Man and Wife by Wilkie Collins (e book reader pc .txt) 📕

to him. “In plainer words, and not to put you to your arithmetic once round it is a quarter of a mile. Each round is called a ‘lap.’ The men must run sixteen laps to finish the race. Not to put you to your arithmetic again, they must run four miles⁠—the longest race of this kind which it is customary to attempt at sports like these.”

“Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?”

“Considerably⁠—on certain occasions.”

“Are they a long-lived race?”

“Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men.”

Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick put a question to the umpire.

“You have just told us,” he said, “that the two young men who appear today are going to run the longest distance yet attempted in their experience. Is it generally thought, by persons who understand such things, that they are both fit to bear the exertion demanded of them?”

“You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them.”

He pointed toward the pavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty clapping of hands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood, champion of the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the pavilion steps and walked into the arena.

Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in every movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute young face, the man of the north won the women’s hearts at starting. The murmur of eager talk rose among them on all sides. The men were quieter⁠—especially the men who understood the subject. It was a serious question with these experts whether Fleetwood was not “a little too fine.” Superbly trained, it was admitted⁠—but, possibly, a little over-trained for a four-mile race.

The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends and backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can in his hand. “Cold water,” the umpire explained. “If he gets exhausted, his trainer will pick him up with a dash of it as he goes by.”

A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena. Delamayn, champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors, presented himself to the public view.

The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked into the center of the great green space. Surprise at the extraordinary contrast between the two men was the prevalent emotion of the moment. Geoffrey was more than a head taller than his antagonist, and broader in full proportion. The women who had been charmed with the easy gait and confident smile of Fleetwood, were all more or less painfully impressed by the sullen strength of the southern man, as he passed before them slowly, with his head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause showered on him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to nobody; concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men who understood the subject breathless with interest. There it was! the famous “staying power” that was to endure in the last terrible half-mile of the race, when the nimble and jaunty Fleetwood was run off his legs. Whispers had been spread abroad hinting at something which had gone wrong with Delamayn in his training. And now that all eyes could judge him, his appearance suggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly the opposite of the criticism passed on his antagonist. The doubt as to Delamayn was whether he had been sufficiently trained. Still the solid strength of the man, the slow, panther-like smoothness of his movements⁠—and, above all, his great reputation in the world of muscle and sport⁠—had their effect. The betting which, with occasional fluctuations, had held steadily in his favor thus far, held, now that he was publicly seen, steadily in his favor still.

“Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for a four-mile race.”

“Do you think he sees us?” whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon.

“He sees nobody.”

“Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?”

“He has twice the muscular strength of the other man. His trunk and limbs are magnificent. It is useless to ask me more than that about his condition. We are too far from him to see his face plainly.”

The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and the silent expectation set in among them once more. One by one, the different persons officially connected with the race gathered together on the grass. The trainer Perry was among them, with his can of water in his hand, in anxious whispering conversation with his principal⁠—giving him the last words of advice before the start. The trainer’s doctor, leaving them together, came up to pay his respects to his illustrious colleague.

“How has he got on since I was at Fulham?” asked Mr. Speedwell.

“First-rate, Sir! It was one of his bad days when you saw him. He has done wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours.”

“Is he going to win the race?”

Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him⁠—he had backed Geoffrey’s antagonist. Publicly he was true to his colors. He cast a disparaging look at Fleetwood⁠—and answered yes, without the slightest hesitation.

At that point, the conversation was suspended by a sudden movement in the inclosure. The runners were on their way to the starting-place. The moment of the race had come.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited⁠—each with his foot touching the mark. The firing of a pistol gave the signal for the start. At the instant when the report sounded they were off.

Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from two to three yards behind him. In that order they ran the first round, the second, and the third⁠—both reserving their strength; both watched with breathless interest by every soul in the place. The trainers, with their cans in their hands, ran backward and forward over the grass, meeting their men at certain points, and eying them narrowly, in silence. The official persons stood together in a group; their eyes following the runners round and round