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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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Now a new awkwardness arose. Why did none of the other half milers move? He waited for a moment for them to join him, but each man of them seemed to have found some last-minute adjustment to a shoe or bandage.
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“Well,” said Brewster, “I suppose we’d better be moving.”
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“Wait a bit, Joe,” said Perry, “I must get my ankle strap on.”
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Andrew hovered miserably in the doorway of the changing room. Why couldn’t they buck up and get it over? If only he could get it over. At last, finding it ridiculous to hold the door open any longer, he went through it and waited outside in the concrete passage. He certainly could not walk on to the track without the others, nor could he go back into the changing room. He leant against the wall trying to think of nothing.
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What could the others be doing? “Oh, come on,” he murmured,“come on !” Next time he would know better than to get up before the other men in his race were on the move.
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The sunlight end of the passage was suddenly eclipsed and the Major brushed by him.
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“Where are those half milers?” he said genially to Andrew.
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“I think—” began Andrew, but found an answer was not expected.
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The Major opened the door, and Andrew caught a glimpse of the bunch of them standing and talking as if the race meant nothing.
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“Everyone out for the half mile—come on,please ,” said the Major.
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This time they came and with beating heart Andrew joined them.
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“Well, Brewster,” said the Major, “what are you going to show us to-day?”
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“Don’t expect you’ll notice me,” said Brewster, “after the gun’s gone. I shall try and stick to young Redbrooke for the first six hundred, anyhow. I only want to see what I can do!”
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It sounded splendidly casual, but Andrew had a strong feeling that what Brewster meant was: “I rather fancy myself as a class half miler, so just watch me. I believe I can beat Redbrooke. I’m not troubling about the rest, anyhow.”
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Andrew stepped gingerly along the track. He felt rather better at being in the open air. Then he glanced behind him at the grand stand. He received a shock. It was full—full of banks of people looking at him, waiting to see him run.
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As with the bell, the audience rushed on Andrew with a terrific new meaning. He had often seen large crowds at sports meetings. He had sat with them and watched the runners and the few officials in the center of the ground. The center of the ground had always appeared to be part of the whole picture with the crowd.
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