THE VALUE OF SPORT.

I.

It all started in a simple way. We were sitting about the hut, smoking and reading, when Beefy blew in with the information that he had managed to get the company officer to challenge B Company (our deadly rivals) to a cross-country run next day.

‘Are they taking it on?’ asked Ginger.

‘You bet they are. And I hope we knock lumps off them. They are a lousy lot; always swinging the lead about being top-dogs. It’s up to us to squash them.’

‘You ought to be pole-axed,’ muttered Ginger.

‘Why?’

‘Haven’t we got enough to do without plugging for ten miles through mud, brambles, cows’ dung, and water? If you’d develop your old fat head, you’d do better. Cross-country run—confound you!’ and he hit Beefy with a barrack pillow.

‘Silly ass! You’re a book-sucking hog. You want a run to shake your liver up. Every blessed thing that comes up, you veto it. Why can’t you follow the crowd?’

‘That’s for you, with your Clapham instincts and shallow brain. You think Rugger and such like the be-all and end-all of our existence. Sport was invented only to keep down your adipose tissue and turn you into a decent citizen. I’ve got beyond that. Joseph Conrad will do me to-morrow. I’m not on for your “follow the crowd” business.’

All this talk, although it sounds hostile, was not really so. It was that frank byplay so characteristic of the army. Ginger regarded Beefy as an over-healthy animal, only fit for Rugger and philandering; while Beefy held the view that Ginger’s physical laziness was a menace to the company and the Empire. In short, Beefy was all sport and Ginger was all books. Each was a champion in that controversy which threatens to remodel our present public school system.

‘Come on, boys,’ I said; ‘gather round the fire and let’s have this out. Is Beefy right or wrong?’

‘He is, and he isn’t,’ said Billy Greens, looking up from his beautifully kept notebook. ‘When he talks about beating B Company I’m with him. But behind it all is that insane idea that games make the superman, and those who won’t play are damned. Sport is all right in its own place.’

‘Hear, hear, old Pieface!’ commented Ginger.

‘It’s like this, boys,’ said Nobby Clarke. ‘Beefy is an ass, in the mental sense of the term. And he knows it. He’s hanging on to this Games Committee job for all he’s worth. His whole reasoning is this: “The company commander is an old Blue. If I [Beefy] can’t pull through with my headpiece, I’ll pull through with my zest for games.” And he’ll do it, for the old commandant believes in sportsmen. Beefy will make a jolly good sub., but a rotten general. He will carry out any order, and his rude health might even get him the V.C., but he couldn’t give an intelligent order to save his life. He’s a prize-fighter, not an officer. After the war you’ll see him as a chucker-out at a pub., or throwing cannon-balls about the music-hall stage.’

‘That’s your rotten Nonconformist creed,’ shouted Beefy. ‘You got that in one of those suburban schools where they breed lawyers, Radicals, and Socialists. You can’t see any good in the public school system. I’m not a saint, I know; but I do things in the light, and am not afraid to talk about them. You’re a measly Covenanter. You couldn’t do ten miles at a trot to save your old face. But you can argue the point, and pose as a moralist. I know your type. If games have made me a healthy animal, I rejoice. I can take my punishment. Nobby, you’re a ruddy fool.’

‘Question!’ ejaculated Tosher.

‘Oh! Here’s this “gaw-damned” materialist again,’ remarked Ginger maliciously.

‘These two beauties [Ginger and Beefy] are wash-outs. One’s from Oxford; the other’s from Cambridge. Oxford has made Ginger into a cock-eyed wowser, and Cambridge has turned Beefy into a base-ball looney. Ginger couldn’t sell ham, and Beefy can’t write a decent letter. One’s all Homer; the other’s all beef. Out there [Canada] these fellows don’t cut ice. They can’t work, and they won’t work. You can see them with their tongues hanging out in Calgary saloons, or cow-punching on Armour’s beef-canning stations. They ain’t soft, but they ain’t wise. They’re all right in dress-suits doing the fox-trot, but in dungarees—why, they just make me smile. And this prime cup of oxo [Beefy] has got a lien on sport, but I’d get a bush-whacking kid to lick him soft at wrestling, and knock him sick at running. You’re all jaw and no push in this gaw-damned island.’

‘Now, I wonder if you’re right,’ said Billy, closing his notebook with a snap and jumping up.

‘I guess so.’

‘Give him fits, old Pieface,’ shouted Ginger.

‘What are your qualifications to act as judge?’

‘I’m nootral, and they make us wise out West.’

‘But you’ve only seen the froth of things, and not the substance. Ginger isn’t Oxford, and Beefy isn’t Cambridge. Ten minutes in the Old Country doesn’t confer the right to shake us up and blow traditions into smithereens.’

‘Tradition’s all moonshine, Billy.’

‘Perhaps; but all your grain-lumpers and pork-packers come here for wives and knighthoods. You’d sell your soul to sleep in Buckingham Palace, and pawn your trousers to eat with the Cecils.’

‘Certainly,’ said Tosher, ‘if we wanted to push through a twenty-thousand-dollar deal.’

‘But aren’t we sportsmen? That’s the point.’

‘Sure! But sport won’t pay the rent or win the war, old child. You can’t kill Huns with hockey-sticks, or use tennis-balls in a barrage. Horse-sense and push-an’-go is a live scheme. You’re real good, real kind; but it makes me tired to see the nootrals selling your grub to the Kaiser, and using your papers to get the plans of the latest push. You ain’t wise over here.’

‘And what’s good about us? Anything?’

‘Your soul. It’s as clean as the brook, and true as Lincoln. You’re fools; but you ain’t willing fools. You’re old; but yet you’re green. This island is a happy hunting-ground for Jews, Germans, and assassins. But we can’t see you fall. The Old Land is Our Land. It’s the Old Home, Billy, and that’s why I’m in. God help the Huns when I go out! I’ll go “West” before this land goes “West.” But, say, I’ve got to go. I’m dining with a real live lord. He wants to see a bucking broncho from the West. Cheerio, boys!’ and Tosher stepped out into the night.

‘Well, that’s the greatest artist Canada has produced,’ said Ginger.

‘That’s the true Imperialism,’ shouted Nobby, ‘but you don’t understand it. All the drivel you got in the Union won’t wash in practical politics. Tosher can make rings round you, and’——

‘Look here, boys,’ I said; ‘let’s choke Nobby and Ginger off. The question before the House is sport. We’ve got to run the other company to-morrow, and it’s up to us to see Beefy through. It’s a matter of esprit de corps, and we can’t allow the other crowd to beat us. Sport is the backbone of the army. A good sportsman is usually a gentleman. All the Rugger men are either dead, wounded, fighting, or training for commissions. If they can’t sell night-shirts or soap, they can obey orders, and there’s no doubt they played the game in August 1914. Never mind about “after the war.” We can leave that to Nobby’s crowd. They’ll be running the show. We shall be much happier ranching or hoofing it with the Lost Legion. It will be a much better thing to beat the other company to-morrow than to sit here reading all the Socialistic tripe of H. G. Wells or the maudlin political tosh of Morley. D—— it all, there’s a war on! If Ginger and Nobby won’t turn up to-morrow, then they are rotters, and we should out them.’

‘Duck them,’ muttered Beefy.

‘How the—— do you know we sha’n’t be there to-morrow?’ roared Ginger, getting roused.

‘You’ve vetoed the run, haven’t you?’

‘Have I? Wait and see.’

II.

It was a cold, crisp day, with a keen, but healthy, breeze. The ground was not too hard, and excellent for the show. We were delighted, for there’s nothing like a glorious scramble across God’s green acres. It cleans the lungs, refreshes the brain, and gives one a zest for the things that matter. I am no marvel at the business, yet in pitting one’s strength against a fellow-man in friendly rivalry, one does acquire the sporting instinct, which is a fair instinct. And to an officer it does give a sense of values, a ready appreciation of all that is good in human nature.

Our company officer, Captain Bloggs, was delighted with the weather prospect. He was an old Blue, and he did want his ‘boys’ to knock spots off the other company. And, strange to say, when we all turned out in running attire, we found Ginger, Nobby, and Tosher already there. There was a suspicion of malicious fun in Ginger’s eyes. I scented something, and said, ‘Look here, Beefy; there’s some move on. These fellows are grinning like cats.’

‘Oh, d—— them! they won’t be in my way. They’re soft, and out of training’——

Bang! went the pistol just then. We went off. Two hundred men in running-kit make a pretty show. Our school, I may rightly say, were the cream of manhood, chosen spartans, and a sight for the gods. This was no preparatory school scramble. These fellows were all in splendid condition, and it was a treat to slog along and watch them. How easily they ambled, limbs and will working in perfect harmony! Hurdles and dikes were taken with an easy bound; no puffing, no exertion, no ungainly slithering on the other side. Just a leap and over. I am quite sure that two hundred Hun cadets could not have done so well. Then we reached the open, the crowd spread out, and the stragglers were more easily marked. These were the elderly men, but right merrily they did their best. They wanted to win. Wasn’t that a perfect spirit? And isn’t it the basis of our true nature? We may love to be top-dog, but we do prefer to get it off our own bat. If we have been very foolish in worshipping cups, caps, and blazers before the war, still it helped us at Mons, and certainly at Ypres. As I watched these fine fellows sprint by my side something welled into my heart; it was the pride of school, the pride of race, the mysterious something which makes us give our all to keep the old flag flying. I may be no Christian, but I do love my fellow-men and my country.

‘Hello! the game’s opening,’ I muttered on looking ahead. I was a bit behind, for I had been dreaming. Away in the front was Beefy. He was heavy, but a splendid athlete. His staying-power was good, and he had no nerves. With all his faults, Beefy was a sportsman, and if there was one man consumed with the craving for victory, it was he. I saw a long figure slogging steadily by his side. The style caught my fancy, so I pushed on, and found it was Ginger. Close behind was Billy Greens, the parson, and gently dodging by him was Nobby. Where was Tosher? I looked behind. He was dogging me. I smiled, but inwardly. I was just a bit cut. These men were out for ‘blood.’

I spurted out of my stride, hell for leather, took a good-sized dike, then pushed hard across a wide meadow. It was good going, and my nerves were all out. This was unwise, but I didn’t want Tosher to head me off. On reaching a wood I looked back. He was just behind. With a curse I dashed on, but my foot went plump into a rabbit-hole, and I was violently thrown, wrenching my ankle.

‘Are you hurt, old boy?’ asked Tosher.

‘Yes,’ I grunted.

‘Looks bad. Wait and I’ll get you a bandage.’

He ran to a stream, tore the two arms off his running-shirt, soaked them, came back, and bandaged the now swollen foot.

‘You had better go on now, Tosher. I’ll hobble home.’

‘No, child. I reckon I’ll carry you.’

‘Get off, man. I’ll manage somehow.’

However, it was useless. I was hoisted on his back and carried through the ranks of the grinning stragglers, who shouted, ‘Did ums do it—John Brown?’

I did feel an ass.

III.

Beefy, however, was keeping the flag flying. He saw Ginger, but paid no attention to him. His eye was on Corporal Jason, the leading man of the other company, and a magnificent harrier. This fellow had to be beaten at all costs. He was not ‘all out’—his pace was too steady; so Beefy plugged a couple of yards behind him. For four miles this went on, and all the while Ginger ambled as easily as a deer. He was one of those who are natural athletes, and who do not need to train. Nature endows them with amazing reserve-power. All the time Ginger was studying the bulldog tenacity of Beefy—the steady plod, the quick eye and brain following Corporal Jason’s every move. It was like dog tracking dog; and yet it wasn’t. Above the cunning byplay was the soul of esprit de corps. Both were out to win. And both meant to.

They reached a wide stretch of pasture-land. Jason stretched himself and pushed on. Beefy followed, a little blown, yet able to hold. The supreme test was near. Ginger saw Beefy clench his jaws, raise his head, and point out the toes to get the fullest stride on the green-sward. Jason was undoubtedly the better man, but there was that something which kept his rival fighting on.

Ginger commenced to admire Beefy.

At last they reached the open track near the camp. Ahead was the winning-post. There an excited crowd had gathered, including Captain Bloggs, who was fearfully anxious as he watched the struggle between Jason and Beefy.

‘Go on, Jason!’

‘Stick it, Beefy!’

These cries rent the air, and for a second threw Beefy off guard. Jason made a terrific spurt. With an almost superhuman effort Beefy recovered and levelled up. Close behind was that amazing devil, Ginger, ambling easily. Somehow, no one counted Ginger as being in the piece. He simply looked like a runner-up—nothing more.

‘Hell for leather, Jason!’

‘Come on, Beefy!’

These were the last cries. Jason made another magnificent leap; the prize seemed his, but his foot slipped on the wet soil, and Beefy shot past.

‘You’re winning, Beefy! Go hard!’

It looked like that. Then, just ten yards from the tape, all were dumbfounded to see Ginger leap forward like a deer and breast the line three yards ahead of Beefy Jones.

A terrific cheering burst from the spectators, but my heart was sick for poor old Beefy. However, as he burst through the tape he collided with Ginger, and shouted, ‘Good, Ginger—we’ve won—and I’m happy!’

‘Yes—the Oxford finish.’

‘All right, old cock; come and have a Cambridge bath.’

Ginger used up a whole cake of Sunlight soap.

That night Billy Greens found Beefy reading a serious-looking book.

‘What are you swotting?’

‘Oh, one of Ginger’s books.’

‘What’s the subject?’

‘“How to be Happy though Intelligent.”’