night convinced Chadwick that he could dictate events in future. Darrell would be con-tent to leave the thinking, the planning, the pacemaking to him; the poor fellow was committed by his weakened state to a strategy of straw- clutching.
Now this cripple of three hours ago was completing his second mile in less than twelve minutes. Chadwick, by con-trast, was having to force his taut muscles to work. It was hard enough walking; raising a run was unthinkable. Twice Darrell had lapped him, and now he could hear the boots bearing down on him again. This time, as though to empha-sise his new role, Darrell spoke as he moved out to overtake. ‘Care to run a few laps with me? Easier that way.’
‘Not at present,’ Chadwick answered, between gasps.
The infernal man was chopping his stride, talking over his shoulder.
‘We might make six hundred by Saturday if we share the pace,’ continued Darrell. ‘Settle the race in the final stages, but both beat the record.’
Chadwick shook his head, but said nothing, and Darrell, after shrugging his shoulders and opening his arms expan-sively, cruised on ahead.
The runners on the outer track were following these developments with interest. Williams spoke first.
‘What’s this? Charlie Darrell’s bloody swan-song, I reckon.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Obvious. He’s finished. Tryin’ to run Chadwick into the ground before ’e stops.’
‘No, no,’ said Chalk, from long experience, ‘Charlie ain’t the man to try that. Besides, ’e don’t look done in to me. ’E’s ’ad one of Monk’s bracers. That’s what’s ’appened to him. Two hours from now ’e’ll be creeping round like the rest of us. Mark my words.’
O’Flaherty was sceptical.
‘It’s bloody early in the race to be touching that stuff. I’ve got a pick-me-up for myself, but I shan’t let it pass my lips before Thursday.’
Williams rarely let an opportunity pass.
‘Sure you didn’t take it as a night-cap, Feargus, before you saw the spook?’
The Irishman lashed out with an arm, but Williams had once earned his living as a pugilist, and ducked neatly.
In the boardroom, Herriott and Jacobson were review-ing the first day’s takings, which amounted to a little over?260.
‘It could be a deal worse, Walter. With the?170 we took in entries we’ve already covered the hire of the Hall. Monday and Tuesday are never good days in these affairs. Astley reckons to double his receipts on the third and four days, and then double them again for the last two.’
‘There’s still two and a half thousand in expenses to cover,’ Jacobson reminded him. ‘If Darrell doesn’t blow up we ought to get good reports in the Press. But the moonstruck idiot is on the track now, spurting like a harrier. He’ll never keep going, Sol. He wasn’t a sound investment.’
Herriott exhaled noisily.
‘One moment, Walter. You’re the manager of this race, and you are responsible to me for seeing that it proceeds successfully. I picked out two of the best men in England, on good advice-the dregs and lees don’t concern us-and I’ve staked a fortune on this promotion. You’-and he laid a fat finger on Jacobson’s sleeve-‘will see that Darrell doesn’t drop out. He runs till Saturday, or walks, or crawls. Understand me?’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Jacobson, ‘but you understand this, Sol. I agree I’m responsible for all the arrangements. I’ve appointed teams of judges and scorers who are working well in difficult conditions. I’ve spent weeks over preparations- printing, advertising, hiring officials, contractors for the stand, gate-keepers, commissionaires, police-’
‘All right, Walter. You’ve done well up to now-’
‘And there have been belts and medals to prepare, and all the entries to sift. That was my work, and it’s done, even if I knew nothing of pedestrianism before last June. What’s been your contribution, Sol?’
‘Three thousand pounds of my money, among other things.’
Months of stifled resentment were inflaming Jacob-son now.
‘Well, I can tell you what those other things are. Press interviews and escorting lady visitors-and one other duty that you insisted on. That was the right to choose the main contestants. And you, Sol, you chose Darrell.’
Herriott was shaking, partly from shock, partly anger.
‘Damn it, Jacobson, I’m not a blasted clairvoyant.’
‘I take your point. But nor am I a scapegoat for your mis-taken judgements. I’ve said enough. We’ve never had a wry word in all the years we’ve known each other.’
Herriott stood to pour sherry. His hands still trembled.
‘You are right. I spoke out of place and I apologise. I think we have both been on duty here too long.’
It crossed Jacobson’s mind that Herriott had spent all of the previous evening out of the building, but he said no more.
‘I shall hold myself responsible if anything goes wrong with Darrell-or Chadwick, for that matter,’ Herriott con-tinued. ‘But you, if I may say so, are on better terms with the training fraternity than I am. I should appreciate it, Walter, if you would have a word with Darrell’s man-Monk, I think he’s called-and find out what game they’re at.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
Herriott handed a glass of sherry to his manager.
‘Things should go better today. The band report at ten. I’m told they’re more noted for their vigour than the melody they produce, but they may help us to believe we’re feeling warmer.’
‘I hope they inject some life into the runners on the outer path,’ added Jacobson. ‘No one expects a broken down old cabber to go like a racehorse, but some of them look ready for the knacker.’
AT 5.30 A.M. Francis Mostyn-Smith returned to the track after a cat-nap of thirty minutes. He resumed his walk a few yards in front of O’Flaherty’s group, and the Irishman, as usual, slapped the little man’s shoulder.
‘That wouldn’t have been you sneaking back from the huts, now would it? I thought we were a man short on this track. You can’t sleep all day, mate.’
Mostyn-Smith opened his mouth but they were already too far ahead to hear his reply. So he waited until they approached him to overtake again, but this time side-stepped smartly to his right so that they could pass inside, without the back-slapping. And as they came level, he addressed them.
‘You noticed the refreshing smell of carbolic in our hut, I hope, O’Flaherty. I managed to arrange with the manage-ment for our floor to be scrubbed each evening. It gives us a great advantage.’
‘You what?’ The Irishman had pulled up and rounded on Mostyn-Smith.
‘Carbolic, O’Flaherty. For hygiene, you know. The place reeked of animals. I don’t think you’ll be disturbed. I haven’t seen the cleaning-woman go in myself, but the hut smells distinctly sweeter.’
‘Carbolic? Cleaning-woman?’ repeated O’Flaherty. His face darkened as realisation dawned on him. ‘Oh Father! Keep me from committing a mortal sin!’
He wielded a fist before Mostyn-Smith’s startled face, but words and action failed him. He dropped his hands limply. Utterly deflated, he trudged off after the others, praying that they had not heard the conversation.
Walter Jacobson did not immediately search for Monk. The spirit he had shown in the boardroom had shaken Herriott. He was determined not to surrender any of the new respect he had won. So he resisted the impulses that urged him to carry out orders at once. And when he eventually found Monk, towards six o’clock, the circum-stances had altered. Charles Darrell’s spasm of energy had plainly subsided. He now moved along the track at a sedate plod, and the limp was back. Chadwick, however, had run off his stiffness and settled to a comfortable jog-trot, ener-getic enough to make inroads on his rival’s lead.
Monk was in the restaurant. ‘Emergency breakfasts’ were being served there.
‘Chadwick needs to make up a mile or two after your lad’s fine start,’ Jacobson tactfully began, as he seated himself next to the trainer. ‘I think he surprised us all, going off at such a gallop.’
Monk shook his head.
‘Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone.
