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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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The bus jogged along with such pleasant fancies. Andrew reached the ground, bag in hand, at half past one. It gave him a queer feeling to see “Sixpence Entrance” on the gates, and “This stand a shilling,” and the like. It made him feel very responsible that people should pay to come to the sport that he was providing. He was practically the first comer in the changing room. He changed slowly, putting his clothes on a bench in the corner. He put on his spiked shoes with elaborate care and went out on the track. It was three laps to the mile instead of the four he was used to. Pity: every strangeness was a little disturbing in a race. There were not four corners either, but two long straights with a long semicircular sweep at each end.
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Andrew found the half mile start, and took his bearing. He trotted round half a lap, took one or two sprints, then some breathing exercises. He paced up the back straight. That was where he must come up to the front. He determined to make a real sprinting start, and get an inside berth at all costs. No need for old Jones to tell him not to run on the outside round bends. It was past two by now. One or two people were coming into the stands, the first event being at 2.30. When he got back to the changing room he found it full of a noisy jostling crowd. He felt rather strange, and out of it. If only he could get it over. Three quarters of an hour to wait still. On a table a naked body was being massaged. Andrew waited his turn for a rub. This seemed really professional.
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“Your turn, sir,” said the rubber.
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Andrew stripped off his vest.
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“Might as well take your bags off, too.”
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He divested himself a bit shyly, and lay face downwards on the table.
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“Front side first, old man,” said the rubber.
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It seemed a bit indecent, but Andrew turned over.
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The man pommeled his stomach, then his back, then his buttocks, his thighs, and his calves, rubbing in a strong-smelling oil that gingered up his skin and made his nerves tingle. Good.
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He saw Brewster and Perry talking and made a remark to them about the half mile, but they did not seem to remember who he was. He found himself a seat alone. If only he could get it over.
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A red-faced man thrust the door open.
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“All out for the hundred,” he shouted.
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“Know who that is?” someone said. “That’s Major Cunliffe—the old international.”
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The hundred-yards men trooped out. There were four or five heats in the hundred. Andrew watched out of the changing room window, but he couldn’t concentrate and took no stock of what happened. He was acutely miserable.
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At last the hundred yards was finished. A minute or so dragged by. Andrew stood up and sat down again and fastened his shoes for the fifth time. Then the door burst open and Major Cunliffe looked in again:
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“All out for the half mile!”
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At the same time he heard a bell ringing outside. It sounded fateful. It meant next event due . All over the ground people were turning over their programs and reading the names. As the clangor died away Andrew felt something approaching terror. He sprang to his feet and crossed towards the door.
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