head.
‘Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone. What’s he doing now? Beginning to suffer, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He seemed complacent. Evidently Darrell deserved to suffer a little, in his trainer’s opinion.
‘Well,’ answered Jacobson, ‘his lapping looks a sight slower than it was. Do you mean that he wasn’t under instructions to warm up the pace?’
‘I never give instructions unless I see a man’s liable to break down. If Charlie ain’t learned by now that you don’t bolt like a goose at Christmas on the second morning of a six-day wobble, then he deserves a few hours’ struggling. I got no sympathy, Mr Jacobson.’
‘You’re not worried about blistering? How are his feet?’
Monk nonchalantly buttered a piece of toast.
‘Seen ’em worse—a lot worse. He won’t give up on that account.’
‘I sincerely hope he won’t give up on any account. There’s a deal of public interest in this duel with Chadwick. It would be disastrous to our promotion if the race didn’t come to a finish.’
‘Then you’d better see Chadwick’s trainer, Mr Jacobson. We ain’t the party that’ll seize up, if any does. Charlie’s record is clean.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Jacobson, who still held private reser-vations about Darrell’s staying powers. ‘But, like you, I like to see a man run to his best form.’
A voice unexpectedly hailed Monk from the restaurant door.
‘You’re wanted on track, mate. Your feller’s down with cramp!’
‘I bloody knew it,’ the trainer told Jacobson. ‘He was ask-ing for this, running himself into a lather. D’you know how long we spent on his breathings? Six weeks! He was better prepared than any in this race.’
Grumbling profusely, Monk made for the door and marched out past the stands to the competitors’ entrance. At the side of the inner track a cluster of officials and a consta-ble had gathered around Darrell. He lay on his side with knees bent, arms tensed and moaning. His face was ghastly pale. Monk knelt at his side and began manipulating his legs.
‘That’s the second to go inside an hour,’ cheerfully com-mented one of the onlookers. ‘That boy Reid fell like a stone—and his brother couldn’t be found, neither. By the looks of him he won’t see the track for a couple of hours.’
Darrell allowed Monk to work at his aching legs. The pain was easing. Chadwick jogged by, regarding these oper-ations with interest.
Darrell spoke. ‘It was soft to go off like that, I own it. Just get me back on the path.’
‘How are your feet?’ Monk asked.
‘No trouble really. Pins and needles. Part of the cramp, I suppose.’
‘Try to stand up.’
Applause broke out in the enclosure as Darrell was seen to be vertical again. A crowd of several hundred had paid their shillings, many before commencing the day’s work.
‘Now put your weight on the leg. Move around. Are you game to go on? I wouldn’t come off yet, or the cramp might take a hold. I’ll bring a jacket. Must keep your blood warm.’ Darrell freed himself from the hands supporting him, and stepped on to the track. A little unsteadily he forced himself to trot away. There was cheering from the stands.
Monk slipped into the tent and brought out a Norfolk jacket. He caught up with Darrell and wrapped it around him.
‘Just keep on the move, Charlie, and you’ll run yourself back on form.’
The runner worked the jacket on and seemed to quicken his pace as he rounded the bend at the Liverpool Road end. Sol Herriott, who was holding a Press conference at one end of the arena, was visibly affected by Darrell’s break-down.
‘Shall we adjourn for a few moments, gentlemen, to watch this dramatic development?’
They clustered on one of the bends, a wall of dark over-coats turreted with bowler hats, behind which Darrell was lost to view for seconds as he hobbled past. Monk walked anxiously at his side, encouraging him
‘Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone. What’s he doing now? Beginning to suffer, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He seemed complacent. Evidently Darrell deserved to suffer a little, in his trainer’s opinion.
‘Well,’ answered Jacobson, ‘his lapping looks a sight slower than it was. Do you mean that he wasn’t under instructions to warm up the pace?’
‘I never give instructions unless I see a man’s liable to break down. If Charlie ain’t learned by now that you don’t bolt like a goose at Christmas on the second morning of a six-day wobble, then he deserves a few hours’ struggling. I got no sympathy, Mr Jacobson.’
‘You’re not worried about blistering? How are his feet?’
Monk nonchalantly buttered a piece of toast.
‘Seen ’em worse—a lot worse. He won’t give up on that account.’
‘I sincerely hope he won’t give up on any account. There’s a deal of public interest in this duel with Chadwick. It would be disastrous to our promotion if the race didn’t come to a finish.’
‘Then you’d better see Chadwick’s trainer, Mr Jacobson. We ain’t the party that’ll seize up, if any does. Charlie’s record is clean.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Jacobson, who still held private reser-vations about Darrell’s staying powers. ‘But, like you, I like to see a man run to his best form.’
A voice unexpectedly hailed Monk from the restaurant door.
‘You’re wanted on track, mate. Your feller’s down with cramp!’
‘I bloody knew it,’ the trainer told Jacobson. ‘He was ask-ing for this, running himself into a lather. D’you know how long we spent on his breathings? Six weeks! He was better prepared than any in this race.’
Grumbling profusely, Monk made for the door and marched out past the stands to the competitors’ entrance. At the side of the inner track a cluster of officials and a consta-ble had gathered around Darrell. He lay on his side with knees bent, arms tensed and moaning. His face was ghastly pale. Monk knelt at his side and began manipulating his legs.
‘That’s the second to go inside an hour,’ cheerfully com-mented one of the onlookers. ‘That boy Reid fell like a stone—and his brother couldn’t be found, neither. By the looks of him he won’t see the track for a couple of hours.’
Darrell allowed Monk to work at his aching legs. The pain was easing. Chadwick jogged by, regarding these oper-ations with interest.
Darrell spoke. ‘It was soft to go off like that, I own it. Just get me back on the path.’
‘How are your feet?’ Monk asked.
‘No trouble really. Pins and needles. Part of the cramp, I suppose.’
‘Try to stand up.’
Applause broke out in the enclosure as Darrell was seen to be vertical again. A crowd of several hundred had paid their shillings, many before commencing the day’s work.
‘Now put your weight on the leg. Move around. Are you game to go on? I wouldn’t come off yet, or the cramp might take a hold. I’ll bring a jacket. Must keep your blood warm.’ Darrell freed himself from the hands supporting him, and stepped on to the track. A little unsteadily he forced himself to trot away. There was cheering from the stands.
Monk slipped into the tent and brought out a Norfolk jacket. He caught up with Darrell and wrapped it around him.
‘Just keep on the move, Charlie, and you’ll run yourself back on form.’
The runner worked the jacket on and seemed to quicken his pace as he rounded the bend at the Liverpool Road end. Sol Herriott, who was holding a Press conference at one end of the arena, was visibly affected by Darrell’s break-down.
‘Shall we adjourn for a few moments, gentlemen, to watch this dramatic development?’
They clustered on one of the bends, a wall of dark over-coats turreted with bowler hats, behind which Darrell was lost to view for seconds as he hobbled past. Monk walked anxiously at his side, encouraging him
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