Wobble to Death Read Free Page B

struggled gamely in response to his brother’s shouts. At seven, after six hours, his score was chalked on the board as 38 miles 4 laps, Darrell’s 37 miles 6 laps, and O’Flaherty, Williams and Chalk were together on 34 miles. A mile behind followed Chadwick, apparently unperturbed. ‘Pencillers’ moved among the crowd accepting bets, and already Chadwick’s position as favourite was threatened in the odds offered on Darrell. Mostyn-Smith had recorded 24 miles and retired to the huts. There the Press cornered him, eager for quotable comments on the agony of the race, but he confounded them by announcing,
    ‘I have enjoyed the first phase of my campaign, gentle-men. I did not expect to be among the leaders so early in the race, so I am not in the least disappointed. I shall now take my herbal restorative and sleep for a half-hour. You may, if you wish, interrogate me again at one-thirty p.m., when I shall have completed phase two.’
    With a gracious smile he then walked to the door and opened it for them.
    Outside, the Press talked confusedly. Nothing, they were trained to believe, was altogether new, but none of them could recall having met this species of pedestrian. How a mild-mannered man could appear in such company mysti-fied them. Erskine Chadwick was a gentleman-ped it was true, and had taken on the roughnecks for years, but he was a good enough athlete to compete on his own terms. He made a small fortune from walking, anyway. There was not room in the sport for more than one Chadwick. Mostyn-Smith’s showing so far did not suggest that he possessed untapped potential as an athlete. Why, then, should this apparently intelligent man deign to appear in a ‘Cruelty Show’?
    ‘Likely as not the poor cove leads a sheltered existence,’ ventured one of them. ‘I think he fancies this is an amateur contest, arranged by the London Athletic Club.’
    ‘Whatever he fancies he should be disillusioned tonight. He’s sharing with Feargus O’Flaherty!’
    They were still joking and speculating about Francis Mostyn-Smith thirty minutes later when he appeared at the hut door.
    ‘If you please, gentlemen?’
    They formed a passage for him and watched in silence as he strutted away towards the track.
    When Billy Reid was overtaken by Darrell the fact was lost on the majority of spectators because of the disparity in the tracks. But Sam Monk made it his business to seek out Jack Reid, who now sat silent and alone in the stand, hoarse from shouting at his brother.
    ‘There it is, Jack. My man’s got his nose in front. Forty-eight miles that time and Billy a furlong down. You pushed him too hard, lad. Had your breakfast—or are you on eel-broth too?’
    ‘Can’t leave him on his own,’ whispered Reid. ‘Might walk off. There ain’t no rest scheduled before noon.’
    Monk was firm.
    ‘I’ll speak to him, tell him to give you an hour off. Tiring work, shouting tactics. It’s all right for the glory-boys out there. All they’ve got to do is keep moving. Us poor buggers have all the head-work to do. Wait here, mate.’
    Without waiting for agreement he marched over to the strawberry-faced Billy, issued instructions, and rejoined Jack. ‘Got to be firm from the start, you know. Mind over mind. They need to know you’ve got the reins, you under-stand. Look at Charlie now, plugging away on his own. I don’t even need to tell him I’m off for a break. Come on now, lad. There’s a place in Liverpool Road that does the tastiest kidney breakfast you ever got your teeth into.’
    By one o’clock that afternoon several hundred spectators enlivened the scene, and Darrell held a clear lead. Twelve hours now since the start, he had travelled 67 miles. Reid, on 641.2 miles, was about to lose his position to Williams and O’Flaherty, who still ran together. The veteran, Chalk, was resting. He had covered 61 miles. Chadwick still walked resolutely on, but had been forcing his pace to make 60 miles, and the crowd were