SS Wobble

Book

a to Death

i e ee A Classic Novel Uncovered: Murder at a Six-Day Race: Part |

by Peter Lovesey

Editor’s Note—There are precious few novels with running as a backdrop, much less ultrarunning—much less ultrarunning in the 19th century! Yet in 1970 a Head of Department at Hammersmith and West London College, Peter Lovesey, penned a first novel featuring several of his favorite interests: Victorian England, the sporting scene, and crime. He wrote Wobble to Death, set in the smoky sporting halls of 1879 where go-as-you-please six-day races were all the rage and where death—not from overindulging in forward movement but by foul means—was part of the program.

Wobble to Death introduced the redoubtable Detective Sergeant Cribb, and the book won Lovesey the Macmillan/Panther First Crime Novel award the year it was published. Granada Television made a film of Wobble to Death, starring Alan Dobie as Sergeant Cribb. Lovesey continued to write novels featuring Sergeant Cribb to the point where, in 1975, he gave up his teaching duties and dedicated his talents to writing full-time.

Long out of print, Lovesey’s book was brought to our attention by ultrarunning legend and M&B subscriber Ruth Anderson, who lists the book among her favorite crime novels. A large print edition was issued in 1999.

Arrangements to publish Wobble to Death for a new army of potential Sergeant Cribb fans were made through Peter Lovesey’s American literary agents at Gelfman Schneider.

We are also proud to present a series of newly created illustrations for the installments of the novel drawn by our favorite running artist, Andy Yelenak. He created the special cover painting for this issue to mark the novel’s debut in Marathon & Beyond. Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

The 12:05 a.m. trundled out of Highbury and Islington station and along the line. Its rhythmic snorts were replaced by unmechanical sounds. Harsh, stomach

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wrenching coughs echoed in the tunnel leading to the platform. Then the clatter of heavily shod boots and shoes. The unexpected influx of midnight passengers massed at the barrier, every one muffled to the eyebrows and topped with a cap or bowler. A ticket collector, scowling under his cheese-cutter, came out to draw back the grille. They filed through, out of the booking-hall and into a dense fog.

Several clustered under a lamp, lighting cigars. They had arrived together and they chatted as old friends. One shouted in the mist for a cab. Minutes passed and none came. Their talk became less spirited, and they gave more attention to the business of getting hansoms. Rather than stand shivering any longer they resigned themselves to groping for half a mile along Upper Street after the others.

They were the Press.

In the covered way leading from Islington Green to the Agricultural Hall, where the fog had penetrated, but less densely, other men of poorer class, bowed by the weight of sacks or battered portmanteaux, slunk along the passage forming a grotesque caravan.

They were the athletes.

Inside the Hall at this first hour on a Monday morning in November 1879 the scene was almost as murky as the streets. The large star chandeliers, fourteen of them with forty-eight burners on each, were alight, but the gas was turned low. The mist around each flame formed a bluish nebula, a will-o’ thewisp hovering in mid-air.

Inthese conditions one could not appreciate the vastness of the building, for its opposite end was obscured by the fog. But if a man had walked for a minute towards the Liverpool Road end its glass and iron fagade would have appeared through the gloom; the Hall was nearly four hundred feet long. When it was built in the sixties the contractors used over a thousand tons of iron for the framework. No one estimated the weight of the glass in the building, but its arched roof, 76 feet high, and spanning 130 feet, was fully glazed. It gave splendid illumination during daylight. At night, in this November fog, it might not have been there.

The reporters sacrificed nothing of their time inspecting the arena erected for the week’s entertainment. They headed for the bar at the opposite side of the Hall. There—in an atmosphere made denser by tobacco smoke—beer and boisterous conversation revived them and some of the athletes as well. Others, more Spartan in their preparation, found their quarters, where their trainers began massaging them with flesh-brushes. The race was due to start at one, in fifteen minutes, and continue until the following Saturday night.

“Seen some lively shows in this building,” the I//ustrated London News man announced between cognacs. “Any of you here in sixty-four when the

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twelve-foot croc got out of its tank? It stood over there by the Berners Road entrance, swinging its tail vicious enough to snap a man’s two legs. Only a month or two before that Patti gave a concert from almost the same spot. Not ten years back we had the bull fights. Remember?”

“Bloody fiasco that was.”

“Oh, I’l grant you that. All I’m saying is every kind of show’s been tried here. Remember the royal ball in the sixties, when they did the place up so you’d not know it? Palatial it was.”

“There were them bible-thumping meetings, four years back,” another voice added. “Ten weeks I had listening to them blooming Yankees, Sankey and Moody. Scarcely a night away from it. My editor had me there on my first job, night after bloody night looking for a story. I know this blooming place all right.”

“But even so,” the II/ustrated London News man interpolated, “in fifteen years of reporting exhibitions and spectacles in this deuced Hall, I’ve seen nothing so infernally barbarous as a six-day race. For cruelty, knuckle-fighting don’t compare with it.”

A row of a dozen wood-and-canvas huts lined the end of the Hall farthest from the main entrance. In one of these nine-foot-square shacks three men were making final preparations. One embrocated his legs with whisky, which he frequently upended and drank. The others, twin brothers, discussed strategy. The dominant twin had appointed himself trainer. He spent these last minutes heaping reassurance on his brother, watched with amusement by the hardened old runner who shared the hut.

“You got to take the first hundred fast. Get well in front, Bill, and we’ ll ease up later. When we’re a hundred in credit I’ll see what shape you’ re in, mate, and plan the next couple of days according.”

Billy Reid, strong, burly, but an innocent, nodded glumly.

“And don’t take account of no one but me, Bill. Them as offer advice do it for no good reason. I’ve seen some here as crooked as rattlesnakes. We got our plan boy, and we hold to it. You’re shivering, mate. Here, I’ll give your shoulders a rub with the horsehair gloves.”

Billy submitted to vigorous massage.

“You got my gruel ready for when I need it, Jack? I’ll try to take it on the run. Wash it down with egg and port.”

“It ll be ready when you want it, mate. Not till you’ ve earned it, mind. Put your legs up and I’ll loosen them a bit.”

The Reids’ room-mate tipped the residue of the liniment down his gullet and belched gratifyingly.

“This your first mix, son?”

“Well, I done fifty on the Watford Road last year—”

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ANDY YELENAK

“He’s all right for five hundred easy,” broke in Jack Reid. “Like a bloody bull, this boy is, ain’t you? I never seen him tire yet.”

“This your first mix?” repeated the other, unimpressed, ignoring Jack.

Billy nodded.

“What’s your training been?”

“The bloody best,” Jack affirmed. “No butter, sugar or cheese since August. Purging with Cockle’s pills. His feet won’t blister, neither. We’ve had them in

110 m& MARATHON & BEYOND January/February 2000

alum and water regular. And he’s run on the roads two hours daily these six weeks.”

“Backed him, have you?”

“Course I have. Billy can’t lose.”

“You ever seen a six-day before?”

Jack Reid was impervious to the sarcasm in these questions.

“No need, mate. We know what needs to be done. Billy’s got five hundred in him easy. He won’t quit.”

The older runner eyed Billy’s muscled physique before delivering his verdict.

“Tf you make two-fifty you’ll be on your bloody knees.”

In the Hall the gas was being turned up, a cue for competitors and officials to make their way to the start. Glasses were emptied at the bar. The Press representatives emerged warmer and more receptive. Through the mist in the direction of the huts came the athletes. The majority moved more like sacrificial victims than gladiators striding into the arena. Even allowing for pre-race nerves and the numbing cold, they made a bizarre spectacle. Several were clearly overweight for distance running. Others were emaciated and senile by sporting standards. Perhaps eight, including Billy Reid, looked likely to survive the first few hours of the race. With trainers in attendance, applying frantic eleventh-hour massage, they grouped apprehensively in the center of the arena like penned sheep.

The better lighting revealed the preparations made for this promotion. High wooden stands surrounded two concentric tracks of loam, faced with sifted gravel. The outer circuit was fenced with 3-foot 6-inch wooden palings. There was room in front of the stands for several thousand standing spectators. Hundreds more could watch from the gallery above the stands. Below the grand organ at the Islington Green end there was an arena reserved for the band, who would play during the day and evening. Flags of the Empire hung from many of the girders.

A bowler-hatted official lifted a megaphone to his mouth.

“Attention please, gentlemen! Timekeepers and lap-takers to the start please. Competitors assemble on the tracks.”

“There’s your field, then,” one reporter observed. “Care to wager on the ones that finish the week in coffins?”

“Not many of those poor coves could afford a decent burial,” was the reply. “Thope they’ ve the sense to quit before they collapse. My Lord! Just look at that one!”

A late arrival from the changing-huts clambered at a second attempt over the crowd barrier and joined the shivering group in the centre. He was scarcely five feet high, bearded and with a chalk-like complexion. He blinked through

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expensive gold-rimmed spectacles at the other competitors and began energetically running on the spot.

His rivals regarded him with the look of bemused indifference that cows give to passing trains.

“Tf that’s a pedestrian I’m Fred Archer,” the massive Sporting Life representative declared. “Looks to me like a plucked chicken left here from the Poultry Show last week.”

Numbers were being pinned to the entrants’ jerseys. The Press checked the names of the lesser-known.

“Who’s the tich, then? Number twelve, is he? ‘F.H. Mostyn-Smith.’ Doublebarrel for a half-pint measure, eh?”

“Where’s Chadwick, then? If he ain’t shown up I’m away to the bar.”

“Chadwick?” repeated one of Fleet Street’s oldest scribes. “That mean bastard won’t put a foot outside his tent until the others are toeing the scratch. You’ ll see. Probably in there now waxing his moustache. It don’t do to let the Regiment down, y’ know.”

Two turret-shaped tents stood inside the track perimeter. Their awnings were cone-shaped and edged with perforations, in the style of medieval jousting-tents. These had been reserved for the Galahads of pedestrianism. Over one of the tents there hung, limply, in miniature, the colours of the Third Dragoon Guards. Inside, Erskine Chadwick, champion walker of England, was issuing final instructions to his trainer.

“Champagne with the boiled fowl at dinner, Harvey, and claret tonight. You have the sole for broiling, do you? Now the socks. I shall want a change at noon. Be sure to air the new pair for at least two hours. And I shall want you to have a sponge and vinegar ready in case I require it later, when the walking heats my body. You may put on my boots now. Lace them firmly, but not tightly.”

Harvey sprinkled dusting powder into the porpoise-skins, a pair fashioned for this race by Chadwick’s Regimental cord-wainer. Then he attached them expertly to the celebrated feet. His limited knowledge of athletics was more than compensated by his long service as a batman.

“T shall expect Darrell to start at a rush,” Chadwick continued, speaking more to himself than Harvey, “but this is as I plan. The man knows nothing of tactics. My wind and staying powers are well superior to his, and I shall bide my time.”

“What about them others, sir?”

Chadwick got to his feet, studied the line of his chin in the mirror that Harvey held for him, and pulled aside the tent-flap.

“T shall try to ignore their presence,” he replied. “Did you ever see such an unwholesome crowd?”

Shuddering, he marched over to the starting-line.

CHAPTER 2

“For the benefit of those of you unable to read I shall repeat the rules. You may go as you please for six days and nights, finishing next Saturday evening at half past ten o’clock. Each of you is allowed one attendant, who may hand you refreshments as you pass the area marked on the tracks, but attendants must keep off the path. You are not allowed to wear spiked boots or shoes. Any man who willfully jostles or blunders an opponent will be disqualified. The judges have sole control over the race and their decision is to be final and conclusive. Five hundred pounds and the belt to the winner, the Champion Pedestrian of the World. I won’t go through the list of prize money, as you’ II know that better than the rules. Are there any questions, then?”

The line of competitors was animated as mourners beside a grave.

“Very well, then. Bloody good luck to you all. Are you ready? Then go! … You poor bastards.”

ANDY YELENAK

Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH @ 113

The final aside was for the amusement of the Press. The starters had already lurched into frantic movement, recklessly crashing elbows, fists and boots as they strove for a passage on the narrow track. They moved quickly—quicker than many of them had planned—but gooseflesh dictated tactics. The gas was now at its highest, but dimly lit the vast hall, and made no impression on the near-zero temperature. Press and officials, swathed in long overcoats, formed acompact group in the centre, under a canopy of warm breath and cigar smoke. The stands were empty.

There were two classes of competitor. On the inner one-eighth of a mile track moved the stars, the super-novas Chadwick and Darrell, each a fivehundred miler, while the fourteen less heavenly bodies moved in an outer orbit of one-seventh of a mile. They combated the cold in their own way, most of them with caps, mufflers, gloves and trousers. The rules about dress had set standards of minimum decency—exposure of flesh was limited to the areas above the neck and below the knees, and the forearms—which were unlikely to be flouted in November.

The entry had been limited to “proven pedestrians,” for a large number of vagrants and fortune-seekers had been attracted by the hand-bills and posters.

“Six Days Pedestrian Contest at the Agricultural Hall, Islington. Sweepstakes of 10 sovs each, for proven pedestrians; each competitor to make, by running or walking, the best of his way on foot (without assistance) for six days and nights—i.e. to start at 1 o’clock a.m. on Monday, 18 November 1879, and finish at half past 10 o’clock p.m. on the following Saturday. The man accomplishing the greatest distance in the specified time to be the Champion Pedestrian of the World, and to have entrusted to his keeping a belt, value £100, and receive £500; second £100, third £50; and any competitor covering a distance of 460 miles to receive back his stake with an additional £10. Any competitor (other than the first three men) covering more than 500 miles to have an additional £5 for every three miles over the 500 miles, such an amount not to exceed £40.”

Warmed by the exertions of the opening lap, each entrant soon settled to his formula for earning the £500. Several aped the illustrious Chadwick, striding immaculately, the fairest of walkers. Others ran far ahead, lapping at a suicidal pace, Darrell, Chadwick’s challenger on the inner track, trotted steadily, already showing an even, economical action. Timekeepers and lap-takers, harassed by the frequent changes of order, silently regretted agreeing to help.

Erskine Chadwick marched briskly, head high, shoulders straight, arms swinging smartly across a slightly inflated chest, leading leg quite straight, exhibiting the style that had made him champion of England, and the world, for that matter. On track or between turnpikes he had outclassed every challenger in the past decade. Unlike most of the riff-raff who competed professionally,

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he was a gentleman, a graduate of Balliol, a former Captain in the Guards. He liked it to be known that he made more from his Stock Exchange dealings than with his prizes from pedestrianism. As if to demonstrate this he always appeared in university costume, zephyr and knee-length drawers. Others could parade themselves in circus tights: Erskine Chadwick, M.A., had no need of trappings.

His main rival of the week, Charles Darrell, had a more typical pedigree. Sometime ostler, sometime brickmaker, he had discovered his staying powers at thirty and in three years earned a spent fortune by his former standards. Darrell was a runner, or a shuffler rather, uninterested in the niceties of style. Arguably the finest stayer in England, he had been sent by wealthy backers to Paris and New York, and had not disappointed them. When there was amonkey to be won, as there was now—almost a lifetime’s earnings at his old rate of pay—he chased it in his own way. For weeks he had prepared for this race to a punitive schedule of massage, steam-baths and abstinence, prescribed by Sam Monk, the best of all trainers. And there at the trackside was Monk, ready with sponge and bucket.

“Easy now, easy. Step light, boy. Spare the bloody hooves.”

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Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH @® 115

On the outer track some of the opposition were already a lap ahead, but they were the novices. The specialists in ultra-long distance aimed, like Darrell, for an even, silk-smooth progression. O’Flaherty, the Dublin Stag, led them, a flame-haired expatriate good for four hundred miles, so long as he was lubricated, inside and out, with whisky. A yard behind ran the Half-breed, Williams, cruelly scarred by a public-house brawl with a former trainer; and Peter Chalk, the Scythebearer, small, wiry, claiming to be forty but since he fought in the Crimea probably nearer fifty. Far in the rear came the entrant widely suspected of having bribed his way into the event. It was patently evident, after ten minutes, that the puny FH. Mostyn-Smith was no runner, and not much of a walker either.

In the centre of the Hall, conspicuous among the Press who were questioning him, was the promoter of this entertainment. Short, but vast, with small neat features and expressive hands, Sol Herriott exuded benevolence, prefacing each answer with a gold-capped smile.

“No, gentlemen, I am not an original, I admit. Sir John Astley’s promotions here last year gave me the thought of mounting a race. The public like these events. Endurance, persistence, the will to conquer—these are the qualities of our time, gentlemen. Man asserts his individuality, his immeasurable ambition. Such feats as Matthew Webb’s great swim are man’s answer to the challenge of mechanization. My race is another defiant gesture. Who would believe that a man might travel, unaided, close to six hundred miles between two Sundays?”

“They run for prizes as well as the challenge of machines, Mr Herriott.”

“And they shall earn them, my friends, they shall earn them. When you have seen the final hours of a six-day event you would not deny any finisher his prize. Am I not right, gentlemen?”

A well-timed glance in the direction of the tardy Mostyn-Smith, pattering past two laps adrift after half an hour of running, earned Herriott some laughter.

“Ts it fair, Mr Herriott, to have two tracks in this way? Surely the men on the inside have less distance to cover.”

There was contempt in the smile this time.

“Tam sorry that you have not studied the official conditions. The inner track is shorter, but Chadwick and Darrell are required to complete eight circuits in each mile; the rest have seven to run.”

“Why is it necessary to use two paths?”

“Why do we have different classes of railway travel? Why are our public houses divided into different rooms? Why are some of my tickets a guinea and the rest a shilling? You know the answer, gentlemen. The first class is reserved for the best. Captain Chadwick is unbeaten in long-distance walking, and Darrell is the only man fit to appear on a track with him. If any of the other entrants

prove their powers this week they may appear on the inner track in my next promotion. I have no prejudices.”

The Bell’s Life man persisted.

“It appears to me, Mr Herriott, that the gentlemen on the inner path are favoured. Even if the distances are accurately computed the presence of so many competitors must mean that they are frequently forced to take the outside in passing each other. Nor is the sleeping accommodation comparable.”

Eyes turned towards the hovels from which the second-class entrants had earlier emerged, in a discreetly dark corner of the Hall, fifty yards away from the tracks. Herriott walked instead a few paces to Darrell’s princely tent and pulled open the flap.

“What you see in here, gentlemen, bedstead, gas jet, food cupboard and toilet necessaries, are provided in the other tent and in each of the huts. If some of the other competitors have to share accommodation, it is a sacrifice they are pleased to make in order to take part in my promotion. I am not a hotelier, but nor are these pedestrians the class of men who are accustomed to delicate living. Some of them, indeed, may find it a pleasurable experience to have any sort of roof above them.”

Outside the tent another misgiving was voiced.

“Isn’t it possible that some of these men may injure themselves permanently, or even die on the track, after such exertions? You could be accused of manslaughter in such a case.”

Herriott had prepared for this question.

“Sir, I will bet you fifty that you die from want of exercise before any one of these fellows dies from taking too much.”

His guffaw at his own wit echoed through the Hall as he flashed his small eyes from man to man.

After three hours of competition the pace of the leaders had slowed markedly, and the board at the trackside showed the leader’s distance as 23 miles and 6 laps. He was Billy Reid, and his twin brother urged him on noisily each time he padded past the place where he sat by the track. The pair were becoming well known in suburban pedestrian circles, but Billy had yet to run more than fifty miles competitively, and the bookmakers still offered generous odds against him in spite of his position.

“He won’t stay, Jack. You’ll need to rest him soon.”

Sam Monk, Darrell’s trainer, approached Billy’s brother.

“He’s overweight, boy. You can’t carry extra pounds in this caper.”

“Bill won’t falter,” Reid replied. “He’s staked too much on this. I’m starving him, any rate, and he’ll sweat out some pounds as he goes. Eel-broth and ale. That’s all he’s getting today.”

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Monk was grinning.

“Me, I’m known as acruel man, but I wouldn’t kill my own flesh and blood. Eel-broth and ale and fifty yards to the hut for a leak. He’ I never make it, boy.”

“He might not nail your man in the end, but he’s five miles up on Chadwick already. That bastard won’t get into his fancy tent tonight if he wants to catch Billy.”

Probably turning over the same thought, with greater delicacy, Chadwick marched past them, upright, superbly controlled, the only hint of exertion two beads of sweat at either extremity of his moustache. He was walking well. He could manage five hundred at this pace, but the form of Darrell was worrying. Already he had passed him more than a dozen times.

As dawn approached a few spectators began to appear in the shilling enclosure. Experience had shown that public interest in these contests grew towards the end of the week, when the efforts were telling on the participants. Sir John Astley’s first “Go As You Please” at Islington in March 1878 raised nearly a thousand pounds on the final night and fi[ished in uproar, with every seat filled, and the winner finishing, in the words of Bell’s Life, “as stilty as a cock sparrow suffering from sciatica.” Herriott had studied this promotion minutely, and learned from Astley’s errors. He insisted that his race should progress in one direction, anti-clockwise. In the Astley “mix” competitors were allowed to turn and go in an opposite direction at the completion of any mile, by giving one lap’s notice to the scorers. The result was confusion in the scoring, and the spectacle of exhausted men meeting face to face and sometimes colliding. There were criticisms of the event in the medical Press. Herriott had engaged two doctors to examine each competitor beforehand and daily during his race. In spite of the confidence that he professed to the reporters he was taking no chance on a fatal collapse.

During the morning Darrell gained perceptibly on young Reid, who struggled gamely in response to his brother’s shouts. At seven, after six hours, his score was chalked on the board as 38 miles 4 laps, Darrell’s 37 miles 6 laps, and O’Flaherty, Williams and Chalk were together on 34 miles. A mile behind followed Chadwick, apparently unperturbed. “Pencillers” moved among the crowd accepting bets, and already Chadwick’s position as favourite was threatened in the odds offered on Darrell. Mostyn-Smith had recorded 24 miles and retired to the huts. There the Press cornered him, eager for quotable comments on the agony of the race, but he confounded them by announcing,

“T have enjoyed the first phase of my campaign, gentlemen. I did not expect to be among the leaders so early in the race, so I am notin the least disappointed. Ishall now take my herbal restorative and sleep for a half-hour. You may, if you wish, interrogate me again at one-thirty p.m., when I shall have completed phase two.”

With a gracious smile he then walked to the door and opened it for them.

Outside, the Press talked confusedly. Nothing, they were trained to believe, was altogether new, but none of them could recall having met this species of pedestrian. How a mild-mannered man could appear in such company mystified them. Erskine Chadwick was a gentleman-ped it was true, and had taken on the roughnecks for years, but he was a good enough athlete to compete on his own terms. He made a small fortune from walking, anyway. There was not room in the sport for more than one Chadwick. Mostyn-Smith’s showing so far did not suggest that he possessed untapped potential as an athlete. Why, then, should this apparently intelligent man deign to appear in a “Cruelty Show”?

“Likely as not the poor cove leads a sheltered existence,” ventured one of them. “I think he fancies this is an amateur contest, arranged by the London Athletic Club.”

“Whatever he fancies he should be disillusioned tonight. He’s sharing with Feargus O’Flaherty!”

They were still joking and speculating about Francis Mostyn-Smith thirty minutes later when he appeared at the hut door.

They formed a passage for him and watched in silence as he strutted away towards the track.

When Billy Reid was overtaken by Darrell the fact was lost on the majority of spectators because of the disparity in the tracks. But Sam Monk made it his business to seek out Jack Reid, who now sat silent and alone in the stand, hoarse from shouting at his brother.

“There it is, Jack. My man’s got his nose in front. Forty-eight miles that time and Billy a furlong down. You pushed him too hard, lad. Had your breakfast— or are you on eel-broth too?”

“Can’t leave him on his own,” whispered Reid. “Might walkoff. There ain’t no rest scheduled before noon.”

Monk was firm.

“T’ll speak to him, tell him to give you an hour off. Tiring work, shouting tactics. It’s all right for the glory-boys out there. All they’ ve got to do is keep moving. Us poor buggers have all the head-work to do. Wait here, mate.”

Without waiting for agreement he marched over to the strawberzù-faced Billy, issued instructions, and rejoined Jack.

“Got to be firm from the start, you know. Mind over mind. They need to know you’ ve got the reins, you understand. Look at Charlie now, plugging away on his own. I don’t even need to tell him I’m off for a break. Come on now, lad. There’s a place in Liverpool Road that does the tastiest kidney breakfast you ever got your teeth into.”

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By one o’clock that afternoon several hundred spectators enlivened the scene, and Darrell held a clear lead. Twelve hours now since the start, he travelled 67 miles. Reid, on 64-1/2 miles, was about to lose his position to Williams and O’ Flaherty, who still ran together. The veteran, Chalk, was resting. He had covered 61 miles. Chadwick still walked resolutely on, but had been forcing his pace to make 60 miles, and the crowd were already barracking him. Never a popular figure, he was ready for this treatment, but could rarely have been so far down in a race, even at this early stage. To more whistles he stepped off the track, and a dressing-gown was wrapped around him by Harvey, before he withdrew into his pavilion for luncheon. Other runners, less provided for, lay in the centre of the arena sipping at bottles while trainers or friends massaged them devotedly. The majority took no break, except to answer nature’s call. For this they covered a hundred yards which they got no credit for.

As promised, Mostyn-Smith held his second conference at one-thirty. He addressed the press in the same school-masterly tones:

“Thank you for your interest, gentlemen. As you will have observed I have completed 336 circuits, making 48 miles. I shall now retire for thirty minutes, after taking my customary refreshment. I intend to continue—”

Shouting had broken out at the track, and Mostyn-Smith’s statement was never completed. Everyone dashed across the Hall to see what sensation was taking place. A sensation it was, for Erskine Chadwick, champion walker of England, was back on the track and running like a startled stag.

© 1970 by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted with permission of the author and Gelfman Schneider Literary Agents, Inc.

Andy Yelenak’s drawings on pages 110 and 113 were created for this reprinting.

Part II of Wobble to Death will appear in the March/April issue.

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