from inside the ropes. Then the reporters rearranged themselves around Herriott. Questions bombarded him.
‘What happens if he throws in his hand?’
‘Where’s your doctors, Mr Herriott?’
‘Will you call the race off if he pulls out?’
‘What’s happened to young Reid?’
The promotor held up a hand and fixed his mouth and eyebrows in the grimace of a long-suffering schoolmaster. The questions subsided. Herriott, with deliberate slowness, lit a cigar, and resumed the conference.
‘Cramp is nothing unusual in a six-day race, gentlemen. Shall we keep our perspective? If there is any question of this man retiring from the race I have no doubt that he’ll try the remedy of a few hours’ sleep before giving up. And I may remind you that Mr Darrell is a professional sportsman of uncommon long experience. There are stratagems in this business of pedestrianism, gentlemen. Need I say more?’
‘You’re telling us Darrell’s a good actor, Mr Herriott?’
‘Merely suggesting a possibility, Mr Martin. You are from the Sporting and Dramatic, aren’t you? Your opinion is doubtless more valuable than mine.’
He simpered at the skill of his repartee.
The questions lasted another five minutes. Herriott’s the-sis (that the promotion was so impeccably staged that it could not fail to produce record performances and a momentous finish) took some knocks, but he defended it stoutly. The pity was that when he was beginning to con-vince some of his listeners a series of screams rang echoing across the Hall and the conference dispersed in seconds.
A woman was in a state of hysteria in the shilling enclosure. Officials sprinted across the tracks, the newsmen converged there and the shrieking creature was subdued. What had escaped most of the Press was the reason for her outburst. On the inner track Darrell had collapsed again. He lay full length on the track, his face contorted with pain, turned towards the section of the crowd where the woman had been watching. The attention switched to him. Monk ran on to the track and began working at the contracted leg-muscles. A blanket was thrown over Darrell’s shoulders. After some seconds of silence the crowd began shouting that he should be taken off, and whistles of approval greeted two stretcher-bearers, who moved the runner, still gasping with pain, to his tent.
A doctor, summoned by Herriott, joined Monk inside the tent, where Darrell lay on the bed, breathing more regularly and with some relaxation.
‘A devil of a cramp,’ the trainer diagnosed as he contin-ued to massage the legs.
‘Keep the man warm, then, and massage upwards, with the course of circulation. We must get those boots off.’
In a matter of minutes Darrell was free of pain, but the experience had left him considerably weaker. His pulse-rate and heart-beat were taken.
‘This man is not to run again today,’ the doctor stated, perhaps without realising its full implications.
Darrell spoke for the first time.
‘You can’t—I must. You can’t stop me.’
His shoulders were pressed back on to the bed.
‘Take a sleep, my man. You are in no state to think of con-tinuing. When you’ve rested you’ll be twice the runner.’
With a nod to Monk, the doctor withdrew to report to Herriott.
‘The man obviously has a saline deficiency, and he is now totally exhausted. There is no question of his running for another twelve hours.’
‘Twelve? You can’t mean this. He’s one of the principals. These men recover quickly—’
‘Twelve hours, sir, or I won’t answer for the man’s health. The pulse is racing dangerously.’
Herriott sought for words to influence the doctor. Twelve hours meant the ruin of his promotion. All the publicity, all the interest, had focused on the Darrell–Chadwick duel.
‘Perhaps . . . another opinion. Your colleague, when he comes in, may see the possibility of a faster recovery?’
‘That is for him to decide, Mr Herriott. You have my opinion. I am
‘What happens if he throws in his hand?’
‘Where’s your doctors, Mr Herriott?’
‘Will you call the race off if he pulls out?’
‘What’s happened to young Reid?’
The promotor held up a hand and fixed his mouth and eyebrows in the grimace of a long-suffering schoolmaster. The questions subsided. Herriott, with deliberate slowness, lit a cigar, and resumed the conference.
‘Cramp is nothing unusual in a six-day race, gentlemen. Shall we keep our perspective? If there is any question of this man retiring from the race I have no doubt that he’ll try the remedy of a few hours’ sleep before giving up. And I may remind you that Mr Darrell is a professional sportsman of uncommon long experience. There are stratagems in this business of pedestrianism, gentlemen. Need I say more?’
‘You’re telling us Darrell’s a good actor, Mr Herriott?’
‘Merely suggesting a possibility, Mr Martin. You are from the Sporting and Dramatic, aren’t you? Your opinion is doubtless more valuable than mine.’
He simpered at the skill of his repartee.
The questions lasted another five minutes. Herriott’s the-sis (that the promotion was so impeccably staged that it could not fail to produce record performances and a momentous finish) took some knocks, but he defended it stoutly. The pity was that when he was beginning to con-vince some of his listeners a series of screams rang echoing across the Hall and the conference dispersed in seconds.
A woman was in a state of hysteria in the shilling enclosure. Officials sprinted across the tracks, the newsmen converged there and the shrieking creature was subdued. What had escaped most of the Press was the reason for her outburst. On the inner track Darrell had collapsed again. He lay full length on the track, his face contorted with pain, turned towards the section of the crowd where the woman had been watching. The attention switched to him. Monk ran on to the track and began working at the contracted leg-muscles. A blanket was thrown over Darrell’s shoulders. After some seconds of silence the crowd began shouting that he should be taken off, and whistles of approval greeted two stretcher-bearers, who moved the runner, still gasping with pain, to his tent.
A doctor, summoned by Herriott, joined Monk inside the tent, where Darrell lay on the bed, breathing more regularly and with some relaxation.
‘A devil of a cramp,’ the trainer diagnosed as he contin-ued to massage the legs.
‘Keep the man warm, then, and massage upwards, with the course of circulation. We must get those boots off.’
In a matter of minutes Darrell was free of pain, but the experience had left him considerably weaker. His pulse-rate and heart-beat were taken.
‘This man is not to run again today,’ the doctor stated, perhaps without realising its full implications.
Darrell spoke for the first time.
‘You can’t—I must. You can’t stop me.’
His shoulders were pressed back on to the bed.
‘Take a sleep, my man. You are in no state to think of con-tinuing. When you’ve rested you’ll be twice the runner.’
With a nod to Monk, the doctor withdrew to report to Herriott.
‘The man obviously has a saline deficiency, and he is now totally exhausted. There is no question of his running for another twelve hours.’
‘Twelve? You can’t mean this. He’s one of the principals. These men recover quickly—’
‘Twelve hours, sir, or I won’t answer for the man’s health. The pulse is racing dangerously.’
Herriott sought for words to influence the doctor. Twelve hours meant the ruin of his promotion. All the publicity, all the interest, had focused on the Darrell–Chadwick duel.
‘Perhaps . . . another opinion. Your colleague, when he comes in, may see the possibility of a faster recovery?’
‘That is for him to decide, Mr Herriott. You have my opinion. I am
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