[Ill.u.s.tration: First For Money]
It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade farewell to Old England for good and all.
It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart that I made the break-away.
I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I can never quite forget,--back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and bred.
When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did not fret me, for I had been a.s.sured an Englishman of good birth and breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later.
I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. But business men, very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed, I then realized for the first time that there were more important schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs.
As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became luxuries I was likely soon to miss.
As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when, having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the h.o.r.n.y-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in p.a.w.n, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet were wet and cold.
As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the att.i.tude of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I had applied a few days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer, cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness that I should work for less than a regular day"s pay. At this I demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some freak of fortune, pa.s.sing by, caught in my speech the accents of the "old Shire."
He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would give him no occupation, unless he changed his business.
Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My heart and stomach were alike empty.
All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and I nearly played the woman for all my twenty years.
We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and swallows of old ale.
I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment; that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together."
That this very necessary feat could be performed in a "few days" I very much doubted; but the invitation I accepted gratefully, and five o"clock found me sitting beside him on the narrow seat of a light carriage, my portmanteau tied on behind.
The road to Brighton was a very decent one, and the big roan mare he drove reeled off the miles in a way that opened my eyes to the possibilities of the trotting horse. I doubt if there was her equal in all England.
A clock was striking six when we stopped before the door of the "Traveller"s Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground, my legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk.
It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall white pillars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an Old Country ballad of "Jack and his Susan."
I found the inside of the house as comfortable as the outside looked inviting, and it was after a better dinner than I had eaten for many days that I sat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occasional sip of the "necessary."
It did not take me long to find that Hacking was most interested in sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory when he left Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old friends, and then we talked of those who had taken their places, Hacking bewailing the fact that there were none like the "good uns" of the past.
"How many men are there to-day," he asked, "who can do the hundred in even time?"
"There are very few good sound even-timers in all England," I answered, "and only two among the amateurs,--one a c.o.c.kney, the other a Yorkshireman. The only Lancashireman who can do the hundred in ten seconds is sitting with you to-night, and little likely to see the Old Country again for many a long year, if ever."
At this, Hacking gave me a very comprehensive look, puffed a few times vigorously at his pipe, and said, "Young fellow, boasting is a very bad habit, particularly on sporting matters. I will bet you your board bill for a month against the pipe you smoke, that you cannot show me better than eleven seconds to-morrow morning."
"Eleven seconds!" said I, "a school-boy should do that."
"Yes, eleven seconds," spoke up Hacking again. "You are not in condition and the track is slow, which will even matters up, and I"ll give you the advantage of the odd fraction."
I accepted his proposition very promptly, though the pipe was the only friend I had, and a relic of old college days which I should have hated to lose. While I was certainly not in training, poverty and worry had left me no superfluous flesh, and it must be a bad track indeed which could pull me back to eleven.
We talked and smoked until a little after ten, when I pleaded fatigue and went upstairs to bed, Hacking agreeing to call me at six o"clock the following morning, as he said he had reasons for wishing the trial private. He showed me to a very comfortable room on the second floor, which seemed luxurious after my experiences of the last two weeks.
Although I had left home without the formalities of farewell calls, and under the cover of the night, I had put in my luggage, small as it was, a pair of running shoes, trunks, and jersey. Why I did this I could not have told; certainly not in expectation of using them again, for I thought there was no sport in America, and that I had run my last race.
I think now it must have been the unconscious wish to keep one link with the good old days when I had carried the "dark blue" to the front, or thereabout, over brown cinder path and soft green sod.
I did not sleep very well for all my comfortable quarters, and when Hacking knocked at my door on the following morning I had been up an hour or more, and was clad in full running togs, having ripped from trunks and jersey all trace of the well-loved color.
When he looked me over his eyes glistened, for he had not seen an English athlete in a proper rig for many a long day.
We went down the back stairs and through the barn yard to a little track behind the house. It was a foggy morning and one could barely see the length of the hundred yards. I jogged once or twice over the course to warm up, and discover some of the bad spots, and then announced that I was ready for the trial.
Just then the sun came out, and as I waited at the start while Hacking went to the finish, he walked through a golden haze. It seemed a good omen. I felt more at home in my running-shoes than I had since I left the Old Country, and was once again happy, with my foot on the mark, drinking in full draughts of fresh air and waiting for the signal to be off.
This was the drop of a handkerchief, for Hacking did not care to use a pistol. There was the quick spring, the crunch of the cinders, the rush of the soft wind, the ever-quickening stride, until with one last effort I pa.s.sed the post with a rush.
It was a rough trial, sure enough, but Hacking"s watch showed ten and four-fifths. He announced himself satisfied, confirmed his promise, and my worry about food and shelter was over for a full long month.
I now spent a number of days trying still to find something to do which I could fairly handle, going into the city each day, but entirely without result.
I was at no expense, however, for I walked to and from town, and took a cold lunch with me. This last was attended to by Hacking"s niece, a tall, fair-haired girl, a trifle awkward yet, for she was only sixteen, but pretty, and promising to be a real beauty later.
She was very kind and gracious, as a good girl is sure to be toward one in trouble. Indeed, Jennie"s sympathy soon became liking, and might perhaps have grown to something more had it received any encouragement.
I do not mean by this that I was irresistible or that she was at all unmaidenly, for a more modest girl I never saw. But she was very lonely, her uncle allowing her not the least word with any of his customers. I was the first young fellow she had ever known, and sixteen is a romantic age.
Never was I beast enough to have gone further than a mild flirtation with a girl like Jennie, and now I was bound in honor not to abuse the confidence of a friend, the only one I had. There were some old Lancashire memories, also, which would not down.
I had not been long at the "Traveller"s Rest" before, at Hacking"s request, I went into mild training, and soon after he broached to me a plan by which I might make enough to keep me for some months, and incidentally a comfortable penny for his own purse.
This was the plan:
There was in Boston a man by the name of Simmons, who was yards better than any one in the country. Hacking plainly told me that while I ought to win, even I had no sure thing, but that he would risk a hundred dollars or more on my success; that he could get odds of at least two to one, and that he would give me one-third of the winnings.
It may be a matter of surprise that I should decline this offer,--almost an object of charity, with everything to win and nothing to lose; but there was something very disagreeable to me in the thought of turning professional. The line between amateur and professional was then, and is now, much more closely drawn on the other side than here,--and rightly so, to my mind.
While I do not propose to preach a sermon on this text, "I could, an" if I would." The jockeying in our American colleges, though very skilfully done, is bad in every way and hurts legitimate sport not a little.
I felt, I say, that in running for a wager with a professional I was forfeiting my standing as a gentleman amateur, and my claim to be considered a gentleman at all.
Jennie thought the same thing, and came mighty near a quarrel with her uncle over the matter. But he, led more by the ambition to pull off a good thing than by mercenary motives, would not give up his plan, though Jennie begged with tears in her eyes,--an argument which had never before been ineffectual.
It was only when I had lived on his bounty a full week over the month that he hinted, delicately enough (for a right good fellow was he), that my time was up. There was nothing else to do but consent, and a week later the "Boston Herald" announced that there was "a match on between Chipper Simmons and Hacking"s Unknown, $200 to $100, distance one hundred yards, to be run May 1, at Hacking"s Brighton track, at four o"clock in the afternoon."
I had three weeks of careful training on the wretched little track, and when the morning of May 1 dawned I was fit as possible, and able to run for my life. It was not an English May day, but more like what I was used to seeing in the Old Country a month earlier. The sky was blue, and across it drifted soft white clouds, for there had been showers in the night. There was the smell of the moist earth, and what little wind there was blew from the south, and carried the fragrance of the pear-blossoms from a young orchard to my window as I threw it open.