THE SPORTS
Sports weather at St Austin's was as a rule a quaint but unpleasant
solution of mud, hail, and iced rain. These were taken as a matter of
course, and the School counted it as something gained when they were
spared the usual cutting east wind.
This year, however, occurred that invaluable exception which is so
useful in proving rules. There was no gale, only a gentle breeze. The
sun was positively shining, and there was a general freshness in the
air which would have made a cripple cast away his crutches, and, after
backing himself heavily both ways, enter for the Strangers' Hundred
Yards.
Jim had wandered off alone. He was feeling too nervous at the thought
of the coming mile and all it meant to him to move in society for the
present. Charteris, Welch, and Tony, going out shortly before lunch to
inspect the track, found him already on the spot, and in a very low
state of mind.
'Hullo, you chaps,' he said dejectedly, as they came up.
'Hullo.'
'Our James is preoccupied,' said Charteris. 'Why this jaundiced air,
Jim? Look at our other Thompson over there.'
'Our other Thompson' was at that moment engaged in conversation with
the Headmaster at the opposite side of the field.
'Look at him,' said Charteris, 'prattling away as merrily as a little
che-ild to the Old Man. You should take a lesson from him.'
'Look here, I say,' said Jim, after a pause, 'I believe there's
something jolly queer up between Thompson and the Old Man, and I
believe it's about me.'
'What on earth makes you think that?' asked Welch.
'It's his evil conscience,' said Charteris. 'No one who hadn't
committed the awful crime that Jim has, could pay the least attention
to anything Thompson said. What does our friend Thucydides remark on
the subject?--
'"_Conscia mens recti, nec si sinit esse dolorem
Sed revocare gradum_."
Very well then.'
'But why should you think anything's up?' asked Tony.
'Perhaps nothing is, but it's jolly fishy. You see Thompson and the Old
'Un pacing along there? Well, they've been going like that for about
twenty minutes. I've been watching them.'
'But you can't tell they're talking about you, you rotter,' said Tony.
'For all you know they may be discussing the exams.'
'Or why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings,' put in
Charteris.
'Or anything,' added Welch profoundly.
'Well, all I know is that Thompson's been doing all the talking, and
the Old Man's been getting more and more riled.'
'Probably Thompson's been demanding a rise of screw or asking for a
small loan or something,' said Charteris. 'How long have you been
watching them?'
'About twenty minutes.'
'From here?'
'Yes.'
'Why didn't you go and join them? There's nothing like tact. If you
were to go and ask the Old Man why the whale wailed or something after
that style it 'ud buck him up like a tonic. I wish you would. And then
you could tell him to tell you all about it and see if you couldn't do
something to smooth the wrinkles from his careworn brow and let the
sunshine of happiness into his heart. He'd like it awfully.'
'Would he!' said Jim grimly. 'Well, I got the chance just now. Thompson
said something to him, and he spun round, saw me, and shouted
"Thomson". I went up and capped him, and he was starting to say
something when he seemed to change his mind, and instead of confessing
everything, he took me by the arm, and said, "No, no, Thomson. Go away.
It's nothing. I will send for you later."'
'And did you knock him down?' asked Charteris.
'What happened?' said Welch.
'He gave me a shove as if he were putting the weight, and said again,
"It's no matter. Go away, Thomson, now." So I went.'
'And you've kept an eye on him ever since?' said Charteris. 'Didn't he
seem at all restive?'
'I don't think he noticed me. Thompson had the floor and he was pretty
well full up listening to him.'
'I suppose you don't know what it's all about?' asked Tony.
'Must be this Pavilion business.'
'Now, my dear, sweet cherub,' said Charteris, 'don't you go and make an
utter idiot of yourself and think you're found out and all that sort of
thing. Even if they suspect you they've got to prove it. There's no
sense in your giving them a helping hand in the business. What you've
got to do is to look normal. Don't overdo it or you'll look like a
swashbuckler, and that'll be worse than underdoing it. Can't you make
yourself look less like a convicted forger? For my sake?'
'You really do look a bit off it,' said Welch critically. 'As if you
were sickening for the flu., or something. Doesn't he, Tony?'
'Rather!' said that expert in symptoms. 'You simply must buck up, Jim,
or Drake'll walk away from you.'
'It's disappointing,' said Charteris, 'to find a chap who can crack a
crib as neatly as you can doubling up like this. Think how Charles
Peace would have behaved under the circs. Don't disgrace him, poor
man.'
'Besides,' said Jim, with an attempt at optimism, 'it isn't as if I'd
actually done anything, is it?'
'Just so,' said Charteris, 'that's what I've been trying to get you to
see all along. Keep that fact steadily before you, and you'll be all
right.'
'There goes the lunch-bell,' said Tony. 'You can always tell Merevale's
bell in a crowd. William rings it as if he was doing it for his
health.'
William, also known in criminal circles as the Moke, was the gentleman
who served the House--in a perpetual grin and a suit of livery four
sizes too large for him--as a sort of butler.
'He's an artist,' agreed Charteris, as he listened to the performance.
'Does it as if he enjoyed it, doesn't he? Well, if we don't want to
spoil Merevale's appetite by coming in at half-time, we might be
moving.' They moved accordingly.
The Sports were to begin at two o'clock with a series of hundred-yards
races, which commenced with the 'under twelve' (Cameron of Prater's a
warm man for this, said those who had means of knowing), and culminated
at about a quarter past with the open event, for which Welch was a
certainty. By a quarter to the hour the places round the ropes were
filled, and more visitors were constantly streaming in at the two
entrances to the School grounds, while in the centre of the ring the
band of the local police force--the military being unavailable owing to
exigencies of distance--were seating themselves with the grim
determination of those who know that they are going to play the
soldiers' chorus out of _Faust_. The band at the Sports had played
the soldiers' chorus out of _Faust_ every year for decades past,
and will in all probability play it for decades to come.
The Sports at St Austin's were always looked forward to by everyone
with the keenest interest, and when the day arrived, were as regularly
voted slow. In all school sports there are too many foregone
conclusions. In the present instance everybody knew, and none better
than the competitors themselves, that Welch would win the quarter and
hundred. The high jump was an equal certainty for a boy named Reece in
Halliday's House. Jackson, unless he were quite out of form, would win
the long jump, and the majority of the other events had already been
decided. The gem of the afternoon would be the mile, for not even the
shrewdest judge of form could say whether Jim would beat Drake, or
Drake Jim. Both had done equally good times in practice, and both were
known to be in the best of training. The adherents of Jim pointed to
the fact that he had won the half off Drake--by a narrow margin, true,
but still he had won it. The other side argued that a half-mile is no
criterion for a mile, and that if Drake had timed his sprint better he
would probably have won, for he had finished up far more strongly than
his opponent. And so on the subject of the mile, public opinion was for
once divided.
The field was nearly full by this time. The only clear space outside
the ropes was where the Headmaster stood to greet and talk about the
weather to such parents and guardians and other celebrities as might
pass. This habit of his did not greatly affect the unattached members
of the School, those whose parents lived in distant parts of the world
and were not present on Sports Day, but to St Jones Brown (for
instance) of the Lower Third, towing Mr Brown, senior, round the ring,
it was a nervous ordeal to have to stand by while his father and the
Head exchanged polite commonplaces. He could not help feeling that
there was _just a chance_ (horrible thought) that the Head,
searching for something to say, might seize upon that little matter of
broken bounds or shaky examination papers as a subject for discussion.
He was generally obliged, when the interview was over, to conduct his
parent to the shop by way of pulling his system together again, the
latter, of course, paying.
At intervals round the ropes Old Austinian number one was meeting Old
Austinian number two (whom he emphatically detested, and had hoped to
avoid), and was conversing with him in a nervous manner, the clearness
of his replies being greatly handicapped by a feeling, which grew with
the minutes, that he would never be able to get rid of him and go in
search of Old Austinian number three, his bosom friend.
At other intervals, present Austinians of tender years were manoeuvring
half-companies of sisters, aunts, and mothers, and trying without much
success to pretend that they did not belong to them. A pretence which
came down heavily when one of the aunts addressed them as 'Willie' or
'Phil', and wanted to know audibly if 'that boy who had just passed'
(_the_ one person in the School whom they happened to hate and
despise) was their best friend. It was a little trying, too, to have to
explain in the middle of a crowd that the reason why you were not
running in 'that race' (the 'under thirteen' hundred, by Jove, which
ought to have been a gift to you, only, etc.) was because you had been
ignominiously knocked out in the trial heats.
In short, the afternoon wore on. Welch won the hundred by two yards and
the quarter by twenty, and the other events fell in nearly every case
to the favourite. The hurdles created something of a surprise--Jackson,
who ought to have won, coming down over the last hurdle but two,
thereby enabling Dallas to pull off an unexpected victory by a couple
of yards. Vaughan's enthusiastic watch made the time a little under
sixteen seconds, but the official timekeeper had other views. There
were no instances of the timid new boy, at whom previously the world
had scoffed, walking away with the most important race of the day.
And then the spectators were roused from a state of coma by the sound
of the bell ringing for the mile. Old Austinian number one gratefully
seized the opportunity to escape from Old Austinian number two, and
lose himself in the crowd. Young Pounceby-Green with equal gratitude
left his father talking to the Head, and shot off without ceremony to
get a good place at the ropes. In fact, there was a general stir of
anticipation, and all round the ring paterfamilias was asking his son
and heir which was Drake and which Thomson, and settling his glasses
more firmly on the bridge of his nose.
The staff of _The Glow Worm_ conducted Jim to the starting-place,
and did their best to relieve his obvious nervousness with light
conversation.
'Eh, old chap?' said Jim. He had been saying 'Eh?' to everything
throughout the afternoon.
'I said, "Is my hat on straight, and does it suit the colour of my
eyes?"' said Charteris.
'Oh, yes. Yes, rather. Ripping,' in a far-off voice.
'And have you a theory of the Universe?'
'Eh, old chap?'
'I said, "Did you want your legs rubbed before you start?" I believe
it's an excellent specific for the gout.'
'Gout? What? No, I don't think so, thanks.'
'And you'll write to us sometimes, Jim, and give my love to little
Henry, and _always_ wear flannel next your skin, my dear boy?'
said Charteris.
This seemed to strike even Jim as irrelevant.
'Do shut up for goodness
sake, Alderman,' he said irritably. 'Why can't you go and rag somebody
else?'
'My place is by your side. Go, my son, or else they'll be starting
without you. Give us your blazer. And take my tip, the tip of an old
runner, and don't pocket your opponent's ball in your own twenty-five.
And come back victorious, or on the shields of your soldiers. All
right, sir (to the starter), he's just making his will. Good-bye Jim.
Buck up, or I'll lynch you after the race.'
Jim answered by muffling him in his blazer, and walking to the line.
There were six competitors in all, each of whom owned a name ranking
alphabetically higher than Thomson. Jim, therefore, had the outside
berth. Drake had the one next to the inside, which fell to Adamson, the
victim of the lost two pounds' episode.
Both Drake and Jim got off well at the sound of the pistol, and the
pace was warm from the start. Jim evidently had his eye on the inside
berth, and, after half a lap had been completed, he got it, Drake
falling back. Jim continued to make the running, and led at the end of
the first lap by about five yards. Then came Adamson, followed by a
batch of three, and finally Drake, taking things exceedingly coolly, a
couple of yards behind them. The distance separating him from Jim was
little over a dozen yards. A roar of applause greeted the runners as
they started on the second lap, and it was significant that while Jim's
supporters shouted, 'Well run', those of Drake were fain to substitute
advice for approval, and cry 'Go it'. Drake, however, had not the least
intention of 'going it' in the generally accepted meaning of the
phrase. A yard or two to the rear meant nothing in the first lap, and
he was running quite well enough to satisfy himself, with a nice,
springy stride, which he hoped would begin to tell soon.
With the end of the second lap the real business of the race began, for
the survival of the fittest had resulted in eliminations and changes of
order. Jim still led, but now by only eight or nine yards. Drake had
come up to second, and Adamson had dropped to a bad third. Two of the
runners had given the race up, and retired, and the last man was a long
way behind, and, to all practical purposes, out of the running. There
were only three laps, and, as the last lap began, the pace quickened,
fast as it had been before. Jim was exerting every particle of his
strength. He was not a runner who depended overmuch on his final dash.
He hoped to gain so much ground before Drake made his sprint as to
neutralise it when it came. Adamson he did not fear.
And now they were in the last two hundred yards, Jim by this time some
thirty yards ahead, but in great straits. Drake had quickened his pace,
and gained slowly on him. As they rounded the corner and came into the
straight, the cheers were redoubled. It was a great race. Then, fifty
yards from the tape, Drake began his final sprint. If he had saved
himself before, he made up for it now. The gap dwindled and dwindled.
Neither could improve his pace. It was a question whether there was
enough of the race left for Drake to catch his man, or whether he had
once more left his sprint till too late. Jim could hear the roars of
the spectators, and the frenzied appeals of Merevale's House to him to
sprint, but he was already doing his utmost. Everything seemed black to
him, a black, surging mist, and in its centre a thin white line, the
tape. Could he reach it before Drake? Or would he collapse before he
reached it? There were only five more yards to go now, and still he
led. Four. Three. Two. Then something white swept past him on the
right, the white line quivered, snapped, and vanished, and he pitched
blindly forward on to the turf at the track-side. Drake had won by a
foot.