Chapter Twenty Five.
A Dead Heat.
The few weeks during which I had been laid up had witnessed some curious changes in Low Heath—at least, they seemed curious to me, dropping, as I did, suddenly into them.
First of all, we poor “Sharpers” were all burnt out. The faggery was no more, nor was the hall, or the dormitory. We were being put up temporarily in a town house just outside the school gates, a good deal to the wrath of some of our number, who felt it was putting them down to the level of the day boys. However, the sight of the scaffolding round our old quarters, and the cheery clink of the trowel, reminded us that out exile was not for long, and that in a brand-new faggery, on brand-new chairs, and round a brand-new table, we should shortly resume our pleasant discussions on the deepest questions with which the human mind can occupy itself.
Somehow, apart from the fire, things weren’t going exactly as I had left them. Pridgin was reported to be working hard—a most alarming symptom. It was commonly surmised that he could not stand playing second or third fiddle to Crofter; and as Tempest was apparently content to be second, Pridgin had come to the painful conclusion that the only comfortable place for him in Sharpe’s was Number One. It was extremely inconvenient all round; for it made it necessary for Crofter to bestir himself, while of course it seemed to threaten Tempest’s chance of recovering his place.
A few of the shrewdest held that Pridgin was merely forcing the pace in order to punish Crofter for his usurpation. It may have been so; but, whatever the motive, it quite upset the normal flow of things at Sharpe’s.
Another change was a marked reaction of public opinion in favour of Tempest and against Crofter. This was probably due, in the first place, to Tempest’s exploit in rescuing me from the fire; and secondly, to Crofter’s caution in declining to enter for the Mile race at the coming Sports. A few weeks had dispelled the little glamour which the latter had derived from his apparently public-spirited conduct last term, and the attitude of the Philosophers had effectually deprived him of any opportunity of exercising his authority, and left him to the enjoyment of an altogether barren honour.
One other change was that Tempest’s necessity to live very economically in order to repay his grandfather for advances made, had produced a coolness between him and Wales, who had now retired from the triumvirate, and attached himself to the cause of Crofter.
Lastly, Mr Jarman had suffered a shock, and taken on badly about his accidental part in the recent fire. It had knocked all the vice out of him, for the time being at any rate, and left him quite meek and limp.
Just now, however, the only topic about which any one cared was, as I speedily discovered, the Sports.
Unusual keenness was being displayed everywhere. The seniors were deeply concerned in the issue of the Mile. Would Redwood, who had hitherto held his own easily, save his laurels this time? Would Tempest, with his damaged hand, be able to run his hardest? Would any dark horse, at the last moment, enter to divide the interest? And so on.
Among the middle boys considerable excitement was afoot, especially in Selkirk’s house, where it was reported a boy of fifteen and a half was going to beat the senior record in the Jump, and perhaps run the public school record very close.
But the chief excitement was among us juniors. We had modestly set before ourselves the task of winning every event under fifteen for Sharpe’s house, to say nothing of pulling the day boys over the chalk in the Tug of War, and generally bringing the Philosophers well before the public notice. The secret of our intention had been well-kept till within a week of the day. We had been taunted with shirking our sports, with being “mugs” and “crocks” and “cripples,” with exercising the better part of valour, with being afraid of being laughed at, and so forth. But we heard all with a conscious wink, and went on with our practice round the corner. Then, a week from the day, we literally pelted the list with our names.
Langrish put down for the High Jump, Cricket Ball, Broad Jump, and Hurdles. Warminster set down his name under Dicky Brown’s for the Hundred Yards, and next to Griswold’s for the Hurdles. Coxhead entered for the Cricket Ball against the crack thrower in Selkirk’s, and Rackstraw and Walsh, noble pair of “paupers,” put in for the Quarter-mile, which I was to have run against the fleet-footed Flitwick. Altogether it was a big order, and made the other houses look a little blue, as we hoped it would.
The great day came at last—a perfect Sports day, with a light breeze blowing, the track like elastic, the takes-off clean and sharp, and the field crammed with visitors and friends. I had my work cut out for me that day. It would have been far less exertion to run the Quarter-mile. I was to be coat-minder, time-keeper, rubber-down, straight-tipper, clapper-on-the-back, and bottle-holder to the Conversation Club at large, a sort of mixture of parent, footman, and retriever dog, which, flattering as it undoubtedly was to my sense of my own importance, promised no little anxiety and exercise before the day was done.
As I strolled down somewhat early, charged with the pleasing commission of “bagging nine seats in the middle of the front row of the stand and seeing no one collared them,” I met Redwood, fresh as a daisy, just returning from a final inspection of the ground.
“Hullo, youngster, you’re not running, I hear. What a pity!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said I. “Do you mind my not backing you for the Mile?”
He laughed, and said he should have thought poorly of me if I had not backed my own man.
“Is his hand all right now?” he asked.
“He says so,” said I. “It’s worth six yards to you, though.”
“You think so, do you?” said he. “By the way, will you do a job for me? My two young sisters awfully want to be on the ground, and they’ve got leave if some one will look after them. I can’t. How would you like to?”
Here was a thunderbolt! I had a fair day’s work mapped out for myself as it was. Now I was to be saddled with a pair of teasing young female fidgets, and held responsible for their good behaviour and general comfort! What did people take me for? Why, the Mile itself wouldn’t take it out of me half as much.
“All right,” said I, “where are they?”
“I’m going home; I’ll send them down sharp before the crowd comes. Thanks awfully, youngster.”
And off he went, leaving me pretty full up with the cares of this deceitful world.
I proceeded to bag the nine best seats on the stand, which, as nobody else had yet put in an appearance, was easy enough without the trying necessity of sitting on them all at the same time. When the crowd arrived, it would be time enough to consider how I should then have to act.
I had not been long in possession when two dainty little figures in pink bore down hand-in-hand upon me, presumably under the protection of a nurse, who, however, was not in it when it came to racing.
“There’s horrid Sarah,” remarked Mamie, “who tried to drown me.”
“Never mind,” said Gladys, “he was nearly burned to death to punish him for being wicked.”
“I hate him because he never gives us sweeties,” said Mamie.
“Never mind,” said Gladys; “Bobby says it’s not his fault that he’s a mule. I don’t like mules though, do you?”
“I hate them,” said the uncompromising Mamie.
“Please, Master Jones,” said the nurse, “the mistress says will you see the young ladies behave nicely and don’t dirty their frocks? Be good girls now,” she added, by way of final admonition, as she departed.
I watched her go with the helpless despair of a man on a spar who watches the lifeboat put off with its last load for the shore. The young ladies, almost before nurse was gone, began to run along the rows of chairs, falling down once in twelve, and rapidly toning down the pretty pink of their frocks to a sombre brick hue. I was thankful when the crowd began to drop in, and I was able, by threats of taking them home before the races began, to reduce them at least to the nine seats for which I was responsible. How I wished I had some sweets, in order to reduce them to only three!
By good luck Dicky Brown hove in sight just as I was giving way to despair.
“Dicky, old chap,” said I, “if you love me, get sixpennyworth of bulls’-eyes or something. I’d be grateful to you as long as I live.”
Dicky looked at me anxiously—evidently concerned for my health. But a jerk of my head in the direction of the two little vixens, who were just then trying to pull a solemn-looking day boy off one of the chairs by main force, satisfied him that the case was an urgent one, and, like a brick, he flew off to the rescue.
The solemn day boy stood his persecution as long as he could, and then rounded sharply on his persecutors.
“Bother you, go away!” he growled.
Whereupon in floods of tears, the Misses Redwood made for me, and insisted on being taken up one on each knee and “cosseted” because of what the big ugly boy had done.
I complied with the energy of despair, conscious that in so doing I was allowing the reserved seats one by one to be usurped, and was at the same time rendering myself a spectacle of contempt to at least eight young persons, whom, in the gap left between the two wet faces which clung to my either cheek, I could see advancing in a body, clad in running drawers and blazers, in our direction.
It was vain for me to try to escape from my false position. The nearer the Philosophers approached, the more maudlin and effusive these unprincipled young females became, flinging their arms tragically round my neck, and bedaubing my face with their dewy kisses.
“Sarah can go it a bit when he likes,” said Langrish, with a cheerful guffaw, standing in a conspicuous place, and calling public attention to me in a way which only added to my sorrows.
“Rather. I wondered why he went down so early,” said Coxhead.
“Birds of a feather,” said the sententious Trimble, “play the fool together. I say, what about our seats, though?”
“They are bagged,” said I, getting my face clear for a moment. “I couldn’t keep them.”
“I dare say. You mean you were so busy spooning about with girls you never thought of it. All right, Miss Molly,” said Warminster.
“I think we could squash up a bit here,” said I meekly.
“Looks as if you could,” said Langrish. “Squash away then.” And, to the wrath and indignation of the whole stand, the Philosophers crowded in, in a solid phalanx, and proceeded to accommodate their eight persons in the space usually allotted to two. It took some time for the other seat-holders to appreciate the humour of the manoeuvre, and before then the bell had rung for the first race, and Dicky had returned with the brandy-balls, which he deftly smuggled into my hand as he trotted past.
It was now easy to “square” the Misses Redwood, who for a blessed half-hour cried truce. It was in vain that I suggested that they had better not plaster their faces and frocks more than could be helped with the sticky substance of their succulent pabulum. They contemptuously ignored my right to make any suggestion of the kind, and I finally abandoned them to their fate.
The first few events were trial heats, in which we as a body were not specially interested; but when the bell rang up for the Hundred Yards under fifteen, the Sports had begun for us in earnest.
Leaving the two Daughters of Eve with the bag of brandy-balls between them, I clambered out of my place to perform the last rites for Warminster, who was to carry the colours of Sharpe’s against Dicky Brown of the day boys, Muskett of Selkirk’s, and another outsider.
It went a little to my heart to be rubbing down somebody else’s calves but Dicky’s on an occasion like this. But such is life. Patriotism goes before friendship, and times do come when one must wish confusion to one’s dearest brother.
So I rubbed down one of Warminster’s calves while Trimble rubbed the other, and Langrish gave him a word of advice about his start, and Coxhead arranged to call on him for his spurt twenty yards from the finish. With the exception of the other evening when he arrived at my mother’s party I had never seen Warminster so meek and nervous. He behaved exactly as if we were taking a last farewell, and would, I think, have embraced us had we encouraged him to do so.
“Now then,” said Langrish, “give us your blazer. Bend well over your toes for the start, and do it all in a breath.”
“Run straight on your track, and don’t try to take the other chaps’ water,” said Trimble.
“Don’t look round at me when I yell, but bucket all you can,” said Coxhead.
“Don’t pull up till after the pistol has gone,” said I. Then we left him to his work.
And well enough he did it. He and Dicky went off at the start as if they’d been shot out of a double-barrelled gun, Dicky with his head down, our man with his head up. That was what saved him; half-way over Dicky had to get his chin up, and it lost him a sixteenth of a second, and that meant six inches. Selkirk’s man made an ugly rush thirty yards from home, but he began it too soon. Warminster wisely waited till he heard Coxhead’s shrill “Gee-up” in his ear. Then he laid on and made his six inches eight, and his eight ten, and landed so much in front of Dicky amid cheers which, if the clouds had been a little lower, would have assuredly brought on a shower.
One score to us! I was sorry for Dicky, but it couldn’t be helped. “It’s your fault,” said he, “the brandy-balls did it. I took one, you know; never mind. I say, look at your kids!”
The “kids” in question had finished the brandy-balls, and, resenting my desertion, had decided to follow me into the open. As I had reached it by swarming over the front of the stand and dropping a foot or so on to the earth, they naturally selected that route as most suitable for them. They had half accomplished it, to the extent of getting over the edge of the low parapet and beginning to lower themselves on the outside, when Mamie’s frock caught in a nail, which suspended her between heaven and earth, while Gladys, in her uncertainty whether to scream or assist, had toppled to the ground all of a heap, and solved the difficulty that way. Their screeches almost put our loyal cheers to the blush, and when I rushed up to extricate the one and pick up the other, I was in the centre of a hullaballoo which almost threatened to wreck the Sports. How they quieted down I know not. I believe it was my announced determination to walk them straight home which did it. At any rate, it was clear to me there was no more rubbing down of Sharpe’s calves for me that day. I must remain, like Casabianca, on deck, even though it cost us all the events of the day.
It was a thankless task. First of all there was the usual ceremony of “cosseting” and drying tears. Then with a pin I had to mend the rent in Mamie’s frock. Then I had to kiss both of Gladys’s elbows to make them well, and finally I had to stand a fusillade of chaff and jeers from the Philosophers, which made life a heavier burden that it was already.
At last, to my joy, the bell rang up for the High Jump under fifteen, and public attention was diverted from my lamentable case.
As everybody who knew anything had anticipated, Langrish won this, metaphorically speaking, “on his head.” He knocked out the second man (a Selkirker) at 4 feet and half an inch, and went on gamely 2 inches higher, clearing the bar as prettily and daintily as Wales himself might have done in the open event. It was not at all certain he could not have gone higher against an opponent; but having no such spur, he grew careless, and after barely shaking down the bar twice at 4 feet 3 inches, kicked it off awkwardly the third time, and so retired an easy victor, and quite overcome by the applause of the now crowded field.
Then came the event of the day—the Open Mile, for which Tempest and Redwood were the only combatants. I felt myself growing as nervous as if I were running myself.
For my instinct told me that the welfare of Sharpe’s more or less hung on the issue. Could Tempest but win, there would be no doubt that he would return to the headship of the house with an éclat which even Crofter would have to yield to. If not, Crofter might still hang on to the reins and claim his doubtful rights.
A complication of an unexpected kind arose now. The Misses Redwood were quite sufficiently au fait with the etiquette of a race-course to know that if their brother ran he must win, and that everybody else must wish him to win. In an unguarded moment I joined in the cheer which greeted Tempest as he appeared stripped for action on his way to the starting-post. This was taken up as a grievous personal affront. The young ladies repudiated and flung me from them with an energy and disgust which quite astonished me. They loudly clamoured for my removal, and failing that, made a concerted retreat from my detested vicinity.
“Nasty horrid Sarah, go away!” they shouted.
Then spying Dicky Brown in the distance, they shrieked on him to deliver them.
“Want to go to Dicky—dear Dicky. Get away from Sarah.”
And suiting the action to the word they swarmed over the back of the bench, and started in full cry for the enviable Dicky.
Richard, however, was an old bird for his years, and did not, or pretended not to hear their siren voices, and sheered off into the open just in the nick of time. Whereupon the Misses Redwood redoubled their clamour, and could only be allured back to the shelter of my fatigued wing by my going to them and audibly bawling in their faces, “Bravo, Redwood! go it, Redwood!”
On these terms they surrendered, and the difficulty, at the cost indeed of my reputation as a loyal “Sharper” was temporarily tided over.
It was noticed that Tempest, though cool as ever, was pale, and carried his left hand, while he stood waiting, in the opening of his waistcoat. I saw Redwood go to him and say something, pointing as he did so to the hand. Tempest’s reply was a flush and a laugh as he removed his hand from its resting-place, and waved it about at his side.
I did not like it. But it was too late now. Mr Jarman stood ready with his pistol up, the noise of the field suddenly changed to silence, and the two athletes, with arms out, stood straining on the line.
Off! It was a good start, and the pace was startling for a mile. Tempest had the inside track. He seemed to have the advantage in lightness of step, while Redwood’s strength was more in length of stride. The first of the four laps was run almost inch for inch. Perhaps Tempest, thanks to his berth, had a foot to the good as they entered on the second. Here our man forged ahead slowly, and gradually drew to a clear lead. But we trembled as we saw it. Would he stay? Apparently he ran as lightly as before, but Redwood, as he lay on at his heels, seemed to be going even easier. However, the half-mile saw Tempest three yards ahead and still going. Then, to our concern, we saw Redwood’s stride lengthen a little, and watched inch after inch of the interval shrink, until at the end of the third lap there was scarcely more difference than there had been at the end of the first. Yet our man was still to the front.
And now it was almost difficult for us onlookers to breathe, for the tug was at hand. The fourth lap had scarcely begun when a wild yell called attention to the fact that Tempest was once more “putting it on.” What was still more satisfactory was that he was going as well as ever, although in that respect so was Redwood. The gap opened again, the foot grew to a yard, and the yard to half a dozen, and the half-dozen to— At last! It was but two hundred yards from home when Redwood’s stride once more lengthened out, and a new shout told us all that the chasm was once more being filled up, inch by inch and foot by foot. Tempest heard the shout and knew what it meant. He, too, lengthened his stride, and seemed as if he was going to answer rush for rush. But our hearts stood still and our tongues clave to the roofs of our mouths as we perceived that it would not come off. He could barely keep up his present pace. Would it see him through? Perhaps half the distance was passed, and Redwood had only recovered a third of his lead. Then the yells broke out. Every one wished he could lend his man an inch, or the hundredth part of an inch. Redwood’s rush increased, and the vanishing inches struck panic into our philosophic breasts. Could Tempest but hold out these few yards, we were safe. He would! No! Yes! No, they’re all but level another six yards. Then suddenly we saw Tempest fling his hand behind and reel forward with a blind stagger over the tape, and as the simultaneous report proclaimed a dead heat, fall sprawling and helpless on the ground.
The cheers died on our lips, for it was surely something more than exhaustion or broken wind. Redwood was beside him in a moment, and drew his head on his knee. It was a dead faint—not from fatigue, but from pain.
His burned and blistered hand, which he had so carefully concealed from everybody, and of which he had made so little, betrayed the secret plainly enough.
For once his pride and determination had overrated his physical strength. He had calculated on just being able to win the race. All he had done was just to save it, at a price which, as it turned out, was to cost him weeks of illness, and even threaten the loss of a hand.
The news of his calamity spread like wildfire, and put an end, as far as I at least was concerned, to the sports for the day.
We heard later in the day that he was in the Sanatorium in a high fever. Next day he was delirious, and the notice on the board told us that the doctor considered his condition dangerous. The next day, his old grandfather, the only relative he had, came down, and the next, summoned by my urgent message, my dear mother. Then for a day or two we were kept in suspense, till one happy afternoon the bulletin reported a change for the better, and presently the welcome news came that all danger was past.
For me at least that was the happiest day of my life, except perhaps that a week later when my mother as a special privilege allowed me to see him for a moment.
He was sitting up in bed, smiling but pale.
“Tell me,” he said, “I’ve never heard yet, did I win the Mile?”
“Dead heat,” said I.
“What time?”
“Four four and a half.”
“A record, isn’t it? It was worth the grind.”
I had my doubts, but knew better than to say so.