arithmetic again, they must run four miles--the longest race of
this kind which it is customary to attempt at Sports like these."
"Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?"
"Considerably--on certain occasions."
"Are they a long-lived race?"
"Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men."
Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick put a question
to the umpire.
"You have just told us," he said, "that the two young men who
appear to-day are going to run the longest distance yet attempted
in their experience. Is it generally thought, by persons who
understand such things, that they are both fit to bear the
exertion demanded of them?"
"You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them."
He pointed toward the
pavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty clapping of
hands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood, champion of
the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the pavilion
steps and walked into the arena.
Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in
every movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute
young face, the man of the north won the women's hearts at
starting. The murmur of eager talk rose among them on all sides.
The men were quieter--especially the men who understood the
subject. It was a serious question with these experts whether
Fleetwood was not "a little too fine." Superbly trained, it was
admitted--but, possibly, a little over-trained for a four-mile
race.
The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends
and backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can in
his hand. "Cold water," the umpire explained. "If he gets
exhausted, his trainer will pick him up with a dash of it as he
goes by."
A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena.
Delamayn, champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors,
presented himself to the public view.
The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked
into the centre of the great green space. Surprise at the
extraordinary contrast between the two men was the prevalent
emotion of the moment. Geoffrey was more than a head taller than
his antagonist, and broader in full proportion. The women who had
been charmed with the easy gait and confident smile of Fleetwood,
were all more or less painfully impressed by the sullen strength
of the southern man, as he passed before them slowly, with his
head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause showered on
him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to nobody;
concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men who
understood the subject breathless with interest. There it was!
the famous "staying power" that was to endure in the last
terrible half-mile of the race, when the nimble and jaunty
Fleetwood was run off his legs. Whispers had been spread abroad
hinting at something which had gone wrong with Delamayn in his
training. And now that all eyes could judge him, his appearance
suggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly the opposite
of the criticism passed on his antagonist. The doubt as to
Delamayn was whether he had been sufficiently trained. Still the
solid strength of the man, the slow, panther-like smoothness of
his movements--and, above all, his great reputation in the world
of muscle and sport--had their effect. The betting which, with
occasional fluctuations, had held steadily in his favor thus far,
held, now that he was publicly seen, steadily in his favor still.
"Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for a
four-mile race."
"Do you think he sees us?" whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon.
"He sees nobody."
"Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?"
"He has twice the muscular strength of the other man. His trunk
and limbs are magnificent. It is useless to ask me more than that
about his condition. We are too far from him to see his face
plainly."
The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and the
silent expectation set in among them once more. One by one, the
different persons officially connected with the race gathered
together on the grass. The trainer Perry was among them, with his
can of water in his hand, in anxious whispering conversation with
his principal--giving him the last words of advice before the
start. The trainer's doctor, leaving them together, came up to
pay his respects to his illustrious colleague.
"How has he got on since I was at Fulham?" asked Mr. Speedwell.
"First-rate, Sir! It was one of his bad days when you saw him. He
has done wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours."
"Is he going to win the race?"
Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him--he
had backed Geoffrey's antagonist. Publicly he was true to his
colors. He cast a disparaging look at Fleetwood--and answered
Yes, without the slightest hesitation.
At that point, the conversation was suspended by a sudden
movement in the inclosure. The runners were on their way to the
starting-place. The moment of the race had come.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited--each with his foot
touching the mark. The firing of a pistol gave the signal for the
start. At the instant when the report sounded they were off.
Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from two
to three yards behind him. In that order they ran the first
round. the second, and the third--both reserving their strength;
both watched with breathless interest by every soul in the place.
The trainers, with their cans in their hands, ran backward and
forward over the grass, meeting their men at certain points, and
eying them narrowly, in silence. The official persons stood
together in a group; their eyes following the runners round and
round with the closest attention. The trainer's doctor, still
attached to his illustrious colleague, offered the necessary
explanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend.
"Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the 'style'
of the two men."
"You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?"
"No. Getting their wind, and feeling their legs. Pretty runner,
Fleetwood--if you notice Sir? Gets his legs a trifle better in
front, and hardly lifts his heels quite so high as our man. His
action's the best of the two; I grant that. But just look, as
they come by, which keeps the straightest line. There's where
Delamayn has him! It's a steadier, stronger, truer pace; and
you'll see it tell when they're half-way through." So, for the
first three rounds, the doctor expatiated on the two contrasted
"styles"--in terms mercifully adapted to the comprehension of
persons unacquainted with the language of the running ring.
At the fourth round--in other words, at the round which completed
the first mile, the first change in the relative position
of the
runners occurred. Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front.
Fleetwood smiled as the other passed him. Delamayn held the lead
till they were half way through the fifth round--when Fleetwood,
at a hint from his trainer, forced the pace. He lightly passed
Delamayn in an instant; and led again to the completion of the
sixth round.
At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on his
side. For a few moments, they ran exactly abreast. Then Delamayn
drew away inch by inch; and recovered the lead. The first burst
of applause (led by the south) rang out, as the big man beat
Fleetwood at his own tactics, and headed him at the critical
moment when the race was nearly half run.
"It begins to look as if Delamayn _was_ going to win!" said Sir
Patrick.
The trainer's doctor forgot himself. Infected by the rising
excitement of every body about him, he let out the truth.
"Wait a bit!" he said. "Fleetwood has got directions to let him
pass--Fleetwood is waiting to see what he can do."
"Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manly
sport," said Mr. Speedwell, quietly.
At the end of the seventh round, Fleetwood proved the doctor to
be right. He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow. At the
end of the eight round, he was leading by two yards. Half the
race had then been run. Time, ten minutes and thirty-three
seconds.
Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little;
and Delamayn was in front again. He kept ahead, until the opening
of the eleventh round. At that point, Fleetwood flung up one hand
in the air with a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamayn
with a shout of "Hooray for the North!" The shout was echoed by
the spectators. In proportion as the exertion began to tell upon
the men, so the excitement steadily rose among the people looking
at them.
At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards. Cries
of triumph rose among the adherents of the north, met by
counter-cries of defiance from the south. At the next turn
Delamayn resolutely lessened the distance between his antagonist
and himself. At the opening of the fourteenth round, they were
coming sid e by side. A few yards more, and Delamayn was in front
again, amidst a roar of applause from the whole public voice. Yet
a few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed him,
dropped behind again, led again, and was passed again at the end
of the round. The excitement rose to its highest pitch, as the
runners--gasping for breath; with dark flushed faces, and heaving
breasts--alternately passed and repassed each other. Oaths were
heard now as well as cheers. Women turned pale and men set their
teeth, as the last round but one began.
At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance. Before six
yards more had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose of
his running in the previous round, and electrified the whole
assembly, by dashing past his antagonist--for the first time in
the race at the top of his speed. Every body present could see,
now, that Delamayn had been allowed to lead on sufferance--had
been dextrously drawn on to put out his whole power--and had
then, and not till then, been seriously deprived of the lead. He
made another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused the
public enthusiasm to frenzy. While the voices were roaring; while
the hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; while
the actual event of the race was, for one supreme moment, still
in doubt--Mr. Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm.
"Prepare yourself!" he whispered. "It's all over."
As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path. His
trainer dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another step
or two--swerved again--staggered--lifted his arm to his mouth
with a hoarse cry of rage--fastened his own teeth in his flesh
like a wild beast--and fell senseless on the course.
A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places,
mingling with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood
in others--as their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested
race. Not the inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded
by the crowd. In the midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn
on to the grass--with Mr. Speedwell and the trainer's doctor in
attendance on him. At the terrible moment when the surgeon laid
his hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the spot--a passage being
forced for him through the people by his friends and the
police--running the sixteenth and last round of the race.
Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it?
Every body waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon's hand.
The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw
over his face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming to
life again--he had survived the race. The last shout of applause
which hailed Fleetwood's victory rang out as they lifted him from
the ground to carry him to the pavilion. Sir Patrick (admitted at
Mr. Speedwell's request) was the one stranger allowed to pass the
door. At the moment when he was ascending the steps, some one
touched his arm. It was Captain Newenden.
"Do the doctors answer for his life?" asked the captain. "I can't
get my niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that."
Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly from
the top of the pavilion steps.
"For the present--yes," he said.
The captain thanked him, and disappeared.
They entered the pavilion. The necessary restorative measures
were taken under Mr. Speedwell's directions. There the conquered
athlete lay: outwardly an inert mass of strength, formidable to
look at, even in its fall; inwardly, a weaker creature, in all
that constitutes vital force, than the fly that buzzed on the
window-pane. By slow degrees the fluttering life came back. The
sun was setting; and the evening light was beginning to fail. Mr.
Speedwell beckoned to Perry to follow him into an unoccupied
corner of the room.
"In half an hour or less he will be well enough to be taken home.
Where are his friends? He has a brother--hasn't he?"
"His brother's in Scotland, Sir."
"His father?"
Perry scratched his head. "From all I hear, Sir, he and his
father don't agree."
Mr. Speedwell applied to Sir Patrick.
"Do you know any thing of his family affairs?"
"Very little. I believe what the man has told you to be the
truth."
"Is his mother living?"
"Yes."
"I will write to her myself. In the mean time, somebody must take
him home. He has plenty of friends here. Where are they?"
He looked out of the window as he spoke. A throng of people had
gathered round the pavilion, waiting to hear the latest news. Mr.
Speedwell directed Perry to go out and search among them for any
friends of his employer whom he might know by s
ight. Perry
hesitated, and scratched his head for the second time.
"What are you waiting for?" asked the surgeon, sharply. "You know
his friends by sight, don't you?"
"I don't think I shall find them outside," said Perry.
"Why not?"
"They backed him heavily, Sir--and they have all lost."
Deaf to this unanswerable reason for the absence of friends, Mr.
Speedwell insisted on sending Perry out to search among the
persons who composed the crowd. The trainer returned with his
report. "You were right, Sir. There are some of his friends
outside. They want to see him."
"Let two or three of them in."
Three came in. They stared at him. They uttered brief expressions
of pity in slang. They said to Mr. Speedwell, "We wanted to see
him. What is it--eh?"
"It's a break-down in his health."
"Bad training?"
"Athletic Sports."
"Oh! Thank you. Good-evening."
Mr. Speedwell's answer drove them out like a flock of sheep
before a dog. There was not even time to put the question to them
as to who was to take him home.
"I'll look after him, Sir," said Perry. "You can trust me."
"I'll go too," added the trainer's doctor; "and see him littered
down for the night."
(The only two men who had "hedged" their bets, by privately
backing his opponent, were also the only two men who volunteered
to take him home!)
They went back to the sofa on which he was lying. His bloodshot
eyes were rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the search
for something. They rested on the doctor--and looked away again.
They turned to Mr. Speedwell--and stopped, riveted on his face.
The surgeon bent over him, and said, "What is it?"
He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath--uttering a
word at a time: "Shall--I--die?"
"I hope not."
"Sure?"
"No."
He looked round him again. This time his eyes rested on the
trainer. Perry came forward.
"What can I do for you, Sir?"
The reply came slowly as before. "My--coat--pocket."
"This one, Sir?"
"No."
"This?"
"Yes. Book."
The trainer felt in the pocket, and produced a betting-book.
"What's to be done with this. Sir?"
"Read."
The trainer held the book before him; open at the last two pages
on which entries had been made. He rolled his head impatiently
from side to side of the sofa pillow. It was plain that he was
not yet sufficiently recovered to be able to read what he had
written.
"Shall I read for you, Sir?"
"Yes."
The trainer read three entries, one after another, without
result; they had all been honestly settled. At the fourth the
prostrate man said, "Stop!" This was the first of the entries
which still depended on a future event. It recorded the wager
laid at Windygates, when Geoffrey had backed himself (in defiance
of the surgeon's opinion) to row in the University boat-race next
spring--and had forced Arnold Brinkworth to bet against him.
"Well, Sir? What's to be done about this?"
He collected his strength for the effort; and answered by a word
at a time.
"Write--brother--Julius. Pay--Arnold--wins."
His lifted hand, solemnly emphasizing what he said, dropped at
his side. He closed his eyes; and fell into a heavy stertorous
sleep. Give him his due. Scoundrel as he was, give him his due.
The awful moment, when his life was trembling in the balance,
found him true to the last living faith left among the men of his
tribe and time--the faith of the betting-book.
Sir Patrick and Mr. Speedwell quitted the race-ground together;
Geoffrey having been previously removed to his lodgings hard by.
They met Arnold Brinkworth at the gate. He had, by his own