The band were now taking longer rests, wishing away the minutes remaining until midnight, when their stint finished. And in these intervals between light operatic selections and waltzes (marches had been abandoned at the manager’s request when the pace of the baton outstripped the com-petitors) the shouts from the crowd began to echo with increasing resonance. The Hall was emptying steadily. The walkers themselves kept moving, but without the same impetus. Young Reid, who had been much encouraged by reaching the ‘halfway mark’ drew level with Williams, now wincing with each step. His attempt to open a conversation was repudiated with an obscenity, so he stepped out towards Chalk, who was in better shape.
‘Good crowd tonight, wasn’t they?’
Chalk nodded. ‘You’ll find that, young’un. If you can keep on your feet through the first three days, the crowd carries you ’ome.’
‘You think they’ll still come?’
‘Oh yes. Long as we give ’em a show. Always get a lot of ’em at the end of a mix. Like ’errings in a barrel on the last day. You’ll see, if you’ve got any legs left.’
‘There’s a lot dropped out,’ agreed Reid. ‘Felt like it myself till tonight. Half the huts is empty now, you know.’ ‘I’ve seen. It’s time they let us ’ave one to ourselves. I’ve ’ad my fill of sharing. Got one of those bloody tykes with me. Don’t say much, and when ’e do I can’t make out a bloody word. Found him ’aving a nip of my grog last night. I could’ve bloody felled ’im if I’d been feeling right.’
‘You think we might get a chance of a hut each?’ asked Reid, suddenly seeing a prospect of relief from his own room-mate’s cynicism.
‘If they didn’t ’and ’em out to bloody trainers, we might. You see bloody Monk in the end one? Poisons Darrell and they give ’im a hut to ’imself for it. Should be sleeping in the gutter, a bastard like that.’
‘You think he meant to do Darrell in?’
‘Don’t bloody matter. Either way the man’s a bastard. If you can’t trust a bloody trainer to mix a drink he ought to be made to take a powder ’imself. Sam Monk!’ He spat, to punctuate the name. ‘If that bugger ever wants another job ’e’d better go round the stables. No ped in London’s going to ’ire a gimcrack bastard that killed one of the best path-men to put on a shoe.’
After that moving eulogy to their dead colleague both men continued in silence until the lights were lowered and they could return to their shared sleeping-berths.
The Pedestrian Contest at Islington
POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE THIRD DAY
M. Jenkins (200 miles), W. Holland (192 miles) and C.
Jones (188 miles) retired from the race.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 10
Feargus O’Flaherty slept serenely, his russet curls pressed against the sacking which served as a pillow. The hard work that he had put in the evening before had left him exhausted, but exhilarated. Only eight miles separated him from Chadwick. Eight miles that he could cut back slowly, day by day. With the crowd all behind him, lifting him, he would be level with Chadwick by Saturday, and there would be a great struggle for victory, which he would surely win in the last second. And then how life would alter! His days as a support-ing runner, a catchpenny performer included to divert the crowds with his antics, would end. He would be a celebrity, entitled to be matched in duels with the champions. O’Flaherty of Ireland, the Dublin Stag, conqueror of Chadwick in the Six-Day Contest! He would travel to Europe, and America and take on the best of the Indians. And while he was touring abroad, Moira should ride along Regent Street in a phaeton and stop to buy gowns and bonnets wherever she wanted, ready to charm him when he returned…
‘You will pardon me, O’Flaherty?’
The dreamer stirred, disturbed by the voice.
‘I think you should be rousing yourself, my friend. The race, you know. I have just left the track. Chadwick’s light is on…’
O’Flaherty parted his eyelids. Mostyn-Smith was sitting near by, still in his black outfit, eating a breakfast prepared from some herbal recipe. Harshly this unromantic scene displaced the one in O’Flaherty’s mind. He stretched, tugged the blankets away and rose, yawning.
‘I don’t know how you stay on your feet on half an hour’s rest,’ he said to Mostyn-Smith, half in admiration, half resentment.
‘If you think it out mathematically,’ came the answer, between spoonfuls, ‘you will realise that my half-hour is in fact only one hour less than your three. I rest, you see, for four half-hours in twenty-four, whereas you take a single rest-period of three hours, except when your natural func-tions otherwise compel you to stop.’
The logic of this was too sophisticated for the Irishman in his present state. He moved to the door, dimly recalling that the washing facilities were behind the huts. Mostyn-Smith raised a restraining hand.
‘Footwear, O’Flaherty. You should not walk barefoot in those fetid pools outside. I admit to being mistaken about poor Darrell’s demise, but the danger of tetanus remains.’
O’Flaherty returned without a word for his socks and boots. The experience of sharing with Double-barrel had not turned out as he once expected, with the little man jumping at the sound of his voice. O’Flaherty’s prestige would not easily recover from the incident of the carbolic. When his feet were safely shod, he ventured, shivering, outside.
The washing arrangements for the eight pedestrians still in residence at the huts consisted of four buckets and a tap, at knee-height. Two additional buckets were kept behind a wood-and-sacking construction.
O’Flaherty turned the tap to fill a bucket. The water was icy. He carried his bucket some yards from the tap, to escape the odour from nearby. He cupped his hands, and lifted some water to his face, leaning over the bucket with legs astride to avoid the drops that fell. The contact was chilling, but revived him too. It was the first wash he had given him-self in twenty-four hours. Such refinements as footbaths and shaves were impossible without an attendant to heat the water. He straightened, shaking the water from his eyes. Then he breathed in, deeply.
There was a familiar, unpleasant smell in the air that had nothing to do with the stench from the latrines.
O’Flaherty coughed to empty his lungs. He inhaled again, speculatively. He was certain now. Gas. But where was its source? He looked around him. He could see only water-piping. Then he wheeled round, and decided what had happened. The huts themselves had been fitted with gas for lighting and cooking. The escape was from the hut behind him, one of those left empty when runners had retired from the competition. The smell was penetrating the wooden sides.
There was no time to investigate; Chadwick might be on the track already, adding to his lead. O’Flaherty walked back to his hut.
Mostyn-Smith was already asleep. Like some weird fakir he seemed to go into and out of unconsciousness at will. He was a queer cove all right. O’Flaherty felt as uncomfortable when he was like this as when he was conscious. Without sitting, he bolted some ripe cheese and bread, swigged at a bottle which he had now taken to hiding among his spare boots, and left for the track.
It was not so late as he feared. Chadwick was still in the tent being fussed over by his trainer. Only Billy Reid was in action so far; his brother usually made sure he was the first. From behind O’Flaherty came the voices of other competi-tors returning without enthusiasm, donkeys to the tread-mill. Several officials were in the centre, commiserating with each other over their inhuman hours of duty. To their left, Jacobson stood alone. The early start was equally repel-lent to him, but as manager he could hardly join the com-plainers. So he stood alone with hands deep in his overcoat pockets, collar turned up to hide unshaven jowls, and legs flexing to combat the draughts. O’Flaherty approached him. ‘There’s an unholy smell of gas coming from one of the huts. Someone left a tap on, I should say.’
Jacobson responded without much interest.
‘Where?’
