Part 2

"There's the jumpers," suddenly cried out little Billy, whose quick eye had first discovered them emerging from the crowd that fringed the track in front of the dressing-rooms. Sure enough, there were Daly and Roche in their crimson sweaters looking over the ground. The former carefully paced off his distance from the joist and marked his start, and as he did so, Vassall and Beven appeared, sporting respectively the dark and light blue, and shook hands with their opponents.

"Who is the favorite here?" inquired the Colonel.

"Oh, Vassall will win in a walk," answered Tom.

At this the Colonel was entirely at sea.

"But," said he, "I did not think there was to be a walk at all," examining his programme carefully. Then catching Tom's meaning, he continued, "You mean he wins easily? Well, I'm glad of that. I should like to see one first at least pulled off by the old college."

"Nothing will stop him but an attack of apoplexy before his first jump," declared Tom, positively. "He will not need to take another. I saw him in the spring games, and a more natural jumper I never saw. He is at least a foot better than Daly, who I believe never made a broad jump in public until it was known he might be needed by his college."

"You ought to see him play football," said Billy here, looking up at the Colonel with admiring eyes. "He's a 'dandy,' and just as cool as that 'measurer' over there," pointing to a gentleman who had bent over the many throws of the hammer until he was in a most profuse perspiration. At this there was a laugh from all round, which was followed by another as Billy's example of coolness wiped his beaded brow.

The "hammer" and "long jump" are not very rapid events at best, but they answered very well while the late-comers were finding their seats. I was particularly pleased to note that Tom had eyes only for Vassall, whose easy style took his fancy amazingly, while the Colonel saw nothing to admire but the Americans' exhibition with the weight.

He borrowed the glasses from the little girl behind him, with whom he had become very friendly for so reserved a man, and watched Brown carefully as he planted his feet firmly in the seven-feet circle, swung the heavy hammer around his head again and again without moving from his ground, until with a last fierce effort he sent the missile whirling through the air in a long arc to strike with a dull thud.

Just as the Colonel started to comment on it admiringly, however, he was interrupted by a cheer as on one of the flag-poles that rose side by side in front of the royal box the Union Jack was hoisted to indicate that England had won the first event. A little later on the other pole the Stars and Stripes were run up, and we knew that the "hammer throw" had gone to the Americans, and honors were easy.

The blackboard showed that Vassall had jumped his twenty-three feet, and Boal had thrown one hundred and thirty-six feet eight and one-half inches, both very excellent performances.

The Colonel was enjoying himself immensely, and I was gratified to see how much at home he had made himself. He found in Furness a very congenial spirit, Billy was a boy after his own heart, and the young ladies behind him were interesting enough to take quite a little of his attention. He was telling them something about a polo match in India when I interrupted him to point out the men going to their marks for the "hundred-yard dash."

We could look along the splendid track with the narrow laneways made by the white cords. Hind of Oxford inside, then Quinlan with an "H" on his crimson jersey, then Thomas with the narrow stripes of dark blue, and outside Blount with a jersey of the same color and the "Y" on his breast.

"Who wins here?" asked the Colonel.

"I give it up," answered Tom; "this is a race."

We could hear the starter's "Marks," "Set;" the wreath of smoke rose from his pistol, and before the sound reached us, they were off, Blount a bit the first, Hind and Quinlan close together, and Thomas a shade behind. Did Blount beat the pistol? I am not sure. He was certainly in the lead; then Quinlan came up, to be in turn collared by Thomas, who had a shade the best of it until the last few strides, when the big fellow in the crimson jersey made a supreme effort and shot by us, a winner by a foot.

"Close work that," remarked Harding.

"Yes," said Tom, "it was a close fit, and not much cloth left."

When the American flag went up again, and the blackboard showed the ten seconds with no fraction to mar its symmetry, there was very hearty applause from the whole field. Even time in the "hundred"! Only the aristocracy belong here. This is where fractions tell, this race "that is run in a breath." There are thousands good for ten-two, tens are equal to the ten-one, but the men who can do the straight ten can be counted on the fingers of the hand, and even then the conditions must suit them.

"Do you know," remarked the Colonel, with a far-away look in his eyes, "I can remember the day when I would have given a year of my life to have seen those figures after my name? I had a friend once who held the watch over me on a still June afternoon who showed the figure, but I never saw it again, and I fear that friendship made the watch stop a bit too soon."

The "mile" was not a race at all. When Hunter of Cambridge romped in a winner by a good twenty yards, with Dawson of Oxford beating out Spitzer of Yale by a very determined finish, Tom declared that it was "a very pretty procession, with a big gap after the band wagon." Freemantle gave a beautiful example of pacemaking, and what Hunter might have done had he been forced is only guesswork.

It now stood even again with a two to two, to which Oxford and Cambridge had each contributed a win, and Harvard two. Yale had not distinguished herself as yet; 1899 is certainly not Yale's year.

As the men went to their marks for the hurdles, starting in the farther corner of the field and finishing far to our right, they were watched with particular interest, for this was considered by many to be the pivotal race. Paget-Tomlinson was known to be good for his sixteen seconds, and might knock a fraction off this. Just what Fox could do was more of a question, although the story of a very pretty trial had leaked out in some way.

Tom told the Colonel it was a case of "horse and horse," which expression he was forced to explain, as it was a shade too doubtful.

A hurdle-race is a pretty sight over cinders, but on turf as green and level as a billiard-table it was doubly beautiful.

We could see Fox and Hallowell crouch for the start, and Tomlinson and Parkes bend forward. I did not hear the pistol, so fascinated was I, as the men came away, skimming over the ground like four swallows, and rising over the first row of hurdles as if they had wings.

It is easy to judge a hurdle-race from any angle. All that is necessary is to watch the men rise, for the one that lifts first is certainly ahead. Sometimes a race is won in the "run in," but not often. At the first hurdle the men rose almost together, at the second Parks and Hallowell were a bit late, at the third they were plainly behind, and Paget-Tomlinson was also a bit tardy. From this out, Fox drew ahead all the time, finishing with a burst of speed that put the result entirely out of doubt.

I had just remarked, after the applause had somewhat subsided, that Tomlinson must have been "off form" when the board showed a fifteen and three-fifths, and I revised my conclusion. The "Cantab" had done better time than ever, but Fox had demolished the record.

It was right here that the Colonel received something of a shock, for a little behind us and on our right a young fellow suddenly sprang to his feet, and called out at the top of his voice: "All together now. Three long Harvards, and three times three for Harvard." And then from a hundred throats came "Harvard, Harvard, Harvard, rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah, Harvard."

The Colonel confessed to me afterward that his first thought was that some one had gone crazy. "By Jove," said he, "I have heard 'Fuzzy Wuzzy' make some queer noises in my time, but that beats them all."

I explained to him that it was a custom among the American colleges to have a particular cheer to encourage or applaud, but I saw that it took all the Colonel's accumulated enthusiasm to carry him through. It did sound a bit queer on the Queen's Grounds, however it might go on the Soldiers' Field in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

The events now stood three to two in favor of New England, and their chances did look very good to me. They needed but two more wins out of the four remaining, and one of these was the "high jump," which on form was a certainty for them. To be sure, it was whispered that Burke had "gone stale," but I had seen him win so many times when he was plainly not in condition, that I did not count him out. Then, again, there was Boardman in the "quarter," and Yale was "about due," according to Tom.

At the very start of the "half" Struben started out to make pace in a very business-like manner, which the Americans might have copied to advantage. Indeed from first to last they showed little knowledge of this useful accomplishment. That Burke tailed on was a surprise to no one who had seen him run, for with his turn of speed his game is to keep close up and run his man down in the last fifty yards. Yet I did not like the way he took his first step. He seemed dead and in difficulties after the first lap. I heard the little girl behind us declare confidently, "Just wait till Tom Burke reaches the straight."

We did wait, sure enough, but he never came. Graham passed Struben, and finished comfortably in one fifty-seven and one-fifth, with Adams a poor third. The score was now even again, with three to three, and, as Furness declared, he was "beginning to have a touch of 'heart disease.'"

"It is certainly 'up to Boardman' now," said Tom, as the men went to their marks for the "quarter." "Unless he can pull this off we are counted out, and no mistake."

The young Yale Freshman had before this run half round the track, to limber up a bit, and appeared right on edge.

There was hardly a sound as the men waited for the signal. Nobody cared to talk as they took their places for that most punishing of all distances, the "quarter mile," and every one watched the little bunch of men in the far corner of the field.

Hollins, the stocky little Oxford man, was away first, as if for one hundred yards. He drew Boardman and Fisher after him at a killing pace, Davison running easily behind. Round the first turn they came, Boardman inside and on practically even terms with Hollins, the tall Yale man looking a bit anxious even then. Down the stretch they sprinted, still at top speed. At the last turn Boardman shot ahead, and for a brief second looked all over a winner. It was only for a second, however, for Hollins swung wide, and Davison came through like a locomotive, as strong and speedy. Boardman made a plucky effort, but the big "Cantab" would not be denied; he came to the front thirty yards from the finish, and the best the Yale man could do was to stagger over, five yards to the bad, and dead run out. Whether or no he would have done any better if he had stayed back instead of following Hollins I cannot tell.

"Poor old Yale," said Furness, contemplatively, when the applause had died out, the Americans joining gamely, although they knew their last hope went with this event. "Poor old Yale, it was not always thus. I can remember a time when Yale men had a very pretty knack of breaking the worsted and letting the other fellows run between the posts, but this is not Yale's day nor year."

We now had time to watch the "high jumping," which was going on in front of us and a little to the right. The bar had reached five feet ten inches, and Paget-Tomlinson had gone out at five-five. Rotch comes first and is over, although he touches the bar, and it trembles a moment uncertain. Adair is over too. The English lad takes his run a bit across and goes over with a grand lift from his long legs. Here comes Rice, who has not yet pulled off his sweater, although the bar is already several inches over his head. The little chap bends forward, gets on his toes, gives a short run straight at it, lifts in the air like a bird, shoots over, turning in the air meanwhile, lands lightly with his face to the bar he has just cleared, and runs back under it to his place. It is the prettiest performance for a high jump that the Colonel has ever seen, and he applauds vigorously, as do many others. At the next lift of the bar Rotch goes out, for he has not been himself quite, and is not equal to the six feet which he has so often negotiated. We expected also to see Adair drop out here, for five eight and one-fourth had been his best record; but he showed daylight between himself and the bar, and for the first time I began to be anxious. I truly did not care which team won, but I did not want to see anything worse than a five-four, and it looked now as if it might be a six-three.

Up goes the bar to five-eleven, and again both Adair and Rice are equal to the task before them. With Adair it is the performance of a grand natural jumper, but with Rice it is all this, and a style that must be worth inches to him.

At six feet the Oxford man did not go at the bar with quite the determination he had previously shown, and down it came. Rice now pulls off his sweater for the first time, showing how well put together he is from head to foot. Straight for the bar he goes, just the same as when it was at five-six, and he clears it with apparently the same ease as at the lower distance. Adair struggles gamely, but his last try is unsuccessful, and the score stands four to four, with only the "three-mile" left.

I could see very plainly now that the Colonel was getting a bit nervous. "Do you consider this a certain thing for Workman?" he asked me, after Tom had declared that the Americans had no chance at all, and that the contest was all over "but the shouting."

"Yes," I answered. "None of the Americans have ever done the distance, and this is where condition tells. I doubt if they could pull it off on neutral ground; after a sea voyage and a few days in a different climate they are simply out of it."

"Well," said the Colonel, "I shall feel better when it is over. I have seen enough of the Yankee boys to have considerable respect for them, even in a race they have no right to win."

The six contestants took their places in that leisurely manner which is always shown in a distance run. This race is not won at the start,--not much. All the same the Britishers were quite willing to make pace, for they swung ahead at the beginning, and for several laps Workman of Cambridge, Smith and Wilberforce of Oxford, showed the way around at a fair pace. Tom had his watch out and caught four fifty-eight for the first mile. At the end of the fifth lap Smith retired, after having made pace for a considerable part of the journey, leaving his man, Workman, in the lead and running strongly. Only a little later Clarke, who had given no clue to his difficulties and had been running well, suddenly collapsed, dropping on the track without a word, almost without a stagger, and was carried to the grass completely "run out." It was a "run out" too, and not one of the grand-stand performances which we sometimes see.

At the close of the two miles Wilberforce suddenly retired, having suffered badly with a stitch in his side which he could not overcome, and Workman, Palmer, and Foote only were left, the last dropping a bit behind all the time, but sticking doggedly to it nevertheless.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the Colonel, in the middle of the seventh lap, "that man Palmer looks dangerous; he is clinging to Workman's heels and is running fully as easily."

"He is doing well," I answered, "but I do not like his color. Look at Workman's face and you will see the difference."

"Difference or not," spoke up the Colonel, excitedly, "there he goes;" and true enough, Palmer suddenly quickened his stride and took the lead.

"He'll do it," cried the Colonel; but the "Cantab" immediately regained his premier place again, while a great cheer went up from the crowd. Twice after in the eighth lap did Palmer repeat the performance, but each time Workman came up again. Every one was now on his feet, as the bell rang for the last lap. There was a hoarse murmur of excitement; the Colonel muttered something under his breath. Tom was pressing his leg against mine as if he thought he could push his man along. Billy was jumping up and down, and the little girl behind us was laughing rather hysterically. Which would win, Old England or New England?

It was settled in a most conclusive way by Workman himself, for the bell seemed to act like an elixir of life to him. Suddenly he began to lengthen and quicken his stride, and he left Palmer as if he were anchored. Round the track he swung as if it was the first lap of the "half," and when he broke the worsted he was raised by willing hands to the shoulder and carried to the dressing-room in triumph. The crowd surged onto the track, as they ought not, and interfered with Palmer's finish; but it did not harm him, for he was really "run out," and Foote was yards behind, though running pluckily.

We were all mixed up together for a few minutes, shaking hands all round, all of us with flushed faces. Billy had a suspiciously red nose, and the little girl behind us one big tear on her cheek.

Suddenly the Colonel caught my arm and pointed to the two flags, the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes waving side by side.

"Look at that," he cried; "that's a sight worth coming far to see."

"Yes," said Tom, uncovering, "and with lads like those who have fought it out to-day to defend them, it would be a bad job to try to pull them down."

We lingered for a little while, and when we separated it was agreed that Tom and I should join the Colonel and a friend at the Army and Navy Club for dinner.

There we talked of many things, but mostly of the two great nations which we represented. "'Tis the same breed, after all," declared the Colonel, oracularly. "Of course the cross strain is there, but it has not hurt at all as far as I can see. Do you know what did the most to convert me? Well, it was that handshake with young Brown. A Frenchman can't shake hands, and neither can a German, though good fellows both may be. But Brown had the good firm grip close to the crotch of the thumb, and looked me straight in the eye meanwhile. 'Tis only the Anglo-Saxon can do this properly."

When the evening was well on, we drank a toast or two; for the Colonel's friend, who was a retired naval officer, declared that it was an occasion where a dry dinner would be a disgrace, and he was strongly seconded by Tom.

So first came "The Queen, God bless her."

Then "The President, God help him," as Tom piously ejaculated.

We drank to the two teams, good winners and plucky losers both, and then to the flags.

"I have nothing against the other bits of bunting," declared Tom, generously; "but what is the use of having more than two? Let us arrange it now. The Union Jack shall fly over the eastern, and the Stars and Stripes over the western hemisphere. The Frenchman, German, and Russian shall take what is left."

"That leaves them the sea," I interposed.

"The sea!" cried Tom; "why, that is ours already beyond dispute."

It was just at midnight that we drank our last toast with all the honors. It was the "Anglo-Saxon Race." May its two great nations never meet in sterner conflict than that fought out in friendliness, on green field and brown cinder-path, under a smiling sky!

It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade farewell to Old England for good and all.

It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart that I made the break-away.

I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I can never quite forget,--back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and bred.

When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did not fret me, for I had been assured an Englishman of good birth and breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later.

I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. But business men, very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed, I then realized for the first time that there were more important schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs.

As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became luxuries I was likely soon to miss.

As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when, having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the horny-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in pawn, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet were wet and cold.

As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the attitude of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I had applied a few days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer, cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness that I should work for less than a regular day's pay. At this I demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some freak of fortune, passing by, caught in my speech the accents of the "old Shire."

He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would give him no occupation, unless he changed his business.

Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My heart and stomach were alike empty.

All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and I nearly played the woman for all my twenty years.

We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and swallows of old ale.

I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment; that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together."