complained of the cold, and the runners were still mostly well-covered in layers of clothes. But the presence of two thousand or more shilling spectators injected some warmth of spirit into the occasion. Knots of enthusiasts roared encouragement and abuse at the contestants, occasionally inspiring or goading one to complete a quicker circuit. Betting was heavy, chiefly on the two ‘inside’ men, and Chadwick was firmly reinstated as favourite. He completed his ninetieth mile shortly after 7 p.m., only twenty minutes behind his rival, Darrell. Three-quarters of an hour later O’Flaherty and Williams followed. Chalk and Reid passed the same point shortly before 8.30 p.m., and seven stragglers followed during the next two hours. Mostyn-Smith strolled serenely on, scheduled to reach this landmark at 1 a.m. on the following morning.
Walter Jacobson paced the area behind the stands. Unlike Sol Herriott, he was not a man who believed in being the centre of public attention when he was in charge. Experience of management in several of Herriott’s sporting enterprises had taught him that it was prudent to move into the shadows when Herriott was away, for that, inevitably, was when problems and complaints would arise. He justified this shunning of the limelight by telling himself that he was ‘making a check.’ Why, somewhere on his rounds he might surprise a workshy member of the Hall staff who could be detailed to clean Mostyn-Smith’s hut.
As he neared the side of the Hall which housed the restaurant and offices, Jacobson decided to check that the evening’s takings had been locked away. In the boardroom where the safe was kept, there was a set of decanters. A glass of madeira would be warming after his tour of the perime-ter. He turned into the staff corridor, and stopped. From the kitchens came shouts and screams of panic. Fearful of what he would find, he ran through the almost empty restaurant, flung open the service door and was enveloped in black smoke.
‘Shut the bloody door!’ someone shrieked. From the ovens flames leapt to the ceiling. Two or three of the kitchen staff were standing in pools of water trying to control the fire with water drawn from the taps.
‘The hydrant!’ Jacobson shouted. ‘In the corridor!’
By an unaccustomed stroke of fortune he had remem-bered that hydrants in various parts of the building were connected with a reservoir containing 5,000 gallons. A hose was played out, and in a minute a jet of water leapt to the source of the fire.
A short while later they stood ankle-deep in a blackened room, surveying the damage, which was worse in appear-ance than in fact. The cause, Jacobson discovered, was care-lessness on the part of an inexperienced girl, using a bowl of fat near a flame. She was unhurt, but shaken.
‘How long are you on duty for?’ he asked.
‘Till six tomorrow, sir.’
‘Do you live near by?’
‘Very close sir, in Parkfield Street.’
‘Get home and rest then, for an hour. We’ll take you out of the kitchen tonight. Give you a chance to recover your-self. When you return see me personally. There’s a job that you can do in another part of the building.’
‘Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Jacobson dutifully admonished the head cook for failing to recognise the danger in allowing the girl to move the fat. Then he left the kitchen staff to restore the room to nor-mality. In the staff wash-room nearby he wrung out his socks and tried to brush the odour of smoke from his clothes and hair. He thought of Herriott dining out in luxury; of Mostyn-Smith’s threat; of the stupid face of the cook; of the prospect of a night with his feet damp and numb; and he swore again, repeating the earlier obscenity, slowly, four times.
The Pedestrian Contest at Islington
POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE FIRST DAY
P. Lucas (78 miles) and J. Martindale (61 miles) retired from the race.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 4
A bell was rung at 1 a.m. to signal the end of the first day’s running-or the beginning of the second, depending on how one mentally approached the race. Its none too cheerful clanging in Jacobson’s hand interrupted the trance-like atmosphere in the Hall. Several competitors either stepped off the track or looked hopefully around for their attendants. Sam Monk wrapped a horse-blanket around Darrell’s shoulders and guided him to his tent nearby. In the last hour Darrell’s progress had slowed markedly, and blis-ters seemed to be the cause. He had stopped two or three times to adjust his boots, and finally flung them away and continued barefoot.
‘No matter,’ his trainer reassured him. ‘I’ll wrap a calf’s bladder round that foot when you begin again. Like running on velvet, that’ll be. Three hours’ rest, and you’ll be out on track for the next hundred.’
Erskine Chadwick wearily completed another lap before marching across the arena to accept Harvey’s ministrations in the second tent. He approached his athletics much as he approached service as a Guards’ Officer; other ranks should not be permitted to see that their superiors, too, required rest. But in quarters, as it were, with only the discreet Harvey present, he flopped gracelessly across his bed, groaning. Running had been a novel exercise. Now his mus-cles were registering their protest.
‘It can’t go on like this,’ he groaned, as Harvey pum-melled the stiffening limbs. ‘Walking, yes. I can give any man alive five miles in a hundred on the open road. But this damned circus… My lungs must be ruined by now. Cigar smoke, fog, gas fumes, cattle dung. How can a man practise athletics in these conditions? I tell you, Harvey, I doubt whether I shall go on tomorrow.’
‘But you must, sir. You’ve never given up before.’
‘Never felt as bad as this,’ Chadwick muttered. ‘It’s not really the legs or the feet, though they ache appallingly. I think it’s the effect on the brain of endlessly running in small circles.’
‘Darrell can’t last long,’ Harvey consoled him. ‘Fair hob-bling he was this last hour. Blisters’ll finish him. Surprised me to see that. Monk shouldn’t let him run barefoot. Tear his feet to pieces, he will.’
‘Pour me some claret, man, and leave me to get my rest. But let me know when Darrell goes back on the track. I must keep up somehow. And turn out the gas.’
Harvey was deeply depressed as he fixed the tent-flap and left Chadwick lying on his bed with mouth gaping, breath-ing heavily, the claret untouched on his table. Years of serv-ice to this peevish ex-soldier had instilled a fierce loyalty in Harvey. He knew very well that for the first time in his life Chadwick was mentally preparing for defeat.
There was now little activity on the tracks. Most of the first day’s survivors had been happy to follow the example set by the star performers. The lion-hearted Billy Reid tottered on in the lowered gaslight, remembering his brother’s words before he left for a sleep in the hut: ‘Keep at it when the oth-ers stop, Bill. Every step then is a yard in credit.’ Another who persevered was Mostyn-Smith, humming cheerfully to himself to sustain the rhythm of his march. A new team of officials had taken over the watches and lap-scoring.
Sol Herriott had returned to the Hall soon after mid-night, listened to Jacobson’s account of the fire, and shaken with laughter.
‘I arranged it all before I went, Walter. Didn’t I warn you about a fire?’
Jacobson mustered a weak smile, secretly hating his fat superior.
Herriott altered his tone.
‘You acted splendidly, old man. It could have ruined the whole promotion if a panic spread through the building. Damn it, you still reek of smoke. Get along home for a change of clothes, Walter. I’m quite capable of managing here for an hour or so.’ He flicked cigar ash behind him casually. ‘No likelihood of another fire. I’ll check the tents and huts, though. These addle-brained foot-racers probably hang their clothes over the gas to dry them.’
Shortly before one-thirty Sam Monk left Darrell’s tent. His movement through the half-light to the Liverpool Road exit was not observed. Outside, a hansom was waiting. He climbed in briskly, sat back in the darkness and relit a cigar that Herriott had given him earlier. The cabby cracked his whip and in seconds Darrell’s trainer was being borne at speed away from the Agricultural Hall and northwards through Highbury.
The cab drew up after twenty minutes in a long street of recently built terraced houses in Finsbury Park.
