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“How did you know I was running?”
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“Oh, I takes an interest,” said Joe, “used to run a half mile myself.”
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“Go on?” said Andrew, “I never knew.”
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“I was good for one fifty-eight,” said the old man. “That was good going in those days.”
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“Go on?” said Andrew again, “but that’s class running. That’s a class half mile.”
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“Oh, I dunno, plenty on ‘em do it now!”
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“Well, I wish I could. That’s my ambition: to get inside two minutes, I’ve never beaten two four yet!”
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“Well, this is just the day for it,” the veteran told him. “You have a nice trot round first: get some good summer air into your lungs: you’ll win.”
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“But I’ve never run in a class race,” Andrew persisted. “I’ve only done Club races. I can’t hope for more’n a place; look who’s running.”
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“Who?” said Jones.
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“Well, there’s six of us in the final. Let’s see: Joe Brewster, the cross-country man, he can run a four thirty mile, and now he wants to try the half.”
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“Well, he’ll never do minutes,” said Jones,“take it from me.”
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“Then there’s Perry, him as ran at the ‘Three Clubs’ meet at Derby last week. He did two four then.”
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“Well, who else?”
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“There’s that Redbrooke, the Cambridge Blue. I ain’t got an earthly.”
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“He’s a fine runner,” said Jones, “but d’you think he’s trained in May? Not likely; it’ll be his first time out—trial spin like. Are you trained?”
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“Pretty good,” said Andrew, “been at it evenings all the month. Had a good race a week ago.”
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“Take it from me,” Jones told him slowly, “stick to Redbrooke. He’ll come up at the end of the first quarter. You watch ‘im. Don’t mind what the others do. And don’t run on the outside round bends.”
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“Well, I know enough for that,” said Andrew.
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“Ah, you know, you know,” said Jones. “Well, good luck, lad.”
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Andrew turned back again as he was going. “If I could ever beat two minutes,” he said a little self-consciously, “it’d mean—oh, well, a hellova lot.”
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Andrew left him and went alone into the square garden to eat his sandwiches. It was a bright early summer day, yet now that he was alone he felt chilly with nerves. He had a forty minutes’ bus ride to the ground, and he meant to get there early. The half mile was timed for three.
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What chance had he got? He had won his heat in two six the evening before, but that meant nothing. Joe Brewster was behind him, but he’d only paced out, he knew. Perry and Redbrooke had tied the other heat in two five. There was nothing to go by. Dreadful if he found himself outclassed and run off his legs. He had never been up against a class man before—a fellow like Redbrooke.
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Once in the bus he tried his best not to think of the race. No good getting too much of a needle. Yet it was a big chance.
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Why, if he did well, if he was placed in the race to-day, his name would be in the Sentinel . The old uns would like to see that, too. If he could beat two minutes—well, he would some day, before he died. That would be doing something really big. It would give him confidence. It would make him stronger altogether.
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