PAGE
OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND 1
MY FIRST, FOR MONEY 36
THE HOLLOW HAMMER 62
HIS NAME IS MUD 91
HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE" 107
ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF" 131
THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 153
A VIRGINIA JUMPER 176
AND EVERY ONE A WINNER 213
[Illustration: Old England and New England]
It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years'
absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no
friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great
Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little
sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump
in his throat.
It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind
to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight
in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of
busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart,
and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry,"
"Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye
rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a
bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns"
with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came
clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor
in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a
good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a
London street to me.
I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old
friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall
gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of
me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass;
but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand
and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man,
how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his
eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly,
his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he
smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers
clinging until we saw we were attracting the notice of those around us.
Then our hands unclasped, and feeling a bit foolish over our emotion, we
sat down together.
At first we talked of commonplaces, though all the time I was thinking
of an evening more than thirty years ago when we stood together on the
river path, under the shadows of old Oxford towers, and said,
"Good-bye." He then offered to stand by me when the friendship would
have cost him something, and I declined the sacrifice. Would it have
been better? Who can tell?
Our first thoughts were a bit serious, perhaps, but our second became
decidedly cheerful at meeting again after so long a time. I learned that
he was "Colonel" Patterson, having gained his regiment a good ten years
ago; that he had spent nearly all his time in India; that he had been
invalided home; that he was, like myself, unmarried, and that he found
himself rather "out of it" after all these years away from the "old
country."
I told how I had gone to America, where, finding all other talents
unmarketable, I had become first a professional runner, and later a
college trainer. To this occupation, in which I had been something of a
success, I had given many years until a small invention had made me
independent, and a man of leisure in a modest way. I saw he was a bit
disappointed when I told him I had been forced to "turn pro." in order
to obtain my bread and butter. I knew exactly how he felt, and well did
I remember my sorrow when I dropped the "Mr." from my name. It is not a
particularly high-sounding title, but to appreciate it at its true value
a man need only to lose it and become plain "Smith," "Jones," or
"Robinson." That nothing could raise the "pale spectre of the salt"
between Frank Patterson and myself, not even going outside the pale of
the "gentleman amateur," I was very certain.
But when I told him a little later that I had become a full-fledged
citizen of the United States, he could not conceal his surprise,
although he said but little at first.
We talked of other things for a while, and then my friend came back to
what I knew he had been thinking about all the time, and he asked me
bluntly how it was I had come to give up the nation of my birth.
"It seemed only fair," I answered, "that I should become a citizen of
the country in which I obtained my living, whose laws protected me, in
which most of my friends were resident, and where I expected sometime to
be buried."
At this the Colonel was silent for a little while, and then he remarked
rather doubtfully: "I cannot make up my mind just what the Americans are
like. Are they what Kipling declared them in the 'Pioneer Mail' some
ten years ago, when he cursed them root and branch, or what the same man
said of them a few years later, when he affirmed just as strongly, 'I
love them' and 'They'll be the biggest, finest, and best people on the
surface of the globe'? Such contradictory statements are confusing to a
plain soldier with nothing more than the average amount of intelligence.
What is the use, too, of calling them Anglo-Saxon? They are, in fact, a
mixture of Celt, Teuton, Gaul, Slav, with a modicum of Saxon blood, and
I know not what else."
I could not help smiling a little at the Colonel's earnestness. I tried
to tell him that the American was essentially Anglo-Saxon in spite of
all the mixture; that his traditions, aims, and sentiments were very
much like his own; that he had the same language, law, and literature;
that the boys read "Tom Brown at Rugby," and the old men Shakespeare,
Browning, and Kipling. I told him that the boys played English games
with but slight changes, and that they boxed like English boys, and
their fathers fought like English men.
"Yes," said the Colonel, at last interrupting my flow of eloquence, "I
heard the statement made at the Army and Navy Club only last night, that
the American soldier was close to our 'Tommy,' and that the Yankee
sailor was second to none. Yet all the time I cannot adjust myself to
the fact that he is 'one of us.' Perhaps if I saw some typical Americans
I should be a little less at sea."
"Well," I answered, "if that is what you want, I can give you plenty of
opportunity. This afternoon occur the athletic games between Oxford and
Cambridge on the one hand, and Harvard and Yale on the other. I am going
with a party of Americans; we have seats in the American section, and I
have a spare ticket which you can use as well as not. You can study the
'genus Americana' at your leisure, and see some mighty good sport
meanwhile."
"That would suit my book exactly," declared the Colonel; and he had
scarcely spoken before I saw Tom Furness standing in the entrance of the
hotel evidently looking for me. He was clad, despite the heat, in a long
Prince Albert coat which fitted him like a glove, and wore a tall silk
hat as well. He saw me almost immediately, and a moment later was
shaking hands with the Colonel. The latter was dressed in a
loose-fitting suit of gray flannel and sported a very American-looking
straw hat, so that Tom really appeared the more English of the two.
Which was the finer specimen of a man it would be hard to say, and one
might not match them in a day's journey. They were almost exactly of a
height, the Colonel not more erect than Tom, and not quite as broad of
chest. The latter certainly had not the Colonel's clean-cut face, but
there was something about his rather irregular features that would
attract attention anywhere. I was pleased to see, too, that he gave to
the Colonel a touch of the deference due his age and rank, which I admit
some of Tom's countrymen might have forgotten.
Furness was very cordial, too. "We are in great luck," he declared, "to
have the Colonel with us, for a little later we should have been gone.
It is about time to start now, after, of course, a little something to
fortify us against the drive." So he took us into the smoking-room,
where he introduced the Colonel to Harry Gardiner and Jim Harding. He
also made him acquainted with a Manhattan cocktail, which the Colonel
imbibed with some hesitation, but found very decidedly to his liking.
Tom explained that he had taught them how to make it himself that very
morning, and that it could not be bettered in all London.
Furness always constitutes himself host if he has the least excuse for
so doing. It is a way he has. Nothing but a man's own hearthstone in
his own particular castle stops him. He takes possession of all neutral
ground like that of a hotel, and considers it his duty to make matters
pleasant for all around him.
Harding and Gardiner were a half-dozen years younger than Furness, and
it was not many years since I had trained them for very much the same
kind of games as those of the afternoon. Harding was a big fellow, with
broad shoulders, and a mop of yellow hair. He had been a mighty good man
in his day with both "shot" and "hammer." Harry Gardiner had been a
sprinter,--one of the best starters I ever knew,--and a finisher, too,
which does not always follow. The Colonel got along very well with them
all,--a little reserved at first, and studying all three of them in a
very quiet way. He could sometimes not quite make out what Harding, who
had a very choice vocabulary of Americanisms, was driving at, and one or
two of Tom's jokes he failed utterly to comprehend; but he seemed to
understand the men themselves fairly well, nevertheless. We chatted
together a few minutes, and then Furness declared it was time to start,
producing cigars which would have tempted a modern Adam more than any
apple in the Garden of Eden. So the Colonel and myself left the others,
and were soon comfortably ensconced in a clean hansom, behind a good
piece of horseflesh, and bowling along toward the Queen's Club Grounds
at a very respectable rate of speed.
We enjoyed our ride very thoroughly, and arrived at the Comeragh Road
entrance almost too soon, for the crowd was only beginning to gather. We
obtained programmes, and entering the gateway found ourselves in full
view of the grounds at once.
A mighty fine sight they were, too, the stretch of level greensward,
hard and velvety, with the dark brown cinder-path encircling it. The
seats rose on all sides but one, and there, outside the fence, was the
fringe of waving trees, and the red brick houses, trim and neat. Over
all was the soft blue sky, with here and there a drifting cloud. I could
see the Colonel's eyes glisten. He had spent the best part of his life
in a country which alternated between the baked brown clay of the dry
season and the wild luxuriance that followed the rains. He went to the
very outside edge of the track, and took a careful step or two on it,
examining it with the eye of a connoisseur, for he knew something of a
track, although he had not seen one for many years. "'Tis fast," said
he, knowingly. "With the heat and calm the conditions are right enough,
and the men will have nobody to blame but themselves if they do not come
close to the records."
We walked slowly by the telegraph office, and back of the tennis courts.
As we passed the Tea-room we could see a few people at the tables, and
quite a little group was gathered around the Members' Pavilion. We went
by the Royal Box, with its crimson draperies, and found our seats close
to the finish of the hundred-yard, half, mile, and three-mile runs. The
Colonel gave himself at once to the careful examination of the
programme, as did I myself. The "Oxford and Cambridge" was printed in
dark blue ink, and "Harvard and Yale" in crimson. For stewards there
were C. N. Jackson and Lees Knowles, the former once the finest hurdler
in England. For the Americans, E. J. Wendell and C. H. Sherrill
officiated; many a bit of red worsted had I seen the latter break across
the sea. Judges, referee, and timekeeper were alike well known on both
continents, and had all heard the crunch of a running shoe as it bit
into the cinders. Wilkinson of Sheffield was to act as "starter."
"He has the reputation of never having allowed a fraction to be stolen
on his pistol," remarked the Colonel.
"Let him watch Blount to-day then," I said.
The Colonel ran his finger down the list. "Nine contests in all. One of
strength, three of endurance, two of speed, two of activity, and the
'quarter' only is left where speed and bottom are both needed. How will
they come out?" he asked.
"About five to four," I answered, "but I cannot name the winner. On form
Old England should pull off the 'broad jump,' the 'mile' and 'three
miles,' and New England is quite sure of the 'hammer' and 'high jump.'
This leaves the 'hundred' and 'hurdles,' the 'quarter' and 'half' to be
fought out, although of course nothing is sure but death and taxes."
"I suppose it will be easy to distinguish the men by their style and
manner," said the Colonel.
"You will not see much difference," I replied. "The Americans wear the
colors more conspicuously, Harvard showing crimson, and Yale dark blue.
'Tis the same shade as Oxford's. The Americans have also the letters 'H'
and 'Y' marked plainly on the breasts of their jerseys. There are some
of the contestants arriving now," I remarked, pointing across the track;
"would you like to see them before they strip?"
"I certainly would," he answered; and we slipped out of our seats and
around the track to the Members' Pavilion, in front of which they stood.
Just before we reached them, however, we met Furness, Harding, and
Gardiner, the former holding a little chap about ten years old by the
hand, who was evidently his "sire's son," for his eyes were big with
excitement and pleasure.
"Which are they?" inquired the Colonel, a little doubtfully. "That chap
in front is an English lad or I miss my guess," looking admiringly at a
young giant apparently not more than twenty years old, and perhaps the
finest-looking one of the lot. His hat was in his hand, his eyes were
bright, and skin clear, with a color that only perfect condition brings.
"No," I answered, rather pleased at his mistake; "that is a Harvard
Freshman, though he bears a good old English name. Since Tom of Rugby,
the Browns have had a name or two in about every good sporting event on
earth. Would you like to know him?" I asked, for just then the young
fellow spied me out and came forward to meet me with a smile of
recognition. I was quite willing to introduce H. J. Brown to the
Colonel, although it was hardly fair to present him as a sample of an
American boy. As Tom would have said, it was showing the top of a
"deaconed" barrel of apples.
The young fellow shook the Colonel's hand with an easy self-possession,
coloring a little under his brown skin at the older man's close
scrutiny, who said a quiet word concerning the games, and asked him if
he felt "fit."
"I'm as fit as they can make a duffer," he answered. "Boal, over there,"
pointing to an older man with a strong face full of color and who was a
bit shorter and even more strongly built,--"Boal is the man who throws
the hammer. He's better than I by a dozen feet."
"Yes," remarked Tom, coming forward and shaking Brown's hand with a
hearty grip, "this young man is not an athlete at all; he worked so hard
at his studies that they sent him over here to recruit his health,
impaired by too close application. He is strong only in his knowledge of
Greek verbs and logarithms."
At this there was quite a laugh, in which Brown joined heartily and the
Colonel came in with a quiet chuckle, for he had come to quite enjoy
Tom's "little jokes;" and under cover of our amusement the young fellow
left us and disappeared in the dressing-room.
The Colonel watched the little string of well-groomed fellows file
along, taking particular notice of the smallest chap of all, who came
laughing by, swinging his dress-suit case as if it weighed a scant
pound. "What does he do?" the Colonel asked.
"That's Rice, the high jumper," spoke up Tom. "He is good for six feet
before or after breakfast. Indeed I think he could do the distance
between every course of a long dinner, with perhaps an extra inch or two
before the roast."
"He has the best style of any man we have," volunteered Gardiner, "and
goes over the bar as if he had wings."
I tried to get the Colonel to look over the English lads. "Oh, they 're
all right, I know. I want to see how near the American boys can come to
them," said he, for the Colonel was loyal to his own, and after his long
absence thought all the more of everything the Old Country produced. We
did get a look at one or two, among them Vassall, an Oriel man, whom Tom
pointed out, although how he knew him I could not guess. He was a
grand-looking fellow, very strongly put together, and he walked as if on
eggs.
"He looks like a winner, sure enough," said I.
"Yes," continued the Colonel, "old Oriel always has a good thing or two
on field and river both."
By this time the seats were filling rapidly, the stands were becoming
crowded, and around the track were rows of people seated on the grass.
We elbowed our way to our own places, and were settled at last, the
Colonel on my left, little Billy Furness next, and Tom last of the row.
In front of us were Gardiner and Harding, and behind, four or five
American girls, two of them pretty, and all of them well dressed, with
plenty of crimson and blue in their costumes.
We had scarcely taken our seats when one of the girls discovered the
royal carriage, jumping to her feet so hurriedly that she rather
disturbed the Colonel's hat, for which she apologized so prettily that
he must have felt indebted to her, despite the trouble. We all rose as
the royal party alighted from their carriage, and the London Victoria
Military Band played as only they can on such an occasion.
We could see the Prince plainly, and with his light clothes and hat he
set a good example of comfort to others. He looked to me much as he did
when I saw him last on a Derby day many years ago. A good patron of
sport has he always been, and his presence now gave color and zest to
the whole affair. When he appeared in the box, he stood for a few
moments, his eyes wandering over the grounds, and a smile of pleasure on
his face. A royal sight it was, too, for the sun was shining brightly on
the many-colored bank of spectators that circled the track. The hurdles
stood in straight rows on the farther side, and right in front were the
twin flag-staffs, at the feet of which hung the Union Jack and Stars and
Stripes ready to hoist as one or the other country won. In the middle of
the field were the blackboard and a megaphone, suspended from a tripod
for indicating to eye and ear the results of the contest and records
made.
The first contestants to show were the "hammer throwers," and the big
fellows were greeted with a rattling round of applause as they crossed
the track, Greenshields of Oxford, Baines of Cambridge, Boal and Brown
of Harvard, chatting cordially together as they walked over the field to
their places in the farther corner.
The little girl behind us offered the Colonel her field-glasses, which
he was glad to get, and for which he thanked her heartily.
"Take them whenever you want," she said with a smile; "you'll find them
right here in my lap."
Now this certainly was a freedom to which the Colonel was not
accustomed, but I noticed that he seemed to adjust himself to it very
easily. It was not, perhaps, the manner of the "Vere de Veres," but was
very cordial, which was something better still.
"Who is expected to win?" inquired the Colonel, as Greenshields began to
swing the hammer around his head.
"This is supposed to be a sure thing for Boal of Harvard," I answered.
"Yes," spoke up little Billy, "and I know him too. Case Boal is a
daisy."
"A daisy is he?" asked the Colonel, looking down at the little fellow's
flushed face. "He looks to me more like a big red rose. Do you throw the
hammer too?"
"No," answered Billy, gravely, "though I've got a cousin, most fifteen,
who throws the twelve-pound hammer, and is a 'cracker jack.'"
"A cracker jack, is he?" inquired the Colonel; "and are you a cracker
jack too?"
"Oh no," answered Billy, "I'm not much. I sprint a little, and won
second place in the 'hundred' at my school games this spring. I want to
run the 'quarter,' but dad won't let me till I'm older. That was his
distance, and when I go to college I shall try for the quarter too."
"Bless his heart," said the Colonel to me. "Are there many American boys
like him?"
"The woods are full of them," I answered. "There goes Brown; I want you
to see him throw. He will not do Boal's distance, but is improving every
day, and has a very pretty style. He is probably a few yards better than
Greenshields, and Baines can hardly get the hammer away at all. The
Englishmen have really no show in this event, for it is not cultivated
as it should be in the Universities."
"Why, then," asked the Colonel, "did our men include it with no hope of
winning?"
"It was a very sportsmanlike thing to do," declared Furness, "and
arranged in much the same spirit as the three-mile run, which is a
distance unknown in America, and in which we have not the least chance."
"Yes," said I, "I cannot remember a contest in which there was so little
jockeying in the preliminaries. They were conducted in the most liberal
manner on both sides, and many concessions were made. One of the best
illustrations is the 'hurdle race,' which will be run over turf, as is
the custom here, while the hurdles will be movable, as is usual in
America."
"That is the true spirit of amateur sport," said the Colonel, "and is a
mighty fine thing, whichever wins."
Now I must confess that at this moment I found myself in a very peculiar
state of mind. I was not sure which team I preferred to carry off the
odd event. This was very unusual for me, as I am always something of a
partisan, and cannot see two little chaps running a barefooted race
along the street without picking a favorite, being a bit pleased if he
wins and disappointed if he loses. But to-day there was on one side the
country of my birth and on the other that of my adoption, and between
them I was utterly unable to choose. So evenly did they draw upon my
sentiment that I made up my mind I should be satisfied either way, and
meanwhile I could enjoy myself without prejudice.
"There's the jumpers," suddenly cried out little Billy, whose quick eye
had first discovered them emerging from the crowd that fringed the track
in front of the dressing-rooms. Sure enough, there were Daly and Roche
in their crimson sweaters looking over the ground. The former carefully
paced off his distance from the joist and marked his start, and as he
did so, Vassall and Beven appeared, sporting respectively the dark and
light blue, and shook hands with their opponents.
"Who is the favorite here?" inquired the Colonel.
"Oh, Vassall will win in a walk," answered Tom.
At this the Colonel was entirely at sea.
"But," said he, "I did not think there was to be a walk at all,"
examining his programme carefully. Then catching Tom's meaning, he
continued, "You mean he wins easily? Well, I'm glad of that. I should
like to see one first at least pulled off by the old college."
"Nothing will stop him but an attack of apoplexy before his first jump,"
declared Tom, positively. "He will not need to take another. I saw him
in the spring games, and a more natural jumper I never saw. He is at
least a foot better than Daly, who I believe never made a broad jump in
public until it was known he might be needed by his college."
"You ought to see him play football," said Billy here, looking up at the
Colonel with admiring eyes. "He's a 'dandy,' and just as cool as that
'measurer' over there," pointing to a gentleman who had bent over the
many throws of the hammer until he was in a most profuse perspiration.
At this there was a laugh from all round, which was followed by another
as Billy's example of coolness wiped his beaded brow.
The "hammer" and "long jump" are not very rapid events at best, but
they answered very well while the late-comers were finding their seats.
I was particularly pleased to note that Tom had eyes only for Vassall,
whose easy style took his fancy amazingly, while the Colonel saw nothing
to admire but the Americans' exhibition with the weight.
He borrowed the glasses from the little girl behind him, with whom he
had become very friendly for so reserved a man, and watched Brown
carefully as he planted his feet firmly in the seven-feet circle, swung
the heavy hammer around his head again and again without moving from his
ground, until with a last fierce effort he sent the missile whirling
through the air in a long arc to strike with a dull thud.
Just as the Colonel started to comment on it admiringly, however, he was
interrupted by a cheer as on one of the flag-poles that rose side by
side in front of the royal box the Union Jack was hoisted to indicate
that England had won the first event. A little later on the other pole
the Stars and Stripes were run up, and we knew that the "hammer throw"
had gone to the Americans, and honors were easy.
The blackboard showed that Vassall had jumped his twenty-three feet, and
Boal had thrown one hundred and thirty-six feet eight and one-half
inches, both very excellent performances.
The Colonel was enjoying himself immensely, and I was gratified to see
how much at home he had made himself. He found in Furness a very
congenial spirit, Billy was a boy after his own heart, and the young
ladies behind him were interesting enough to take quite a little of his
attention. He was telling them something about a polo match in India
when I interrupted him to point out the men going to their marks for the
"hundred-yard dash."
We could look along the splendid track with the narrow laneways made by
the white cords. Hind of Oxford inside, then Quinlan with an "H" on his
crimson jersey, then Thomas with the narrow stripes of dark blue, and
outside Blount with a jersey of the same color and the "Y" on his
breast.
"Who wins here?" asked the Colonel.
"I give it up," answered Tom; "this is a race."
We could hear the starter's "Marks," "Set;" the wreath of smoke rose
from his pistol, and before the sound reached us, they were off, Blount
a bit the first, Hind and Quinlan close together, and Thomas a shade
behind. Did Blount beat the pistol? I am not sure. He was certainly in
the lead; then Quinlan came up, to be in turn collared by Thomas, who
had a shade the best of it until the last few strides, when the big
fellow in the crimson jersey made a supreme effort and shot by us, a
winner by a foot.
"Close work that," remarked Harding.
"Yes," said Tom, "it was a close fit, and not much cloth left."
When the American flag went up again, and the blackboard showed the ten
seconds with no fraction to mar its symmetry, there was very hearty
applause from the whole field. Even time in the "hundred"! Only the
aristocracy belong here. This is where fractions tell, this race "that
is run in a breath." There are thousands good for ten-two, tens are
equal to the ten-one, but the men who can do the straight ten can be
counted on the fingers of the hand, and even then the conditions must
suit them.
"Do you know," remarked the Colonel, with a far-away look in his eyes,
"I can remember the day when I would have given a year of my life to
have seen those figures after my name? I had a friend once who held the
watch over me on a still June afternoon who showed the figure, but I
never saw it again, and I fear that friendship made the watch stop a bit
too soon."
The "mile" was not a race at all. When Hunter of Cambridge romped in a
winner by a good twenty yards, with Dawson of Oxford beating out Spitzer
of Yale by a very determined finish, Tom declared that it was "a very
pretty procession, with a big gap after the band wagon." Freemantle gave
a beautiful example of pacemaking, and what Hunter might have done had
he been forced is only guesswork.
It now stood even again with a two to two, to which Oxford and Cambridge
had each contributed a win, and Harvard two. Yale had not distinguished
herself as yet; 1899 is certainly not Yale's year.
As the men went to their marks for the hurdles, starting in the farther
corner of the field and finishing far to our right, they were watched
with particular interest, for this was considered by many to be the
pivotal race. Paget-Tomlinson was known to be good for his sixteen
seconds, and might knock a fraction off this. Just what Fox could do was
more of a question, although the story of a very pretty trial had leaked
out in some way.
Tom told the Colonel it was a case of "horse and horse," which
expression he was forced to explain, as it was a shade too doubtful.
A hurdle-race is a pretty sight over cinders, but on turf as green and
level as a billiard-table it was doubly beautiful.
We could see Fox and Hallowell crouch for the start, and Tomlinson and
Parkes bend forward. I did not hear the pistol, so fascinated was I, as
the men came away, skimming over the ground like four swallows, and
rising over the first row of hurdles as if they had wings.
It is easy to judge a hurdle-race from any angle. All that is necessary
is to watch the men rise, for the one that lifts first is certainly
ahead. Sometimes a race is won in the "run in," but not often. At the
first hurdle the men rose almost together, at the second Parks and
Hallowell were a bit late, at the third they were plainly behind, and
Paget-Tomlinson was also a bit tardy. From this out, Fox drew ahead all
the time, finishing with a burst of speed that put the result entirely
out of doubt.
I had just remarked, after the applause had somewhat subsided, that
Tomlinson must have been "off form" when the board showed a fifteen and
three-fifths, and I revised my conclusion. The "Cantab" had done better
time than ever, but Fox had demolished the record.
It was right here that the Colonel received something of a shock, for a
little behind us and on our right a young fellow suddenly sprang to his
feet, and called out at the top of his voice: "All together now. Three
long Harvards, and three times three for Harvard." And then from a
hundred throats came "Harvard, Harvard, Harvard, rah rah rah rah rah rah
rah rah rah, Harvard."
The Colonel confessed to me afterward that his first thought was that
some one had gone crazy. "By Jove," said he, "I have heard 'Fuzzy Wuzzy'
make some queer noises in my time, but that beats them all."
I explained to him that it was a custom among the American colleges to
have a particular cheer to encourage or applaud, but I saw that it took
all the Colonel's accumulated enthusiasm to carry him through. It did
sound a bit queer on the Queen's Grounds, however it might go on the
Soldiers' Field in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The events now stood three to two in favor of New England, and their
chances did look very good to me. They needed but two more wins out of
the four remaining, and one of these was the "high jump," which on form
was a certainty for them. To be sure, it was whispered that Burke had
"gone stale," but I had seen him win so many times when he was plainly
not in condition, that I did not count him out. Then, again, there was
Boardman in the "quarter," and Yale was "about due," according to Tom.
At the very start of the "half" Struben started out to make pace in a
very business-like manner, which the Americans might have copied to
advantage. Indeed from first to last they showed little knowledge of
this useful accomplishment. That Burke tailed on was a surprise to no
one who had seen him run, for with his turn of speed his game is to keep
close up and run his man down in the last fifty yards. Yet I did not
like the way he took his first step. He seemed dead and in difficulties
after the first lap. I heard the little girl behind us declare
confidently, "Just wait till Tom Burke reaches the straight."
We did wait, sure enough, but he never came. Graham passed Struben, and
finished comfortably in one fifty-seven and one-fifth, with Adams a poor
third. The score was now even again, with three to three, and, as
Furness declared, he was "beginning to have a touch of 'heart disease.'"
"It is certainly 'up to Boardman' now," said Tom, as the men went to
their marks for the "quarter." "Unless he can pull this off we are
counted out, and no mistake."
The young Yale Freshman had before this run half round the track, to
limber up a bit, and appeared right on edge.
There was hardly a sound as the men waited for the signal. Nobody cared
to talk as they took their places for that most punishing of all
distances, the "quarter mile," and every one watched the little bunch of
men in the far corner of the field.
Hollins, the stocky little Oxford man, was away first, as if for one
hundred yards. He drew Boardman and Fisher after him at a killing pace,
Davison running easily behind. Round the first turn they came, Boardman
inside and on practically even terms with Hollins, the tall Yale man
looking a bit anxious even then. Down the stretch they sprinted, still
at top speed. At the last turn Boardman shot ahead, and for a brief
second looked all over a winner. It was only for a second, however, for
Hollins swung wide, and Davison came through like a locomotive, as
strong and speedy. Boardman made a plucky effort, but the big "Cantab"
would not be denied; he came to the front thirty yards from the finish,
and the best the Yale man could do was to stagger over, five yards to
the bad, and dead run out. Whether or no he would have done any better
if he had stayed back instead of following Hollins I cannot tell.
"Poor old Yale," said Furness, contemplatively, when the applause had
died out, the Americans joining gamely, although they knew their last
hope went with this event. "Poor old Yale, it was not always thus. I can
remember a time when Yale men had a very pretty knack of breaking the
worsted and letting the other fellows run between the posts, but this is
not Yale's day nor year."
We now had time to watch the "high jumping," which was going on in front
of us and a little to the right. The bar had reached five feet ten
inches, and Paget-Tomlinson had gone out at five-five. Rotch comes first
and is over, although he touches the bar, and it trembles a moment
uncertain. Adair is over too. The English lad takes his run a bit across
and goes over with a grand lift from his long legs. Here comes Rice, who
has not yet pulled off his sweater, although the bar is already several
inches over his head. The little chap bends forward, gets on his toes,
gives a short run straight at it, lifts in the air like a bird, shoots
over, turning in the air meanwhile, lands lightly with his face to the
bar he has just cleared, and runs back under it to his place. It is the
prettiest performance for a high jump that the Colonel has ever seen,
and he applauds vigorously, as do many others. At the next lift of the
bar Rotch goes out, for he has not been himself quite, and is not equal
to the six feet which he has so often negotiated. We expected also to
see Adair drop out here, for five eight and one-fourth had been his best
record; but he showed daylight between himself and the bar, and for the
first time I began to be anxious. I truly did not care which team won,
but I did not want to see anything worse than a five-four, and it looked
now as if it might be a six-three.
Up goes the bar to five-eleven, and again both Adair and Rice are equal
to the task before them. With Adair it is the performance of a grand
natural jumper, but with Rice it is all this, and a style that must be
worth inches to him.
At six feet the Oxford man did not go at the bar with quite the
determination he had previously shown, and down it came. Rice now pulls
off his sweater for the first time, showing how well put together he is
from head to foot. Straight for the bar he goes, just the same as when
it was at five-six, and he clears it with apparently the same ease as at
the lower distance. Adair struggles gamely, but his last try is
unsuccessful, and the score stands four to four, with only the
"three-mile" left.
I could see very plainly now that the Colonel was getting a bit nervous.
"Do you consider this a certain thing for Workman?" he asked me, after
Tom had declared that the Americans had no chance at all, and that the
contest was all over "but the shouting."
"Yes," I answered. "None of the Americans have ever done the distance,
and this is where condition tells. I doubt if they could pull it off on
neutral ground; after a sea voyage and a few days in a different climate
they are simply out of it."
"Well," said the Colonel, "I shall feel better when it is over. I have
seen enough of the Yankee boys to have considerable respect for them,
even in a race they have no right to win."
The six contestants took their places in that leisurely manner which is
always shown in a distance run. This race is not won at the start,--not
much. All the same the Britishers were quite willing to make pace, for
they swung ahead at the beginning, and for several laps Workman of
Cambridge, Smith and Wilberforce of Oxford, showed the way around at a
fair pace. Tom had his watch out and caught four fifty-eight for the
first mile. At the end of the fifth lap Smith retired, after having made
pace for a considerable part of the journey, leaving his man, Workman,
in the lead and running strongly. Only a little later Clarke, who had
given no clue to his difficulties and had been running well, suddenly
collapsed, dropping on the track without a word, almost without a
stagger, and was carried to the grass completely "run out." It was a
"run out" too, and not one of the grand-stand performances which we
sometimes see.
At the close of the two miles Wilberforce suddenly retired, having
suffered badly with a stitch in his side which he could not overcome,
and Workman, Palmer, and Foote only were left, the last dropping a bit
behind all the time, but sticking doggedly to it nevertheless.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the Colonel, in the middle of the seventh lap,
"that man Palmer looks dangerous; he is clinging to Workman's heels and
is running fully as easily."
"He is doing well," I answered, "but I do not like his color. Look at
Workman's face and you will see the difference."
"Difference or not," spoke up the Colonel, excitedly, "there he goes;"
and true enough, Palmer suddenly quickened his stride and took the lead.
"He'll do it," cried the Colonel; but the "Cantab" immediately regained
his premier place again, while a great cheer went up from the crowd.
Twice after in the eighth lap did Palmer repeat the performance, but
each time Workman came up again. Every one was now on his feet, as the
bell rang for the last lap. There was a hoarse murmur of excitement;
the Colonel muttered something under his breath. Tom was pressing his
leg against mine as if he thought he could push his man along. Billy was
jumping up and down, and the little girl behind us was laughing rather
hysterically. Which would win, Old England or New England?
It was settled in a most conclusive way by Workman himself, for the bell
seemed to act like an elixir of life to him. Suddenly he began to
lengthen and quicken his stride, and he left Palmer as if he were
anchored. Round the track he swung as if it was the first lap of the
"half," and when he broke the worsted he was raised by willing hands to
the shoulder and carried to the dressing-room in triumph. The crowd
surged onto the track, as they ought not, and interfered with Palmer's
finish; but it did not harm him, for he was really "run out," and Foote
was yards behind, though running pluckily.
We were all mixed up together for a few minutes, shaking hands all
round, all of us with flushed faces. Billy had a suspiciously red nose,
and the little girl behind us one big tear on her cheek.
Suddenly the Colonel caught my arm and pointed to the two flags, the
Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes waving side by side.
"Look at that," he cried; "that's a sight worth coming far to see."
"Yes," said Tom, uncovering, "and with lads like those who have fought
it out to-day to defend them, it would be a bad job to try to pull them
down."
We lingered for a little while, and when we separated it was agreed that
Tom and I should join the Colonel and a friend at the Army and Navy Club
for dinner.
There we talked of many things, but mostly of the two great nations
which we represented. "'Tis the same breed, after all," declared the
Colonel, oracularly. "Of course the cross strain is there, but it has
not hurt at all as far as I can see. Do you know what did the most to
convert me? Well, it was that handshake with young Brown. A Frenchman
can't shake hands, and neither can a German, though good fellows both
may be. But Brown had the good firm grip close to the crotch of the
thumb, and looked me straight in the eye meanwhile. 'Tis only the
Anglo-Saxon can do this properly."
When the evening was well on, we drank a toast or two; for the Colonel's
friend, who was a retired naval officer, declared that it was an
occasion where a dry dinner would be a disgrace, and he was strongly
seconded by Tom.