The Tick of Death

must have developed palms like boot-soles before coming to England. No, if Malone practised manly exercises at all-and, confound it, there was something familiar about his name-it had to be a less demanding pastime. Punting? Pulling on a punt-pole certainly produced blisters, but it hardly seemed an adequate occupation for a human barge-horse. He had to think of a sport that employed a generous physique in a manly fashion, yet could be indulged in so occasionally that blistered hands resulted.

It was, of course, throwing the hammer. Cribb reached this confident conclusion by way of basketball, cricket, hockey and hurling. The last was an engaging possibility, except that to his knowledge not a single hurley had been put to use on the English side of the Irish Channel. It did, however, direct his thoughts to sports with strong Gaelic associations, of which hammer-throwing most emphatically suggested itself. All observant readers of the sporting press knew that Irish-Americans were as dextrous with sixteen-pound hammers as Englishmen with umbrellas.

A visit to the Referee offices in Fleet Street to study the files had provided the confirmation Cribb wanted, a series of references in the column Athletic Intelligence, beginning in February. ‘The four members of the Gaelic American Athletic Club presently visiting this country,’ said the most recent, ‘are expected to attract a large concourse to Lillie Bridge on Saturday next, when they appear in the London Athletic Club sports. If their appearances to date have not been marked by the universal success which has attended American visitors in previous seasons, the public will have noted that they have been rounding into form of late and may be expected to give a good account of themselves on Saturday. Creed, the hundred yards man, we are reliably informed has clocked 10 seconds several times in training recently, and on this form is unlikely to be troubled by Wood and Cowie, the pick of the home runners. In the high jump, P. Shanahan may have to repeat his leap of 5 feet 11 inches at Craydon last week to defeat Colbourne, the Inter Varsity Champion. Of the two American hammer-throwers, Devlin looks the likelier to win again, although T. P. Malone, a veritable Goliath in stature, threatens to project the implement out of the ground and into Lillie Road if he can but master the trick of turning in the circle.’

A shout from the end of the skittle-alley heralded an interesting throw. Seven of the nine pins had fallen. Cribb watched as the player retrieved the ‘cheese’ and returned to the mark to aim at the remaining skittles. It wanted considerable strength to dislodge so many, for they weighed seven pounds each. He was broadly-built and carried himself well for a man past fifty. An ex-athlete, Cribb decided. The second throw knocked aside the nearer of the standing pins, but altogether missed the other, on the extreme right of the diamond-shaped platform. By chance, however, the upended skittle made contact with another after it had left the platform and bounced back with just sufficient force to topple its mate.

‘A single!’ declared the thrower in triumph. ‘Set ’em up for another throw, partner. I’ll floor ’em this time.’

‘Wait a moment, Holloway.’ The man whose build resembled Cribb’s put up a restraining hand.

‘What’s the matter? It’s a bloody single. Nine pins down. I’ve got a chance for the double.’

‘Eight down, old fellow. The last one doesn’t count.’

‘What do you mean, doesn’t count? It was a fair lob.’

‘Fair lob,’ repeated the thrower’s partner, a small man in his sixties, who was better at standing the skittles up than knocking them down.

‘The lob was fair, yes, but it only accounted for one of the pins. The other doesn’t count.’

‘It does, Carter,’ said the big man, petulantly. ‘The first pin rebounded on to the platform and knocked the other bugger off.’

Cribb got to his feet. ‘Possibly I can render some assistance, gentlemen, as a detached observer, who knows something about the game. That is, if you would like an adjudicator.’

‘Most civil of you,’ said Carter thankfully. ‘What do you say, gentlemen?’

Holloway and his partner exchanged dubious glances.

‘For Heaven’s sake! This afternoon we’re timekeepers and judges ourselves,’ said Carter. ‘Surely we are willing to submit to the decisions of a referee in our own competition?’

Cribb was appointed by a consensus of nods and mutterings.

‘And we’ll stand you a drink at the end,’ Carter bounteously suggested. ‘Now, sir. We await your arbitration over the matter of the last throw. Were both pins fairly knocked down, in your judgement, or was there an infringement of the regulations?’

Holloway stood hugely among the fallen skittles with his thumbs hitched in his waistcoat, awaiting the verdict. Everyone looked expectantly towards Cribb.

A contingency he was quite prepared for. ‘Before I settle the question, gentlemen, I must ask you, as your referee, whose set of rules you favour, Cassell’s or Bohn’s. On Cassell’s authority, the final knockdown would be regarded as a foul, whereas Bohn would undeniably allow it. In the circumstances,’ he went on, without pause, ‘I propose that you commence a fresh game under my authority. The rules are as practised in the Ratcatcher in Victoria Street, namely three sets of three throws for each player, no follow-throughs across the line, all knockdowns to count, except those perpetrated by a cheese or skittle after it has left the frame, and all the pins to be reset if anyone succeeds in flooring them with his first or second lob.’

To have continued arguing about the last skittle after such a categorical exposition of the rules would have done no credit to anyone. Honour satisfied, the game commenced in earnest, Cribb first casually removing his morning-coat and hooking it on the hatstand next to the one he had already marked as Carter’s. Things were happening as well as he could wish.

Victory went to Holloway and his partner by 42 points to 37. ‘Time for another game?’ asked Cribb, as he wiped the blackboard clear. ‘You’re officiating at the sports this afternoon like me, I gather. When do we report, do you remember?’

‘By ten minutes past two,’ said Carter, consulting his watch. ‘Yes, there’s time. Set them up, Holloway, and I’ll fetch a drink for our referee. We’re on beer, sir. Will that do? We’re all still drinking, I take it?’ He moved to the bar.

‘Damned chalk,’ Cribb remarked to Holloway’s partner. ‘Gets all over your clothes if you ain’t careful.’ He showed him a set of dusty fingers and crossed towards the hatstand. There, he sedulously smeared chalk around his jacket pocket as he felt for a handkerchief with his right hand. His left, still scrupulously free of dust, simultaneously transplanted a large rosette with the word Official on it from Carter’s lapel to his own.

He returned to the blackboard, rubbing both hands with his handkerchief. Carter arrived with a tray of drinks, and the skittles restarted. This time the result was reversed. Holloway’s partner was quite unable any longer to pitch with sufficient force to disturb the pins.

‘That’s it, gentlemen,’ Cribb announced. ‘Thirty-eight points wins. All square, and no time for a decider. We shall have to be reporting.’ He walked to the hatstand and removed the jacket with the rosette. ‘Yours, I think, Mr Carter.’

Carter put it on and immediately sensed something wrong. He patted the pockets and looked at the lining. ‘I don’t think it is mine. Look, here’s some chalkmarks by the pocket. Must be yours, sir.’

‘I do believe it is,’ said Cribb, waiting in his shirtsleeves. ‘That must be yours on the peg, then. I thought you said you were an official. Don’t you have a rosette like the rest of us?’

Ten minutes after, he was marching across the centre of the Lillie Bridge arena, Carter’s rosette still prominently displayed on his chest. Any stirrings of conscience he may have had about the acquisition were stilled by the certainty that Carter sans rosette would gain admission to the ground. They had all promised to stand by the poor fellow at the entrance for officials and competitors, before Cribb had felt obliged to go on ahead, since he was sure to be required for the hammer throw. As he pointed out, it was always the first event on the programme.

For a mecca of healthful competition, Lillie Bridge was oddly situated, wedged between a railway marshalling yard and a fever hospital. The turf itself was overlain with a thin coat of soot. The track, of black cinders, and the several hundred silent, dark-suited, bowler-hatted spectators on the terracing, completed a distinctly sombre panorama. A hearse would not have looked out of place there.

The hammer-circle, in the interests of public safety, was sited on the side of the ground farthest from the stand where the spectators were gathered. The arrangement suited Cribb. Three hammer throwers were flexing themselves nearby, but for the present he concentrated on the two officials standing by the circle in conversation.