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AT START AND FINISH




BY THE SAME AUTHOR

APPLES OF ISTAKHAR




AT
START AND FINISH


William Lindsey


[Illustration]


Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
1899




_Copyright, 1896,_ by
COPELAND AND DAY

       *       *       *       *       *

_Copyright, 1899,_ by
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY




TO THE
ATHLETIC TEAMS OF OLD ENGLAND
AND NEW ENGLAND, OXFORD, CAMBRIDGE,
HARVARD, AND YALE, WHO
MET IN LONDON JULY 22, 1899, GOOD
WINNERS AND PLUCKY LOSERS,
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK




NOTE.


In the present volume I have drawn freely on my previous collection (now
out of print), "Cinder-path Tales," omitting some material, but adding
much more that is new.

I have also added headpieces, in which my suggestions have been very
cleverly carried out by the artist, W. B. Gilbert.

  W. L.




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE
  OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND                                          1
  MY FIRST, FOR MONEY                                                 36
  THE HOLLOW HAMMER                                                   62
  HIS NAME IS MUD                                                     91
  HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE"                                       107
  ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF"                                             131
  THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE                                    153
  A VIRGINIA JUMPER                                                  176
  AND EVERY ONE A WINNER                                             213




[Illustration: Old England and New England]


It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years'
absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no
friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great
Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little
sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump
in his throat.

It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind
to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight
in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of
busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart,
and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry,"
"Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye
rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a
bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns"
with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came
clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor
in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a
good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a
London street to me.

I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old
friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall
gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of
me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass;
but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand
and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man,
how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his
eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly,
his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he
smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers
clinging until we saw we were attracting the notice of those around us.
Then our hands unclasped, and feeling a bit foolish over our emotion, we
sat down together.

At first we talked of commonplaces, though all the time I was thinking
of an evening more than thirty years ago when we stood together on the
river path, under the shadows of old Oxford towers, and said,
"Good-bye." He then offered to stand by me when the friendship would
have cost him something, and I declined the sacrifice. Would it have
been better? Who can tell?

Our first thoughts were a bit serious, perhaps, but our second became
decidedly cheerful at meeting again after so long a time. I learned that
he was "Colonel" Patterson, having gained his regiment a good ten years
ago; that he had spent nearly all his time in India; that he had been
invalided home; that he was, like myself, unmarried, and that he found
himself rather "out of it" after all these years away from the "old
country."

I told how I had gone to America, where, finding all other talents
unmarketable, I had become first a professional runner, and later a
college trainer. To this occupation, in which I had been something of a
success, I had given many years until a small invention had made me
independent, and a man of leisure in a modest way. I saw he was a bit
disappointed when I told him I had been forced to "turn pro." in order
to obtain my bread and butter. I knew exactly how he felt, and well did
I remember my sorrow when I dropped the "Mr." from my name. It is not a
particularly high-sounding title, but to appreciate it at its true value
a man need only to lose it and become plain "Smith," "Jones," or
"Robinson." That nothing could raise the "pale spectre of the salt"
between Frank Patterson and myself, not even going outside the pale of
the "gentleman amateur," I was very certain.

But when I told him a little later that I had become a full-fledged
citizen of the United States, he could not conceal his surprise,
although he said but little at first.

We talked of other things for a while, and then my friend came back to
what I knew he had been thinking about all the time, and he asked me
bluntly how it was I had come to give up the nation of my birth.

"It seemed only fair," I answered, "that I should become a citizen of
the country in which I obtained my living, whose laws protected me, in
which most of my friends were resident, and where I expected sometime to
be buried."

At this the Colonel was silent for a little while, and then he remarked
rather doubtfully: "I cannot make up my mind just what the Americans are
like. Are they what Kipling declared them in the 'Pioneer Mail' some
ten years ago, when he cursed them root and branch, or what the same man
said of them a few years later, when he affirmed just as strongly, 'I
love them' and 'They'll be the biggest, finest, and best people on the
surface of the globe'? Such contradictory statements are confusing to a
plain soldier with nothing more than the average amount of intelligence.
What is the use, too, of calling them Anglo-Saxon? They are, in fact, a
mixture of Celt, Teuton, Gaul, Slav, with a modicum of Saxon blood, and
I know not what else."

I could not help smiling a little at the Colonel's earnestness. I tried
to tell him that the American was essentially Anglo-Saxon in spite of
all the mixture; that his traditions, aims, and sentiments were very
much like his own; that he had the same language, law, and literature;
that the boys read "Tom Brown at Rugby," and the old men Shakespeare,
Browning, and Kipling. I told him that the boys played English games
with but slight changes, and that they boxed like English boys, and
their fathers fought like English men.

"Yes," said the Colonel, at last interrupting my flow of eloquence, "I
heard the statement made at the Army and Navy Club only last night, that
the American soldier was close to our 'Tommy,' and that the Yankee
sailor was second to none. Yet all the time I cannot adjust myself to
the fact that he is 'one of us.' Perhaps if I saw some typical Americans
I should be a little less at sea."

"Well," I answered, "if that is what you want, I can give you plenty of
opportunity. This afternoon occur the athletic games between Oxford and
Cambridge on the one hand, and Harvard and Yale on the other. I am going
with a party of Americans; we have seats in the American section, and I
have a spare ticket which you can use as well as not. You can study the
'genus Americana' at your leisure, and see some mighty good sport
meanwhile."

"That would suit my book exactly," declared the Colonel; and he had
scarcely spoken before I saw Tom Furness standing in the entrance of the
hotel evidently looking for me. He was clad, despite the heat, in a long
Prince Albert coat which fitted him like a glove, and wore a tall silk
hat as well. He saw me almost immediately, and a moment later was
shaking hands with the Colonel. The latter was dressed in a
loose-fitting suit of gray flannel and sported a very American-looking
straw hat, so that Tom really appeared the more English of the two.
Which was the finer specimen of a man it would be hard to say, and one
might not match them in a day's journey. They were almost exactly of a
height, the Colonel not more erect than Tom, and not quite as broad of
chest. The latter certainly had not the Colonel's clean-cut face, but
there was something about his rather irregular features that would
attract attention anywhere. I was pleased to see, too, that he gave to
the Colonel a touch of the deference due his age and rank, which I admit
some of Tom's countrymen might have forgotten.

Furness was very cordial, too. "We are in great luck," he declared, "to
have the Colonel with us, for a little later we should have been gone.
It is about time to start now, after, of course, a little something to
fortify us against the drive." So he took us into the smoking-room,
where he introduced the Colonel to Harry Gardiner and Jim Harding. He
also made him acquainted with a Manhattan cocktail, which the Colonel
imbibed with some hesitation, but found very decidedly to his liking.
Tom explained that he had taught them how to make it himself that very
morning, and that it could not be bettered in all London.

Furness always constitutes himself host if he has the least excuse for
so doing. It is a way he has. Nothing but a man's own hearthstone in
his own particular castle stops him. He takes possession of all neutral
ground like that of a hotel, and considers it his duty to make matters
pleasant for all around him.

Harding and Gardiner were a half-dozen years younger than Furness, and
it was not many years since I had trained them for very much the same
kind of games as those of the afternoon. Harding was a big fellow, with
broad shoulders, and a mop of yellow hair. He had been a mighty good man
in his day with both "shot" and "hammer." Harry Gardiner had been a
sprinter,--one of the best starters I ever knew,--and a finisher, too,
which does not always follow. The Colonel got along very well with them
all,--a little reserved at first, and studying all three of them in a
very quiet way. He could sometimes not quite make out what Harding, who
had a very choice vocabulary of Americanisms, was driving at, and one or
two of Tom's jokes he failed utterly to comprehend; but he seemed to
understand the men themselves fairly well, nevertheless. We chatted
together a few minutes, and then Furness declared it was time to start,
producing cigars which would have tempted a modern Adam more than any
apple in the Garden of Eden. So the Colonel and myself left the others,
and were soon comfortably ensconced in a clean hansom, behind a good
piece of horseflesh, and bowling along toward the Queen's Club Grounds
at a very respectable rate of speed.

We enjoyed our ride very thoroughly, and arrived at the Comeragh Road
entrance almost too soon, for the crowd was only beginning to gather. We
obtained programmes, and entering the gateway found ourselves in full
view of the grounds at once.

A mighty fine sight they were, too, the stretch of level greensward,
hard and velvety, with the dark brown cinder-path encircling it. The
seats rose on all sides but one, and there, outside the fence, was the
fringe of waving trees, and the red brick houses, trim and neat. Over
all was the soft blue sky, with here and there a drifting cloud. I could
see the Colonel's eyes glisten. He had spent the best part of his life
in a country which alternated between the baked brown clay of the dry
season and the wild luxuriance that followed the rains. He went to the
very outside edge of the track, and took a careful step or two on it,
examining it with the eye of a connoisseur, for he knew something of a
track, although he had not seen one for many years. "'Tis fast," said
he, knowingly. "With the heat and calm the conditions are right enough,
and the men will have nobody to blame but themselves if they do not come
close to the records."

We walked slowly by the telegraph office, and back of the tennis courts.
As we passed the Tea-room we could see a few people at the tables, and
quite a little group was gathered around the Members' Pavilion. We went
by the Royal Box, with its crimson draperies, and found our seats close
to the finish of the hundred-yard, half, mile, and three-mile runs. The
Colonel gave himself at once to the careful examination of the
programme, as did I myself. The "Oxford and Cambridge" was printed in
dark blue ink, and "Harvard and Yale" in crimson. For stewards there
were C. N. Jackson and Lees Knowles, the former once the finest hurdler
in England. For the Americans, E. J. Wendell and C. H. Sherrill
officiated; many a bit of red worsted had I seen the latter break across
the sea. Judges, referee, and timekeeper were alike well known on both
continents, and had all heard the crunch of a running shoe as it bit
into the cinders. Wilkinson of Sheffield was to act as "starter."

"He has the reputation of never having allowed a fraction to be stolen
on his pistol," remarked the Colonel.

"Let him watch Blount to-day then," I said.

The Colonel ran his finger down the list. "Nine contests in all. One of
strength, three of endurance, two of speed, two of activity, and the
'quarter' only is left where speed and bottom are both needed. How will
they come out?" he asked.

"About five to four," I answered, "but I cannot name the winner. On form
Old England should pull off the 'broad jump,' the'mile' and 'three
miles,' and New England is quite sure of the 'hammer' and 'high jump.'
This leaves the 'hundred' and 'hurdles,' the 'quarter' and 'half' to be
fought out, although of course nothing is sure but death and taxes."

"I suppose it will be easy to distinguish the men by their style and
manner," said the Colonel.

"You will not see much difference," I replied. "The Americans wear the
colors more conspicuously, Harvard showing crimson, and Yale dark blue.
'Tis the same shade as Oxford's. The Americans have also the letters 'H'
and 'Y' marked plainly on the breasts of their jerseys. There are some
of the contestants arriving now," I remarked, pointing across the track;
"would you like to see them before they strip?"

"I certainly would," he answered; and we slipped out of our seats and
around the track to the Members' Pavilion, in front of which they stood.
Just before we reached them, however, we met Furness, Harding, and
Gardiner, the former holding a little chap about ten years old by the
hand, who was evidently his "sire's son," for his eyes were big with
excitement and pleasure.

"Which are they?" inquired the Colonel, a little doubtfully. "That chap
in front is an English lad or I miss my guess," looking admiringly at a
young giant apparently not more than twenty years old, and perhaps the
finest-looking one of the lot. His hat was in his hand, his eyes were
bright, and skin clear, with a color that only perfect condition brings.

"No," I answered, rather pleased at his mistake; "that is a Harvard
Freshman, though he bears a good old English name. Since Tom of Rugby,
the Browns have had a name or two in about every good sporting event on
earth. Would you like to know him?" I asked, for just then the young
fellow spied me out and came forward to meet me with a smile of
recognition. I was quite willing to introduce H. J. Brown to the
Colonel, although it was hardly fair to present him as a sample of an
American boy. As Tom would have said, it was showing the top of a
"deaconed" barrel of apples.

The young fellow shook the Colonel's hand with an easy self-possession,
coloring a little under his brown skin at the older man's close
scrutiny, who said a quiet word concerning the games, and asked him if
he felt "fit."

"I'm as fit as they can make a duffer," he answered. "Boal, over there,"
pointing to an older man with a strong face full of color and who was a
bit shorter and even more strongly built,--"Boal is the man who throws
the hammer. He's better than I by a dozen feet."

"Yes," remarked Tom, coming forward and shaking Brown's hand with a
hearty grip, "this