The Olympic Games.
International encounters, in sport as in most else, are rarely attended
with perfect success, and the second great meeting of the revival of the
classic games at Athens has furnished no exception to the rule, for such
was the number of entries that competitors suffered considerable
discomfort in the matter of hotel accommodation.
As to the sport itself, whilst the British team cannot be said to have
acquitted themselves badly, one must candidly confess that more was
expected from them.
That America should win the 100 and 400 metres was generally
anticipated, as it sent out a peculiarly strong team which had the
advantage of a manager, trainer and doctor, and had, possibly, the most
complete organisation—excepting, perhaps, that of the Swedes—of any team
which has ever left a country to defend that country’s honour and pride.
The 100 metres race they did win in the good time of 11⅕ sec. by Hahn
(America), with Moulton (America) second, and Barker (Australia) third.
But that, even with Lightbody, America’s present one and half-mile
champion, magnificent runner as he is, they should win the 800 and 1,500
metres, was open to the greatest doubt. Even in the regrettable absence
of Hawtrey, owing to a swollen ankle, the result of his great five mile
race, it was thought that Crabbe and Halswell in the former, and Crabbe
and MacGough in the latter, were capable enough of beating our oversea
cousins, who at long distance events are proverbially weak. Yet none of
these were sufficiently good to hold Lightbody and Pilgrim, the former
of whom won the 1,500 metres in 4 min. 12 sec., whilst both of these men
put up such a splendid race in the 800 metres that Pilgrim, who had
previously beaten Halswell in the 400 metres in 53⅕ sec., only gained
the verdict on the tape by a breast in 2 min. 1½ sec. Halswell, who does
not seem so good at a half as a quarter, was third, and Crabbe fourth,
whilst the latter in the mile could do no better than fifth, MacGough
taking pride of place for Britain with second. This race was completely
thrown away by MacGough not showing to the front and making the pace,
for the four American representatives ran the race as they pleased, and
Lightbody proved faster than MacGough in the straight. The five miles
provided us with our only athletic victory, and in this Hawtrey showed
what a strong runner he is, as, making the pace all the way, he finished
little the worse for the journey in the good time of 26 min. 11⅘ sec.
Perhaps one should chronicle as an English victory—certainly as a
British one—the win of Sherring, of Canada, in the Marathon Road race.
This, the great event of the meeting, was looked on by the Greeks as of
the supremest importance, for ten years ago it was won for them by
Louis, their kinsman, and they felt quietly confident of repeating that
success. However, Sherring, who had been training on the road for seven
weeks, ran superbly, and after twelve miles out had no one near to cause
him a moment’s doubt, and in consequence he almost walked the last five
miles. His time showed what a great performance it was, being returned
as 2 hrs. 51 min. 23⅗ sec., beating Louis’ time of ten years ago by over
3½ min. Being of athletic build he is an ideal man for the journey,
weighing but 9 st. 4 lbs., and he finished remarkably strongly, whereas
a heavy man like Daly was in a woe-begone condition, footsore, weary,
and in a complete state of collapse, eight miles from home, where he
retired, being taken with several others to the hospital there, which
was soon in a crowded condition, as very few of the competitors got
beyond this point. The performance of Svanberg, a Swede, who ran second
to Hawtrey in the five-mile race, was excellent, he being but 7 min.
behind the winner, and Franc, the American—who would have stood a better
chance but for forcing the pace at the commencement when it was made
inexcusably hot—third, two minutes later. The three first places in the
Marathon cycle race were gained by Frenchmen, whilst Britain won the
Tandem by Matthews and Rushen; the 12½ miles through Pett; and secured
second in the mile and lap against time by the aid of Crowther, and in
the 1,000 metres with Bouffler. These last two men found their master in
Verri, of Italy, a rider of immense pluck and resource. Leahy won the
high jump with 5 ft. 11 in., and was second to O’Connor in the hop, skip
and jump with 13 metres 98. The latter’s jump was 14 metres 7½, but he
completely failed in the long jump, and had to be content with second
place to Prinstein, of America. The walking race was rather a fiasco,
owing to disqualifications—Wilkinson, our representative, was the first
to go—and ended in a win for Bonhag, of America, whilst a beautiful
walker in Linden, of Canada, was second. The 110 metre hurdle race fell
to Leavitt, of America, in 16⅕ sec., with Healey second, though if the
first race, which was unfortunately stopped by some official, had been
permitted, Healey, whose damaged foot was paining him badly, could
probably have won. In swimming, we won the mile through Taylor, with
Jarvis second, and in fencing the Englishmen were exceedingly
unfortunate and only robbed of a victory, after a draw, by the strange
award of the jury. Max Decuglis, for France, won the tennis singles, and
with his wife the mixed doubles; whilst Gouder also credited his country
with first position for a capital pole jump of 11 ft. 4 in. The great
success for the Greeks was the putting the stone, won by Georgantas.
Sheridan (America) won the discus throwing (free style) with
approximately 137 ft., beating his own record, and Jaervinem (Finland)
the restricted style (35 metre 17).
[Illustration:
PUNT GUNNING.
]
“A Clever Shot.”
The shores of the Wash, on the coast of South Lincolnshire, are bounded
by a large expanse of mud-flats, where hosts of waders collect soon
after the close of the breeding season and inhabit the innumerable
creeks of salt water that form a network over the foreshore. In August,
as soon as the season for shooting wildfowl has commenced, very fair
sport may be had walking the salt marsh with a 12-bore in quest of the
red shank, knot, or golden plover that feed amongst the pools and creeks
in the day-time; there are a good number also of curlew, and the
miniature curlew, or “curlew-jack,” as it is called in this part of the
world. As a good many of these are young birds they may be stalked
occasionally with success, or will approach within gun-range sometimes
if flying over—a thing that the parent birds, especially curlew, will
never do unless you are under good cover. Some grey duck, too, are about
at the early part of the season, sometimes singly, or in small lots;
later on in the autumn birds come from oversea that join our home-bred
birds and augment their numbers; then, also, come widgeon, pochard, and
sea-fowls of various kinds in the hard winters. These shallows, when
covered at high tide, offer a splendid field for punting. I knew a
doctor, of sporting proclivities, living in that neighbourhood, who kept
a two-handed punt at the foreshore, driving down from the village where
he lived sometimes for a shot at the ducks, if there was a prospect of
sport. These excursions in many cases were attended with poor success,
for, unless you are a professional gunner, living on the spot and always
ready, you miss most of the chances that offer, though, of course, any
one experienced in wildfowling knows well the uncertainties of the sport
and is prepared for disappointments; occasionally, however, there were
red-letter days, as that afternoon in December, when Ted L., the
doctor’s son, and I were out together, proved.
It was a bitterly cold day, with a blizzard from the east, bringing with
it snow-squalls every half hour or so, and afterwards a lull, in short,
a capital day for sport, though the intense cold, exposed as we were in
the punt, was most trying.
Besides the stanchion gun, taking a charge of ¾ lb. of shot and
breech-loading, we took two shoulder guns, a heavy 8-bore, and a stout
10-bore, the latter intended chiefly as a “cripple-stopper” if we had a
successful pull with the big gun. It was about two o’clock in the
afternoon as we launched the punt, the tide was rising and beginning to
fill the creeks nicely. We cruised about, keeping to the large creeks
where we could find shelter from the piercing wind that came from the
sea directly in our teeth. Crouching low in the boat and taking the punt
into sheltered coves as much as possible we found it more bearable,
though in raising our heads to look round every now and then, the wind
brought the sleet into our eyes and faces stinging like a whip. I had
two or three shots into golden plover with the 10-bore, and fetched down
over a score of birds, though unable to gather two-thirds of the number,
as they often fell on the soft mud. or, wounded, quickly made their way
to the water, out of reach.
Now and again as the snow-squalls came over us, the flakes falling so
thickly as to make the air quite dark all round, we could hear a muffled
sound of geese calling out seawards, and wisps of widgeon or grey duck
came past, often within shot, but lost again too quickly in the murky
atmosphere to give much chance of bringing any down; I had one or two
pulls at them, but it was impossible to say if I killed or not, what
with the bad light and the gale in our faces. In about half an hour the
wind dropped a little, and the tide beginning to ebb, we paddled out
from our shelter and began to keep a sharp look-out on the mud-banks for
ducks and other fowl that would be dropping down to feed as the tide
receded.
“There’s a nice bunch yonder,” said Ted, as he pointed out a black mass
on a point of mud some two hundred yards ahead, and taking out my
binoculars I looked and saw that it was a company of widgeon with grey
duck amongst them feeding away greedily.
Losing no more time, I commenced paddling in their direction. Ted having
already prostrated himself forward, to manage the punt gun, opening the
breech and inserting a shell with No. 1 shot. I had all my work cut out
with the paddles, as the water was very choppy, and it required all my
strength to keep the punt’s head in the right direction whilst keeping
my body as flat as possible; at any rate, I had to keep down after the
first quarter’s distance was passed, as the birds, hungry as they were,
might have taken alarm. We were getting on well, and the air having
become clear again, could see the ducks with heads together and necks
stretched out as they gobbled hungrily at the weeds that floated in the
shallows; we seemed now to be not much over 100 yards away, though it
might be more, as the distances over water are so deceptive and always
appear less than they really are. Ted now gave me a warning kick to go
steady, so I took the short paddles and “set” to the birds, hoping to
get inside of eighty yards’ range, if possible; the tide running out
helped us somewhat, and presently another kick from Ted gave me the cue
to stop paddling, as we had approached near enough, and he prepared to
take the shot. Raising my head an inch or two, I could just see above
the coaming that the birds, apparently, were undisturbed, as they were
still feeding.
Ted was waiting for them to gather together more before he fired.
Now they are in closer formation and Ted slightly elevates his gun, and,
with his hand ready to strike the trigger, gives a loud whistle. Up
spring a cloud of widgeon and the half hundred or so grey duck that were
amongst them, but they hardly clear the mud when Ted’s gun booms forth.
The shot charge at that distance, between seventy and eighty yards,
opened beautifully and cut a lane through the black mass; birds dropped
like hail on to the spot where they had but just risen from feeding, as
the shot was perfectly timed, only allowing the flock to get on the wing
and with no time to rise or spread themselves out. Making vigorous use
of the paddles we soon had the punt up against the mud bank and
proceeded to gather the slain; the mud, without the cumbersome
mud-boards on, would just bear us, and I got out with the 10-bore and
stopped two or three very lively “cripples” that were fast making good
their escape towards the creeks. Ted knocked over one or two others that
were swimming around with wings broken, with a punting pole, and as soon
as these were disposed of we began to turn our attention to the main lot
of dead or nearly so, strewn over the foreshore.
Ted was delighted and so was I when we realised what a pretty shot he
had made, and we forgot the numbing cold that we had so grumbled at a
short time before, and thought our sport worth all the discomfort. We
picked up seven mallard and nineteen widgeon altogether, or twenty-six
head as the result of the shot, and no doubt there would be some others
in the flock hit very hard having strength to fly some distance but
would afterwards drop. These were out of count, but we were well
satisfied, and felt compensated for many previous failures, when, after
laboriously setting up to birds we had the mortification of seeing them
rise just as we were on the point of getting within range.
This time it had “come off” and our show of fine plump mallard and
widgeon made quite a sensation when we returned to the village that
evening.