At Start And Finish Part 4

I took my tub and Hacking gave me a right good rub down after; not a very artistic performance, but given with good will and with a strong hand. When it was done he looked me over with a critical eye, p.r.o.nouncing me very fit, "barring a heavy pound or two;" but as I had done my work faithfully he could find no fault. He thought me a bit over-confident, and told me so; but I had never for a moment doubted my ability to defeat anything against me, and I paid little attention to his words. I was not conceited, but I knew there were not a half-dozen amateurs in all England in my cla.s.s, and was sure an Old-Country crack must outcla.s.s anything the States could produce.

As early as two o'clock the spectators began to arrive, and I, following my own inclination as well as Hacking's suggestion to "get under cover,"

went upstairs and knocked at the door of Jennie's little sitting-room.

She greeted me most cordially with a handshake and a "good day to a good winner." She was dressed in her best gown, and had been sitting at the window to watch the arrivals. I took a seat by her side on the little chintz-cus.h.i.+oned window-seat, and watched with her.

To those who to-day see the throngs of well-dressed and refined people, many of them ladies, who attend college, amateur, and even professional sports, it may not be amiss to describe the spectators of my first match at Hacking's Brighton track, back in the sixties, for a typical sporting crowd it was.

They drove to the door in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, drawn by animals as various. They soon filled the long sheds back of the house, and then a dilapidated fence was utilized for hitching-posts, and even a few trees of the young orchard.

The drivers were many of them Englishmen, for the average American was too keen after the dollars in those days to leave them for sport of any kind. The adjournment to the bar was almost unanimous, where enough money was taken for fancy drinks to make good Hacking's stake had he lost.

We could see them come swaggering up the steps, many of them carrying whip in hand, and there was much loud talk of pa.s.sing Tom, d.i.c.k, or Harry on the road, with the "little bay" or the "brown colt."

We could hear them plainly, for the window was up a bit, and they did not talk in whispers.

Every now and again some one would chaff Hacking on his Unknown, telling him to "trot out the wonder," or "give us a sight of the man who runs Simmons even."

It was three o'clock when a long moving wagon labelled "Boston Belle"

drove up to the door, containing Simmons, his backers and immediate attendants; and the crowd at the bar sauntered out on the piazza to meet them, and hurried back in augmented numbers to patronize still further the tall bottles behind the mahogany.

I had a glimpse of Simmons as he stepped out; but he was enveloped in a long ulster, and all I could discover was that he was extremely tall and dark.

His supporters had plenty of money, and soon ran the odds up to three to one, at which figures Hacking accommodated them to a considerable extent. I had not another supporter, however, for they all seemed to consider that Hacking had quite lost his head, and took the match as a huge joke. It was very evident that, if I broke the tape, it would be a most unpopular, as well as unexpected, win. Hacking stuck to them well, but at last got all he wanted, and declined to risk any more. So confident was Simmons' princ.i.p.al backer that he proposed another match, though this was not yet pulled off, agreeing to concede three yards when we ran again.

It is wonderful what effect such talk has on a contestant, no matter how confident he may be. I had not for a moment doubted the ability of a crack man like myself to beat anything in the States at my distance, but I now began to admit the possibility of defeat, and to consider that it meant almost starvation to me. You must remember I was barely twenty years old, in a strange country, and a man trained close to the limit is particularly liable to fancies.

Jennie had been talking to me all the time in her quiet way, for she had the good old English habit of subdued speech; but little did I hear then, and now I remember almost nothing at all.

I first noticed that she had become vastly indignant at a reflection on the courage of the "Unknown who dares not show himself."

"Don't fret: you'll see him soon enough, my man," she said, with a toss of her head. She was giving me some absurd instructions about letting Simmons get the best of the start, and then sailing by him in the last few yards, so that the disappointment might be more intense, when some one in the crowd yelled out with a Yorks.h.i.+re accent, "Fifteen dollars to five on the long-legged Chipper. Fifteen to five against the 'veiled lady.'"

There was a loud laugh at this, which was too much for Jennie. She jumped up, went to her little desk in the corner, and took from one of those secret drawers, which are so evident, her purse, and emptying it in her lap counted out five dollars and a few cents over. She then called the chamber-maid, gave her the five dollars, and told her to give it to Jerry, the hostler, to bet on Mr. Brown.

"'Tis an easy way to make money," she said, with an immense amount of disdain at my remonstrance.

I sat with her a while longer, she doing all the talking, for my mind was occupied, to put it mildly. When the little clock on the shelf pointed to three-thirty, I left to get into my running-togs, she giving me a good grip with her soft warm hand, and saying, "I shall see you win from the attic window."

When I reached my room, which Hacking told me to keep locked, I had a difficulty in finding the key-hole that I had never experienced, except "after dinner" or at late hours of the evening, my fingers being quite unsteady. As I stripped, my courage seemed to leave me with every garment. I remember I wondered if it would come back again when I put on my running-clothes. A little better I did feel, but at the last moment I broke the lace of my left shoe as I was pulling it tight.

Now, there is an old superst.i.tion that this means a lost race, and though I had never thought of such a foolish thing before, it seemed now a sure omen of defeat.

Indeed, I may as well confess first as last, that when Hacking knocked at my door, for the first time in all my life (and the last as well) I was in a blue funk.

Yes, a rank quitter was I on that afternoon of May 1, 186-, and I am not sure I should not have cut and run, had there been the least chance to get away.

Hacking discovered my condition at once, and grew mighty serious when his efforts to hearten me were unsuccessful. And truly the man had good reason to be serious,--a good three hundred dollars at risk, and here was his man with knees kissing and lips white.

There was nothing to do but to go on with the game, though, to make it worse, as I walked down the back stairs, I caught my spikes in a crack and nearly put myself out of the race by a bad fall before the start. It is almost an absurd thing to say, but when I picked myself up and discovered I was entirely uninjured, I cursed the ill-luck which had not allowed me to be disabled.

I did have pride enough to make a brace when I reached the open air, and flattered myself I did not show how badly I felt.

I was enveloped in a long top-coat, which hid me completely, but as we forced our way to the track through the spectators, who crowded around to get a look at me, my teeth were set to keep them from chattering.

There were several offers of three to one, and one of four to one, as we pa.s.sed; but Hacking said he had enough, and I think he told the truth and could have said "more." He hurried on with me to the start, where Simmons stood with a little cl.u.s.ter of his most ardent admirers.

As we approached, Simmons threw off his ulster, and came forward to meet me. His eye caught mine, and he smiled in a very peculiar way, discovering immediately my condition, and held out a long brown hand, without a word.

I extended mine mechanically, expecting an ordinary handshake, but greatly to my surprise he gripped it in a most vicious squeeze which brought almost a cry of agony to my lips. I learned afterwards that this was a common trick to intimidate and dishearten, but was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, having always run against gentlemen, where all proper courtesies were observed.

The effect upon me was, however, directly opposite that expected. My trouble was not so much lack of courage as simple nervousness. With the shock of the pain this disappeared as if by magic, and in its place came at first a blind rage at the injury, which I could scarcely restrain, and then the determination to win, if I never ran again.

I was a different man. I threw off my top-coat, and facing my opponent, looked him over critically and carefully. I am free to say I could not deny him a long breath of admiration. He was over six feet tall, dark and slender, showing signs of the infusion of Indian blood which was in his veins. He was clad in a common unders.h.i.+rt, far from clean. Instead of trunks he wore overalls cut off just above the knees, and on his feet were a pair of well-seasoned moccasins.

Yet despite his unsportsmanlike and ludicrous costume, a better-built man for a sprinter I never saw, and I have seen some of the best.

His legs were long and lithe, well-rounded, but not too heavily muscled, and every cord and sinew showed through the brown skin as fine and firm as a bowstring. He carried not an ounce of extra weight above the belt, although his chest was full and his arms sinewy. With the strong jaw and piercing black eyes, there could be no question of their possessor's determination. I knew my work was cut out for me with a big pair of shears; that I had met a man as good if not better than myself, and I must do all I knew to win. That I was to win I had now determined,--a grand, good condition of mind for a contestant to possess.

Simmons observed me as critically as I did him, and I think that the more he saw of me the less he liked me. The contrast between us was as great as possible. I was as fair as he was dark, several inches shorter, and although without any superfluous flesh, much larger boned and muscled. Indeed I was built more like a "quarter-miler" than a sprinter.

I must have bettered his weight by several pounds, and had not the top-coat covered me, and my nervousness shown itself, I question if he would have tried his little bit of brutality upon me.

While the survey of my opponent was most comprehensive, it was the work of seconds. He suddenly produced a roll of dirty bank-bills, and shook them in my face with a "See here, young fellow, I go you one hundred to fifty you're a loser." I opened my mouth to decline the bet, but my words were drowned by a torrent of mingled abuse, invective, and I know not what of "billingsgate." It ended in an endless repet.i.tion of the very conclusive sentence, "Put up, or shut up," "Put up, or shut up,"

which evidently gave him an extreme amount of satisfaction. I was not then the possessor of fifty cents, and was pleased when the starter silenced him with the peremptory order to "Get on your marks."

I went to the line at once, followed by Simmons, and as the crowd was being pressed back slowly behind the ropes, Hacking drew me a little aside and gave me his last instructions. "Now, my lad, listen to what I say. You've got your heart back all right, and can win if you use your head. The starter will hurry the pistol a bit, for he would like to see you win, and you need not be afraid of going away too soon. Get a yard to the good, and hold it, for if you cannot show clear at the tape, you will stand no show with the referee."

I learned afterwards that while both were supposed to be fair and unprejudiced men, Hacking had practically named the starter, and Simmons' backer the referee. The former would give me all possible advantage, and the latter would see none but my opponent at the finish without opera-gla.s.ses unless I had him plainly beaten.

To those who do not know, I will say that, in a sprint, very much depends on the start; that a contestant must be off with the pistol, or steal on it if he can. But if he gets away before the shot, he is brought back and penalized a yard for each offence. Knowing that the pistol would be a bit quick was a decided advantage to me, as I could start without fear of being set back.

As I got in position, I had made up my mind to the following facts: First, that I had the best side of the track. It was the west or farthest from the house, and well I knew every inch of the brown cinder-path that stretched before me. For the first fifty yards there was nothing to choose; but on the east side, which Simmons had taken, just before the finish was a soft spot which would trouble him. Second, the rain of the previous night had made the track quite heavy, which should also help me, as my greater strength must push me through. Third, my appearance had not been without its effect on the crowd, and I had heard a word or two of approval of my "get-up," also of the quiet and business-like way in which I had met Simmons' tirade.

We were on our marks and waiting for the word when suddenly my opponent discovered my running-shoes, and insisted that I must run in smooth soles like himself.

He kept up a wordy warfare with Hacking on this subject for at least five minutes, Hacking arguing that there were no restrictions, and that I could wear top-boots or golden slippers if I chose.

Simmons was silenced at last by the crowd, who plainly saw I would not run without spikes, and were bound to see a race.

All this controversy, together with the continued brutality of my opponent, had put me fairly on edge. I was as cool as possible, ready to do all I knew, eager to start, and growing more determined if not more confident every minute.

I had given an occasional glance at the attic window of the hotel where I could see Jennie, and every time I looked came the wave of a little handkerchief that did me a heap of good.

As I "set myself," and looked down the track, fringed on either side by the crowds of spectators pressed close against the ropes, not one of whom was friendly to me, every nerve of my body tingled, and the "fighting blood" pa.s.sed down to me through many generations of good old English stock was at a fever heat.

Now I saw nothing and thought of nothing but the red worsted at the finish; I strained at the mark with every muscle tense, my weight well forward, and a buzz in my ears like the song of a huge top.

From the starter's lips came the "On your marks,"--"Ready,"--"Set," and then a bit ahead of time came the "crack" of the pistol, and we were off.

Can any one describe the mad ten seconds of a sprint? 'Tis over in a breath, and words are slow.