old Land is Our Land. It’s the Old Home,
Billy, and that’s why I’m in. God help the Huns when I go out! I’ll
go “West” before this land goes “West.” But, say, I’ve got to go. I’m
dining with a real live lord. He wants to see a bucking broncho from
the West. Cheerio, boys!’ and Tosher stepped out into the night.
‘Well, that’s the greatest artist Canada has produced,’ said Ginger.
‘That’s the true Imperialism,’ shouted Nobby, ‘but you don’t understand
it. All the drivel you got in the Union won’t wash in practical
politics. Tosher can make rings round you, and’——
‘Look here, boys,’ I said; ‘let’s choke Nobby and Ginger off. The
question before the House is sport. We’ve got to run the other company
to–morrow, and it’s up to us to see Beefy through. It’s a matter of
_esprit de corps_, and we can’t allow the other crowd to beat us.
Sport is the backbone of the army. A good sportsman is usually a
gentleman. All the Rugger men are either dead, wounded, fighting, or
training for commissions. If they can’t sell night–shirts or soap,
they _can_ obey orders, and there’s no doubt they played the game in
August 1914. Never mind about “after the war.” We can leave that to
Nobby’s crowd. They’ll be running the show. We shall be much happier
ranching or hoofing it with the Lost Legion. It will be a much better
thing to beat the other company to–morrow than to sit here reading all
the Socialistic tripe of H. G. Wells or the maudlin political tosh of
Morley. D—— it all, there’s a war on! If Ginger and Nobby won’t turn up
to–morrow, then they are rotters, and we should out them.’
‘Duck them,’ muttered Beefy.
‘How the—— do you know we sha’n’t be there to–morrow?’ roared Ginger,
getting roused.
‘You’ve vetoed the run, haven’t you?’
‘Have I? Wait and see.’
II.
It was a cold, crisp day, with a keen, but healthy, breeze. The ground
was not too hard, and excellent for the show. We were delighted, for
there’s nothing like a glorious scramble across God’s green acres. It
cleans the lungs, refreshes the brain, and gives one a zest for the
things that matter. I am no marvel at the business, yet in pitting
one’s strength against a fellow–man in friendly rivalry, one does
acquire the sporting instinct, which is a fair instinct. And to an
officer it _does_ give a sense of values, a ready appreciation of all
that is good in human nature.
Our company officer, Captain Bloggs, was delighted with the weather
prospect. He was an old Blue, and he _did_ want his ‘boys’ to knock
spots off the other company. And, strange to say, when we all turned
out in running attire, we found Ginger, Nobby, and Tosher already
there. There was a suspicion of malicious fun in Ginger’s eyes. I
scented something, and said, ‘Look here, Beefy; there’s some move on.
These fellows are grinning like cats.’
‘Oh, d—— them! they won’t be in my way. They’re soft, and out of
training’——
Bang! went the pistol just then. We went off. Two hundred men in
running–kit make a pretty show. Our school, I may rightly say, were
the cream of manhood, chosen spartans, and a sight for the gods. This
was no preparatory school scramble. These fellows were all in splendid
condition, and it was a treat to slog along and watch them. How
easily they ambled, limbs and will working in perfect harmony! Hurdles
and dikes were taken with an easy bound; no puffing, no exertion, no
ungainly slithering on the other side. Just a leap and over. I am quite
sure that two hundred Hun cadets could not have done so well. Then we
reached the open, the crowd spread out, and the stragglers were more
easily marked. These were the elderly men, but right merrily they did
their best. _They wanted to win._ Wasn’t that a perfect spirit? And
isn’t it the basis of our true nature? We may love to be top–dog, but
we _do_ prefer to get it off our own bat. If we have been very foolish
in worshipping cups, caps, and blazers before the war, still it helped
us at Mons, and certainly at Ypres. As I watched these fine fellows
sprint by my side something welled into my heart; it was the pride of
school, the pride of race, the mysterious something which makes us give
our all to keep the old flag flying. I may be no Christian, but I do
love my fellow–men and my country.
‘Hello! the game’s opening,’ I muttered on looking ahead. I was a bit
behind, for I had been dreaming. Away in the front was Beefy. He was
heavy, but a splendid athlete. His staying–power was good, and he had
no nerves. With all his faults, Beefy was a sportsman, and if there
was one man consumed with the craving for victory, it was he. I saw a
long figure slogging steadily by his side. The style caught my fancy,
so I pushed on, and found it was Ginger. Close behind was Billy Greens,
the parson, and gently dodging by him was Nobby. Where was Tosher? I
looked behind. He was dogging me. I smiled, but inwardly. I was just a
bit cut. These men were out for ‘blood.’
I spurted out of my stride, hell for leather, took a good–sized dike,
then pushed hard across a wide meadow. It was good going, and my
nerves were all out. This was unwise, but I didn’t want Tosher to head
me off. On reaching a wood I looked back. He was just behind. With a
curse I dashed on, but my foot went plump into a rabbit–hole, and I was
violently thrown, wrenching my ankle.
‘Are you hurt, old boy?’ asked Tosher.
‘Yes,’ I grunted.
‘Looks bad. Wait and I’ll get you a bandage.’
He ran to a stream, tore the two arms off his running–shirt, soaked
them, came back, and bandaged the now swollen foot.
‘You had better go on now, Tosher. I’ll hobble home.’
‘No, child. I reckon I’ll carry you.’
‘Get off, man. I’ll manage somehow.’
However, it was useless. I was hoisted on his back and carried through
the ranks of the grinning stragglers, who shouted, ‘Did ums do it—John
Brown?’
I did feel an ass.
III.
Beefy, however, was keeping the flag flying. He saw Ginger, but paid no
attention to him. His eye was on Corporal Jason, the leading man of the
other company, and a magnificent harrier. This fellow had to be beaten
at all costs. He was not ‘all out’—his pace was too steady; so Beefy
plugged a couple of yards behind him. For four miles this went on, and
all the while Ginger ambled as easily as a deer. He was one of those
who are natural athletes, and who do not need to train. Nature endows
them with amazing reserve–power. All the time Ginger was studying the
bulldog tenacity of Beefy—the steady plod, the quick eye and brain
following Corporal Jason’s every move. It was like dog tracking dog;
and yet it wasn’t. Above the cunning byplay was the soul of _esprit de
corps_. Both were out to win. _And both meant to._
They reached a wide stretch of pasture–land. Jason stretched himself
and pushed on. Beefy followed, a little blown, yet able to hold.
The supreme test was near. Ginger saw Beefy clench his jaws, raise
his head, and point out the toes to get the fullest stride on the
green–sward. Jason was undoubtedly the better man, but there was that
_something_ which kept his rival fighting on.
_Ginger commenced to admire Beefy._
At last they reached the open track near the camp. Ahead was the
winning–post. There an excited crowd had gathered, including Captain
Bloggs, who was fearfully anxious as he watched the struggle between
Jason and Beefy.
‘Go on, Jason!’
‘Stick it, Beefy!’
These cries rent the air, and for a second threw Beefy off guard. Jason
made a terrific spurt. With an almost superhuman effort Beefy recovered
and levelled up. Close behind was that amazing devil, Ginger, _ambling
easily_. Somehow, no one counted Ginger as being in the piece. He
simply looked like a runner–up—nothing more.
‘Hell for leather, Jason!’
‘Come on, Beefy!’
These were the last cries. Jason made another magnificent leap; the
prize seemed his, but his foot slipped on the wet soil, and Beefy shot
past.
‘You’re winning, Beefy! Go hard!’
It looked like that. _Then_, just ten yards from the tape, all were
dumbfounded to see Ginger leap forward like a deer and breast the line
three yards ahead of Beefy Jones.
A terrific cheering burst from the spectators, but my heart was sick
for poor old Beefy. However, as he burst through the tape he collided
with Ginger, and shouted, ‘Good, Ginger—we’ve won—and I’m happy!’
‘Yes—the Oxford finish.’
‘All right, old cock; come and have a Cambridge bath.’
Ginger used up a whole cake of Sunlight soap.
* * * * *
That night Billy Greens found Beefy reading a serious–looking book.
‘What are you swotting?’
‘Oh, one of Ginger’s books.’
‘What’s the subject?’
‘“How to be Happy though Intelligent.”’