Chapter Fourteen.
Challenging the Record.
On the Monday before Railsford’s sports, Ainger and Barnworth sat rather dismally conning a document which lay on the table between them.
It was Smedley’s report of the School sports held the Saturday before, and was sufficiently alarming to dishearten any ordinary reader.
“‘The Mile Race. Smedley 1, Branscombe 2. Time 4 minutes 50 seconds.’ Whew!” said Ainger, “I can’t beat that; 4.52 is the shortest I’ve done it in, and I doubt if I could do that again.”
“Fiddlesticks! If you don’t do it in 4.48 you deserve to be sent home to the nursery. But do you see Branscombe gave up before the end? That’s odd. I rather thought he was the better man of the two.”
“Branscombe seems to be down on his luck altogether this term,” said Ainger. “I fancy he hasn’t a very sweet time at Bickers’s.”
“But he ought to have won the mile, for all that. He’s got the longest legs in Grandcourt, and used to have the best wind.”
“Gone stale,” said Ainger, “and growing too fast. Why, he must be as tall as Railsford already; and he’s good for an inch or so more.”
“Poor beggar! But what about the high jump?”
“High jump? Smedley and Clipstone a tie, 5 feet 4½.”
“Thank you,” said Barnworth. “I may as well scratch at once. I once jumped that, but that was in the days of my youth.”
“Fiddlesticks! If you don’t clear 5 feet 5, you deserve to be sent home to a daily governess,” said Ainger, laughing. “And, by the way, I hear Wake has been jumping finely lately. Mind he doesn’t do it for you.”
“Wake had better mind his own business,” responded Barnworth. “I, a prefect and a very great person in this house, should greatly resent it if a Fifth-form fellow beat me at the jump. Upon my word I’d give him 100 lines.”
“‘Cricket-ball. Clipstone 77 yards.’ What a poor throw! Felgate is sure to beat that, at any rate.”
“Not if he can help,” said Barnworth. “In fact, if I were you, I would either scratch him, or see someone else is in too, to make sure of it. Unless you do, we lose it.”
“Do you mean he’d throw short on purpose?”
“My dear fellow, you are just beginning to perceive what anybody who isn’t a born simpleton would have seen for himself a week ago.”
Ainger’s brow clouded. “I’ll enter myself, then,” said he.
“No you won’t; enter Stafford. Stafford won’t get the mile, which you will. A little success may keep him with us; otherwise the odds are he may go over to the enemy—alias your friend Felgate.”
Ainger wrote Stafford’s name down there and then.
In this way the two friends went through the list. It was a strong record to beat, and if they were doubtful of themselves they were still more doubtful of some of their juniors.
For instance, Arthur, if he meant to win the long jump under sixteen, would have to clear 15 feet 8 inches; and Dimsdale, to secure the 100 yards under fifteen, would have to do it in 13 seconds. Tilbury was safe for the cricket-ball in his class; and Arthur, if he took care, might beat Smith’s record for the Shell half-mile. Most of the other events were decidedly doubtful, and it was evident the week which remained would need to be used well, if the ambitious attempt of Railsford’s house was to succeed. By no means the least interested peruser of the list when presently it was posted up on the common room door Railsford himself.
For a week or two past he had been as nearly happy as he could be in the congenial work of training and encouraging the youthful athletes of his house. He had felt drawn to them and they to him by quite a new bond of sympathy. He spared himself in nothing for the common cause, and his enthusiasm was, as might be expected, contagious.
“There are one or two of these records we shall not beat,” said the master to Ainger; “but the majority of them we should be able to manage.”
He spoke so hopefully that Ainger’s spirits went up decidedly. A final overhaul of the list was made, and the times registered compared with the times on the School list. In one or two cases Railsford advised that a second man should be run with a good start, in order to force the pace, and through one or two names belonging to hopeless triflers or malcontents he quietly passed his pencil.
“I see Stafford has entered for the cricket-ball,” said he, “as well as Felgate; how is that?”
“We should lose the cricket-ball otherwise,” said Ainger. “Felgate may do his best if someone is against him, but he won’t if he’s the only man in for us. He has no interest in sports.”
Railsford’s face clouded.
“Is Stafford the best man to enter? Should not you or Barnworth go in?”
“I think not, sir. Stafford made some good practice yesterday, and can beat the School record as it is.”
During the next few days every spare moment at Railsford’s house was used in preparing for the great trial of Saturday. Nor, strange to say, did the school-work suffer in consequence. The idlers in the Shell, being in the way of spurts, took a sudden spurt of interest in class—partly for fear of being excluded by detention or otherwise from Saturday’s celebration, and partly because the healthy condition of their bodies had begotten for the time being a healthier condition of mind. Arthur and the baronet actually knew their syntax for two days running, and the astounding phenomenon of a perfectly empty detention-room occurred on both the Friday and the Saturday. The latter event was specially satisfactory to Railsford, as he was able to secure the services of Monsieur Lablache as assistant-judge—not exactly a popular appointment, but, failing any better, one which fellows had to make the best of.
The house rose that Saturday morning with a full sense of the crisis which was upon it. Despite Felgate’s sneers, and the jealous ridicule which floated in from outside on their efforts, they felt that they stood face to face with a great chance. Their reputation as a house was on its trial; they were boycotted by the doctor, and held up as a warning to evil-doers. They resolved to make themselves a warning to good and evil-doers alike that day, and show the doctor and everyone else that the spirit was not yet knocked out of them.
The half-holiday at Railsford’s, as we have said, began under the new régime immediately after breakfast, and ended at one o’clock, so that the farce of morning school did not interpose to chill the ardour of the combatants. The whole house assembled in flannels in honour of the occasion. The weather was very much like what the School had had a week ago; if anything, the ground was hardly in quite as good condition. At any rate, it was felt that, as far as externals went, the test between the two days’ performances would be a fair one. True, there was something a little chilly about the empty field. The usual inspiriting crowd of partisan spectators was absent, and the juniors of Railsford, who usually had to fight for front places, felt it a little dismal when they discovered that they could occupy any position they liked—even the ladies’ stand.
Arthur was very angry with himself for not getting Daisy down for the occasion. Her presence would have lent undoubted prestige both to himself and Dig, as well as to Railsford; and if she could have given the prizes afterwards it would have been a magnificent family affair. He bemoaned this omission to Railsford himself as he walked down with him to the fields. However, just before proceedings begun, the wished-for excitement was supplied by three most unexpected arrivals on the course. The first was that of the doctor’s niece, who, having watched the School sports a week ago with great interest, and being secretly rather sorry for the misfortunes which had over taken Railsford’s house, saw no reason why she should not take her accustomed place in the stand to-day. The boys were just in the mood to appreciate this little act of chivalry, and as she shyly walked up to the pavilion, they welcomed her with a cheer which brought the blushes to her cheeks and a smile of half-frightened pleasure to her lips. Boys who had seen her every day for the last three months in chapel suddenly discovered that she was simply charming; they greeted her much as mortals in distress would greet the apparition of the good fairy, and fifty champions there and then were ready to do battle for her, and only wished they had the chance.
The excitement of this arrival was hardly passed when another figure appeared on the scene, hardly less important or less popular. This was no other than Smedley, the School captain, who had asked and obtained special leave from Mr Roe to be present as representing the school on the occasion. He was still indignant at the disabilities imposed upon the rival house; and though he by no means wished it success in its ambitious project of beating the School record, his sense of fair play told him that if no one was on the ground to represent the other houses, they would compete at a disadvantage. If it went out that the School captain had been present, everyone, at any rate, would have to admit there had been fair play and no opening for dispute, whatever the result might be. So Smedley, although it might be to see his own record beaten, came down to the fields that morning. There was a little uncertainty as to his reception at first, for Railsford’s was in an Ishmaelitish mood, and was ready to call everybody an enemy who wasn’t on its side.
But when Ainger was heard to say—
“Hurrah! he’s a regular brick to come and back us up like this!” everybody jumped to the correct view of Smedley’s motives, and cheered him scarcely less enthusiastically than they had just now cheered their “Queen of Love and Beauty.”
“I only wish he was in his flannels,” said Arthur, “and would run the mile against us. It would be something like to lick him off his own stride.”
Arthur was rather proud of his athletic slang. What he meant was that he would sooner see Ainger win the mile against Smedley himself than against Smedley’s time.
“Never mind, he’s going to be the judge, do you see? I say, old man, you and I’ll have to sit up now.”
This was the universal effect of the captain’s presence. Perhaps he hardly realised himself what an advantage his presence was conferring on his rivals.
The first event on the programme was the Babies’ hundred yards, for which our friends Bateson and Jukes were entered, with the serious record of twenty-two seconds to beat. They were both a little pale and nervous with the excitement of opening the ball, and looked round wistfully, first at Railsford, then at Smedley, where he stood, watch in hand, at the winning-post, and then up at the ladies’ stand.
“Now, youngsters,” said Railsford, “do your very best. You ought both of you to run it under twenty seconds. Are you ready now? Off!”
The flood-gates were opened now; and from this moment till the end of the sports Railsford’s kept up a continual roar. Both Bateson and Jukes had little difficulty in registering a double victory for their house. Bateson covered the ground in nineteen seconds and Jukes in twenty-one. While the cheers for this initial victory were in full cry, the third of that morning’s apparitions came upon the scene. This was no other than Mr Bickers, at sight of whom a chill fell upon the assembly. What did he want there? Hadn’t he done them harm enough? Who asked him to come? Why wasn’t he making his own fellows miserable instead of coming here and spoiling their fun?
Mr Bickers, after looking round him, and taking in the scene generally, walked up to the ladies’ stand. Fellows dropped back sullenly to make room for him, although one or two pretended not to notice him and continued to stand and shout “Bateson!” “Jukes,” until he pushed them aside.
“Good-morning, Miss Violet,” said he, lifting his hat. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t you, Mr Bickers? I’m going to see all the events. They have just run the first race, and Bateson and Jukes have both beaten the boy in your house who won last week. Haven’t you a programme? Mr Railsford will give you one.”
“Thank you. I’m not staying long. It will be rather dull for you, will it not?”
“Dull!” said Miss Phyllis, laughing. “I don’t think it dull, thank you.”
Mr Bickers walked slowly into the enclosure, watched by everyone. Railsford greeted him with a nod, and then walked off to the starting-post to prepare for the next race. The prefects of the house looked another way, and Smedley was busy comparing his watch with that of monsieur.
“Smedley,” said Mr Bickers, “how come you to be here? You ought to be in your house.”
“I have an exeat, sir,” said the captain.
“From the doctor?”
“From Mr Roe.”
“Mr Roe can scarcely be aware that I have refused a similar application to boys in my own house.”
Smedley made no reply to this observation, about which he had nothing to say.
“You had better go in, Smedley. I will explain to Mr Roe.”
Smedley looked at him in blank astonishment. It sounded more like a jest than sober earnest.
“I have my master’s exeat” he said; “if he or the doctor cancels it I shall go in at once, sir.”
It was Mr Bickers’s turn to stare now. He had overdone it for once in a way. His genius for interference had carried him a step too far; and with a “Very good, Smedley,” in terms which were meant to be ominous, he turned away and proceeded to where Railsford was.
It was to speak to Railsford that he had come out into the fields that morning. His interviews with Miss Violet and the captain had been by the way. Railsford was busy marshalling the competitors for the Shell quarter-mile, of whom there was an unusual number. He was too much engrossed to notice Mr Bickers until that gentleman called him by name.
“I want a word with you, Railsford,” said Mr Bickers.
“Now then, toe the line and be ready. Be careful about fouling. Are you ready?”
“Railsford, I want a word with you.”
Railsford looked sharply round and perceived who the intruder was.
“I can’t speak to you now, Mr Bickers, I’m busy. Now, boys, are you all ready? Off!”
And he started to run beside the race. Mr Bickers put as cheerful a face on this little rebuff as he could, and presently walked across to the winning-post to make another attempt. The race had been well won by Tilbury, who had beaten the School record hollow, and shown himself a long way ahead of his fellow-runners. He of course came in for an ovation, which included a “Well run” from Smedley, and a “Bravo, indeed” from Railsford, which he valued specially. It was while he was receiving these friendly greetings that Mr Bickers once more approached Railsford.
“Now you have a moment or two to spare,” he began.
“I’ve not a moment to spare,” said Railsford, irritated. “What do you want?”
“I want you to look at this letter. It concerns you.”
And he produced an envelope from his pocket.
“Give it to me,” said Railsford. “I’ll read it when I have time.”
“No, thank you. I want you to—”
“Ring the bell for the high jump,” said Railsford, turning his back. At the signal the whole company closed in a solid phalanx round the poles. For the high jump was one of the great events of the day. Mr Bickers became mixed up in the crowd, and saw that it was hopeless to attempt further parley. He turned on his heel, and the fellows made a lane for him to pass out. As he got clear, and began slowly to retreat to his own house, the boys raised a loud defiant cheer. But whether this was to hail his departure or to greet the appearance of Barnworth and Wake, ready stripped for the fray, it would be difficult to say. But whichever it was, Mr Bickers seemed by no means discomfited. He turned and caught sight of the head and shoulders of his rival towering among his boys, and he smiled to himself and tapped the letter in his hand.
“Not a moment to spare!” said he to himself. “Good. We can wait. You may not be in such a hurry to get rid of me when you do read it; and your dear boys may change their minds about their hero, too,” added he, as a fresh cheer, mingled with a “Huzza for Railsford,” was wafted across the fields.