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It had never occurred to him for a moment that to step in the arena was to break that unit. Now the whole picture was crowd and nothing else. Wherever he raised his eyes on all sides of him, he saw nothing but a bank of staring faces, a mob of hats and faces.
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With eyes fixed on the ground, he left the track and began to walk across the grass towards the start. The half mile, being a lap and a half, led off at the farthest point from the grand stand. The half lap brought it round to the stand just at the stage where the race was getting into its stride, when everybody was beginning to feel the collar and those who meant business were jostling for places in front. The remaining complete lap brought the finish round to the grand stand again.
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Andrew’s path took him into the middle of the ground;here the crowd was less imminent. The summer was still new enough to greet the senses with surprise. He stepped lightly on the elastic turf. The grass breathed out delicious freshness. For years afterwards that fragrance was to set Andrew’s nerves tingling with the apprehension of this moment.
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The lively air fanned his head and throat. It played about his bare legs.
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Andrew saw the other half milers were trotting round the track. Occasionally one would shoot forward in a muscle-stretching burst. Andrew tried a high-stepping trot across the grass to flex his own legs, but was too self-conscious to keep it up.
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He reached the starting point first. Another agonizing wait followed. The others were still capering round the ash path. Would he never get it over? Surely the tension of nerves must rack the strength from his limbs? At last the starter approached.
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“Jolly day for a trial spin,” he told Andrew. “Makes me feel an old fool to be out of it. I envy you boys.”
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Andrew felt too miserable to answer. He nodded.
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“If you want a place,” said a starter, “take my advice and watch Redbrooke. He’ll probably try and take Brewster off his legs early—he knows he can’t sprint, you see.”
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Andrew nodded again. Of course it was a foregone conclusion that only Redbrooke and Brewster were in the race. No one had a thought for him.
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The others began to arrive. Andrew stripped off his sweater. Again he was premature. The others waited. All were silent now.
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Redbrooke was strolling across the ground with one of the officials. He looked up and broke into a brisk trot.
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The air still freshened Andrew’s face. Across the ground he could hear the murmur of the crowd. A paper boy was shouting.
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Still none of the runners spoke. In silence, one by one, they took off blazers and sweaters. The well-known colors of Brewster’s club appeared—a red and black band round the chest. Redbrooke cantered up unconcerned.
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“Sorry,” he said, and emerged from his blazer in Achilles Club colors. Andrew glanced at his plain white things, longer and tighter than Redbrooke’s.
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The runners eyed each other as they took their places on the track. Redbrooke was a shade taller than Andrew and perfectly formed. His corn-colored hair was a disheveled crop, paler in hue than the tan of his face. His limbs flashed with youth and strength. His poise was quick as flame.
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No wonder he can run, thought Andrew. He must win.
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“I shall say on your marks—set—and then fire.”
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At last, thought Andrew. His heart was beating in his throat now.
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A second toiled by.
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Andrew dropped to his knee for a sprinting start.
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“Set!”
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His knee quivered up from the track. It was toes and knuckles now, a balance quivering with tautness.
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Crash.
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Scurry. Shoulders jostling. Mind out.
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