‘Look here, boys,’ I said; ‘let’s choke Nobby and Ginger off. The question before the House is sport. We’ve got to run the other company to-morrow, and it’s up to us to see Beefy through. It’s a matter of esprit de corps, and we can’t allow the other crowd to beat us. Sport is the backbone of the army. A good sportsman is usually a gentleman. All the Rugger men are either dead, wounded, fighting, or training for commissions. If they can’t sell night-shirts or soap, they can obey orders, and there’s no doubt they played the game in August 1914. Never mind about “after the war.” We can leave that to Nobby’s crowd. They’ll be running the show. We shall be much happier ranching or hoofing it with the Lost Legion. It will be a much better thing to beat the other company to-morrow than to sit here reading all the Socialistic tripe of H. G. Wells or the maudlin political tosh of Morley. D—— it all, there’s a war on! If Ginger and Nobby won’t turn up to-morrow, then they are rotters, and we should out them.’
‘Duck them,’ muttered Beefy.
‘How the—— do you know we sha’n’t be there to-morrow?’ roared Ginger, getting roused.
‘You’ve vetoed the run, haven’t you?’
‘Have I? Wait and see.’
II.
It was a cold, crisp day, with a keen, but healthy, breeze. The ground was not too hard, and excellent for the show. We were delighted, for there’s nothing like a glorious scramble across God’s green acres. It cleans the lungs, refreshes the brain, and gives one a zest for the things that matter. I am no marvel at the business, yet in pitting one’s strength against a fellow-man in friendly rivalry, one does acquire the sporting instinct, which is a fair instinct. And to an officer it does give a sense of values, a ready appreciation of all that is good in human nature.
Our company officer, Captain Bloggs, was delighted with the weather prospect. He was an old Blue, and he did want his ‘boys’ to knock spots off the other company. And, strange to say, when we all turned out in running attire, we found Ginger, Nobby, and Tosher already there. There was a suspicion of malicious fun in Ginger’s eyes. I scented something, and said, ‘Look here, Beefy; there’s some move on. These fellows are grinning like cats.’
‘Oh, d—— them! they won’t be in my way. They’re soft, and out of training’——
Bang! went the pistol just then. We went off. Two hundred men in running-kit make a pretty show. Our school, I may rightly say, were the cream of manhood, chosen spartans, and a sight for the gods. This was no preparatory school scramble. These fellows were all in splendid condition, and it was a treat to slog along and watch them. How easily they ambled, limbs and will working in perfect harmony! Hurdles and dikes were taken with an easy bound; no puffing, no exertion, no ungainly slithering on the other side. Just a leap and over. I am quite sure that two hundred Hun cadets could not have done so well. Then we reached the open, the crowd spread out, and the stragglers were more easily marked. These were the elderly men, but right merrily they did their best. They wanted to win. Wasn’t that a perfect spirit? And isn’t it the basis of our true nature? We may love to be top-dog, but we do prefer to get it off our own bat. If we have been very foolish in worshipping cups, caps, and blazers before the war, still it helped us at Mons, and certainly at Ypres. As I watched these fine fellows sprint by my side something welled into my heart; it was the pride of school, the pride of race, the mysterious something which makes us give our all to keep the old flag flying. I may be no Christian, but I do love my fellow-men and my country.