By T. O. Beachcroft
THE HALF MILE, by T.O.Beachcroft, in New Country, edited by Michael Roberts, London, Hogarth Press, 1933, pp. 72-85.
T. O. Beachcroft is one of the younger writers of England.
Saturday noon. The town-hall clock boomed the hour in the distance. All over the town hooters called to each other from street to street. From the gates of twenty different potteries men, women, boys, and girls streamed. Ones and twos grew to a steady flow, then died away again to ones and twos.
Andrew Williamson, a dipper at the Royal Chorley, was stopped at the gate by old Jones the doorkeeper.
“So long, Andrew,” he said, “good luck for the half mile.”
Andrew glanced at him, and looked away self-consciously.
“How did you know I was running?”
“Oh, I takes an interest,” said Joe, “used to run a half mile myself.”
“Go on?” said Andrew, “I never knew.”
“I was good for one fifty-eight,” said the old man. “That was good going in those days.”
“Go on?” said Andrew again, “but that's class running. That's a class half mile.”
“Oh, I dunno, plenty on 'em do it now!”
“Well, I wish I could. That's my ambition: to get inside two minutes, I've never beaten two four yet!”
“Well, this is just the day for it,” the veteran told him. “You have a nice trot round first: get some good summer air into your lungs: you'll win.”
“But I've never run in a class race,” Andrew persisted. “I've only done Club races. I can't hope for more'n a place; look who's running.”
“Who?” said Jones.
“Well, there's six of us in the final. Let's see: Joe Brewster, the cross-country man, he can run a four thirty mile, and now he wants to try the half.”
“Well, he'll never do minutes,” said Jones,“take it from me.”
“Then there's Perry, him as ran at the ‘Three Clubs' meet at Derby last week. He did two four then.”
“Well, who else?”
“There's that Redbrooke, the Cambridge Blue. I ain't got an earthly.”
“He's a fine runner,” said Jones, “but d'you think he's trained in May? Not likely; it'll be his first time out—trial spin like. Are you trained?”
“Pretty good,” said Andrew, “been at it evenings all the month. Had a good race a week ago.”
“Take it from me,” Jones told him slowly, “stick to Redbrooke. He'll come up at the end of the first quarter. You watch 'im. Don't mind what the others do. And don't run on the outside round bends.”
“Well, I know enough for that,” said Andrew.
“Ah, you know, you know,” said Jones. “Well, good luck, lad.”
Andrew turned back again as he was going. “If I could ever beat two minutes,” he said a little self-consciously, “it'd mean—oh, well, a hellova lot.”
Andrew left him and went alone into the square garden to eat his sandwiches. It was a bright early summer day, yet now that he was alone he felt chilly with nerves. He had a forty minutes' bus ride to the ground, and he meant to get there early. The half mile was timed for three.
What chance had he got? He had won his heat in two six the evening before, but that meant nothing. Joe Brewster was behind him, but he'd only paced out, he knew. Perry and Redbrooke had tied the other heat in two five. There was nothing to go by. Dreadful if he found himself outclassed and run off his legs. He had never been up against a class man before—a fellow like Redbrooke.
Once in the bus he tried his best not to think of the race. No good getting too much of a needle. Yet it was a big chance.
Why, if he did well, if he was placed in the race to-day, his name would be in the Sentinel. The old uns would like to see that, too. If he could beat two minutes—well, he would some day, before he died. That would be doing something really big. It would give him confidence. It would make him stronger altogether.
The bus jogged along with such pleasant fancies. Andrew reached the ground, bag in hand, at half past one. It gave him a queer feeling to see “Sixpence Entrance” on the gates, and “This stand a shilling,” and the like. It made him feel very responsible that people should pay to come to the sport that he was providing. He was practically the first comer in the changing room. He changed slowly, putting his clothes on a bench in the corner. He put on his spiked shoes with elaborate care and went out on the track. It was three laps to the mile instead of the four he was used to. Pity: every strangeness was a little disturbing in a race. There were not four corners either, but two long straights with a long semicircular sweep at each end.
Andrew found the half mile start, and took his bearing. He trotted round half a lap, took one or two sprints, then some breathing exercises. He paced up the back straight. That was where he must come up to the front. He determined to make a real sprinting start, and get an inside berth at all costs. No need for old Jones to tell him not to run on the outside round bends. It was past two by now. One or two people were coming into the stands, the first event being at 2.30. When he got back to the changing room he found it full of a noisy jostling crowd. He felt rather strange, and out of it. If only he could get it over. Three quarters of an hour to wait still. On a table a naked body was being massaged. Andrew waited his turn for a rub. This seemed really professional.
“Your turn, sir,” said the rubber.
Andrew stripped off his vest.
“Might as well take your bags off, too.”
He pested himself a bit shyly, and lay face downwards on the table.
“Front side first, old man,” said the rubber.
It seemed a bit indecent, but Andrew turned over.
The man pommeled his stomach, then his back, then his buttocks, his thighs, and his calves, rubbing in a strong-smelling oil that gingered up his skin and made his nerves tingle. Good.
He saw Brewster and Perry talking and made a remark to them about the half mile, but they did not seem to remember who he was. He found himself a seat alone. If only he could get it over.
A red-faced man thrust the door open.
“All out for the hundred,” he shouted.
“Know who that is?” someone said. “That's Major Cunliffe—the old international.”
The hundred-yards men trooped out. There were four or five heats in the hundred. Andrew watched out of the changing room window, but he couldn't concentrate and took no stock of what happened. He was acutely miserable.
At last the hundred yards was finished. A minute or so dragged by. Andrew stood up and sat down again and fastened his shoes for the fifth time. Then the door burst open and Major Cunliffe looked in again:
“All out for the half mile!”
At the same time he heard a bell ringing outside. It sounded fateful. It meant next event due. All over the ground people were turning over their programs and reading the names. As the clangor died away Andrew felt something approaching terror. He sprang to his feet and crossed towards the door.
Now a new awkwardness arose. Why did none of the other half milers move? He waited for a moment for them to join him, but each man of them seemed to have found some last-minute adjustment to a shoe or bandage.
“Well,” said Brewster, “I suppose we'd better be moving.”
“Wait a bit, Joe,” said Perry, “I must get my ankle strap on.”
Andrew hovered miserably in the doorway of the changing room. Why couldn't they buck up and get it over? If only he could get it over. At last, finding it ridiculous to hold the door open any longer, he went through it and waited outside in the concrete passage. He certainly could not walk on to the track without the others, nor could he go back into the changing room. He leant against the wall trying to think of nothing.
What could the others be doing? “Oh, come on,” he murmured,“come on!” Next time he would know better than to get up before the other men in his race were on the move.
The sunlight end of the passage was suddenly eclipsed and the Major brushed by him.
“Where are those half milers?” he said genially to Andrew.
“I think—” began Andrew, but found an answer was not expected.
The Major opened the door, and Andrew caught a glimpse of the bunch of them standing and talking as if the race meant nothing.
“Everyone out for the half mile—come on,please,” said the Major.
This time they came and with beating heart Andrew joined them.
“Well, Brewster,” said the Major, “what are you going to show us to-day?”
“Don't expect you'll notice me,” said Brewster, “after the gun's gone. I shall try and stick to young Redbrooke for the first six hundred, anyhow. I only want to see what I can do!”
It sounded splendidly casual, but Andrew had a strong feeling that what Brewster meant was: “I rather fancy myself as a class half miler, so just watch me. I believe I can beat Redbrooke. I'm not troubling about the rest, anyhow.”
Andrew stepped gingerly along the track. He felt rather better at being in the open air. Then he glanced behind him at the grand stand. He received a shock. It was full—full of banks of people looking at him, waiting to see him run.
As with the bell, the audience rushed on Andrew with a terrific new meaning. He had often seen large crowds at sports meetings. He had sat with them and watched the runners and the few officials in the center of the ground. The center of the ground had always appeared to be part of the whole picture with the crowd.
It had never occurred to him for a moment that to step in the arena was to break that unit. Now the whole picture was crowd and nothing else. Wherever he raised his eyes on all sides of him, he saw nothing but a bank of staring faces, a mob of hats and faces.
With eyes fixed on the ground, he left the track and began to walk across the grass towards the start. The half mile, being a lap and a half, led off at the farthest point from the grand stand. The half lap brought it round to the stand just at the stage where the race was getting into its stride, when everybody was beginning to feel the collar and those who meant business were jostling for places in front. The remaining complete lap brought the finish round to the grand stand again.
Andrew's path took him into the middle of the ground;here the crowd was less imminent. The summer was still new enough to greet the senses with surprise. He stepped lightly on the elastic turf. The grass breathed out delicious freshness. For years afterwards that fragrance was to set Andrew's nerves tingling with the apprehension of this moment.
The lively air fanned his head and throat. It played about his bare legs.
Andrew saw the other half milers were trotting round the track. Occasionally one would shoot forward in a muscle-stretching burst. Andrew tried a high-stepping trot across the grass to flex his own legs, but was too self-conscious to keep it up.
He reached the starting point first. Another agonizing wait followed. The others were still capering round the ash path. Would he never get it over? Surely the tension of nerves must rack the strength from his limbs? At last the starter approached.
“Jolly day for a trial spin,” he told Andrew. “Makes me feel an old fool to be out of it. I envy you boys.”
Andrew felt too miserable to answer. He nodded.
“If you want a place,” said a starter, “take my advice and watch Redbrooke. He'll probably try and take Brewster off his legs early—he knows he can't sprint, you see.”
Andrew nodded again. Of course it was a foregone conclusion that only Redbrooke and Brewster were in the race. No one had a thought for him.
The others began to arrive. Andrew stripped off his sweater. Again he was premature. The others waited. All were silent now.
Redbrooke was strolling across the ground with one of the officials. He looked up and broke into a brisk trot.
The air still freshened Andrew's face. Across the ground he could hear the murmur of the crowd. A paper boy was shouting.
Still none of the runners spoke. In silence, one by one, they took off blazers and sweaters. The well-known colors of Brewster's club appeared—a red and black band round the chest. Redbrooke cantered up unconcerned.
“Sorry,” he said, and emerged from his blazer in Achilles Club colors. Andrew glanced at his plain white things, longer and tighter than Redbrooke's.
The runners eyed each other as they took their places on the track. Redbrooke was a shade taller than Andrew and perfectly formed. His corn-colored hair was a disheveled crop, paler in hue than the tan of his face. His limbs flashed with youth and strength. His poise was quick as flame.
No wonder he can run, thought Andrew. He must win.
“I shall say on your marks—set—and then fire.”
At last, thought Andrew. His heart was beating in his throat now.
A second toiled by.
Andrew dropped to his knee for a sprinting start.
“Set!”
His knee quivered up from the track. It was toes and knuckles now, a balance quivering with tautness.
Crash.
Scurry. Shoulders jostling. Mind out.
Andrew shot clear, going at top speed. He swung into the inside place. So far so good. He'd got his inside place, and the lead too. Was he to make the running? He settled down to a stride, fast but easy.
He breathed calmly through his nose. Although the race had started he still felt very nervous—an exhilarating nervousness now. He saw each blade of grass where out turf edge met track. A groundsman set down a whitewash pail.
Andrew realized he was cutting out too fast a pace. He swung into a slower stride. So far all had gone according to plan, and he began to take courage.
As they approached the pavilion for the first time and the second long corner of the race, he found Perry was creeping up on his outside. Andrew was surprised and a little worried. In all the half miles he had run before the pace he had set would have assured him the lead. He decided to make no effort, and Perry passed stride by stride and dropped into the lead. Andrew continued at his own pace, and a gap of a yard or two opened.
As they came on to the bend there was a sudden sputter of feet and Andrew found that Brewster had filled the gap. Others were coming up and he realized that the whole field was moving faster than he was. He quickened up slightly and swung out tentatively to pass Brewster again. Before he could pass, the corner was reached. He at least knew better than to run on the outside round the curve; so he slackened again to pull back into the inside. But in the very thought of doing so, the runner behind closed smoothly and swiftly up to Brewster, and Andrew saw that Redbrooke had got his inside berth. Andrew had to take the curve on the outside. “Blinking fool” he told himself.
Old Jones and one or two other experienced runners in the crowd caught each other's eyes for a moment; the rest of the audience had no notion of the little display of bad technique that Andrew had given.
So they went round the long curve. Perry in the lead and still pressing the pace; Brewster second, with no very clear notion of what the pace ought to be, and determined not to lose Perry; Redbrooke keeping wisely within striking distance, and Andrew bunched uncomfortably on the outside of Redbrooke with two others.
By the time they came out of the long bend and completed the first half of the race Andrew was thoroughly rattled. Never had he felt such a strain at this stage of a half mile. Already it was difficult to get enough air; he was no longer breathing evenly through his nose. Already a numbing weakness was creeping down the front of his thighs. Hopeless now to think of gaining ground. With relief he found he was able to drop into the inside again behind Redbrooke. They had now been running for about one minute—it seemed an age. Could he possibly stick to it for another period, as long again? The long stretch of straight in front of him, the long sweep of curve at the end of the ground that only brought you at the beginning of the finishing straight. Then the sprint. Already he felt he could not find an ounce of sprint.
Pace by pace he stuck to it watching Redbrooke's feet.
But even now he must quicken up if he was to hold Redbrooke. At each step Redbrooke's back was leaving him. He struggled to lengthen but it was useless. Redbrooke was moving up to the front. Now he was equal with Brewster;now with Perry; now he was in the lead.
How easy Redbrooke's move down the back straight looked from the grand stand. “Pretty running,” people told each other. “Just the place to come up.” “Nicely judged.” “See how he worked himself through from the last corner.”
And this was the very place at which Andrew had meant to move up himself. He remembered nothing of his plans now. It was impossible to increase his effort. One of the men behind came smoothly by and dropped into the gap that Redbrooke had left in front of him. The sixth man came up on his outside. There was a kind of emptiness at his back. He was running equal last.
Now they came into the final curve before the finishing straight. His legs seemed powerless. He grunted for breath. The weakness in his thighs had grown to a cramping pain. And all the time with dull despair he saw Redbrooke going up, now five yards clear, now eight. Perry had dropped back to third, and Brewster was chasing Redbrooke.
Dark waves of pain swept over Andrew. Hopeless. Hopeless.
Still he must keep running with control. He must force his legs to a smooth long stride. This was the worst part of any race; nightmare moments, when the only hope was a last frenzied dash, yet still the body must be forced along with conscious control.
“Come on,” he told himself, “another fifty yards—guts, man—guts.”
Had only Andrew known what the others were feeling, he would have taken courage. The whole pace of the first quarter, thanks to Andrew's own excitement, had been faster than anyone cared for. Redbrooke, untrained as he was, had found himself badly winded at the quarter-mile mark. He, too, doubted whether he could have any punch left at the finish. He determined, therefore, to make a surprise effort early, when he still had a powerful sprint in him. As soon as they came into the curve, he stepped on the gas as hard as he could, three hundred yards from home, and steamed away. He jumped a lead of five, eight, ten yards before Perry or Brewster realized what was happening. It was a thing the crowd could follow better than the men in the race.
Now as they came into the straight, Andrew thought Redbrooke was gathering himself for a final dash. Far from it; he was hanging on for grim death. His sparkling effort had died right away. His stride was nerveless. The sprinting muscles in his thighs had lost every ounce of their power. He was struggling and asking himself at every stride: “Can I, can I, can I—surely those steps are drawing nearer—can I last it?”
Perry was desperately run out. Brewster had already been chasing Redbrooke hard for the last thirty yards, but could not find any pace at all.
Andrew alone of the field had he known it had been nursing his remnant of strength round that grueling bend. Only forty yards to go now and he could throw all he had into a last desperate effort. Keep it up just a moment more. Thirty yards to the straight now—twenty—suddenly his control was shattered. He was fighting in a mindless fury of effort for every ounce of strength in him.
In ten yards he saw his whole fortune in the race change. He had got a sprint then!The man on his outside vanished. He raced round the outside of the fellow in front hand over fist as he came into the straight. In another few yards he had the faltering Perry taped.
He had already run into third place. New strength surged through his limbs. “Come on, come on: up, you can catch Brewster. Level. Feel him struggling. He can't hold you. Got him!”
Far, far off, a distant frenzied pain, somewhere: someone else's pain. Miles away a face on the side of the track.
Second now. Second, and he could catch Redbrooke. But could he catch him in time? They were past the start of the hundred yards now: a bare hundred to go. Could he? Could he? The first brilliance of his sprint had gone. He was fighting again an agonizing weakness that dragged his legs back. But he was doing it, foot by foot. Fists clenched, to force speed-spent muscles.
Split seconds dragged strange length out. The straight went on and on. Five yards behind, now four, now three.
Redbrooke heard him, then felt him: two yards behind, now at his shoulder. He racked himself for a new effort. Together they swept past the hundred-yards finish, ten yards from the half-mile tape, with the dull roar of the crowd in their ears. Redbrooke saw he was beaten but stuck to it till the last foot.
Then Andrew led.
A splendour of gladness as he watched the stretch of white wool break on his own chest.
“You've done it, you've done it!” Incredible precious moment.
Then he dropped half conscious on the track.
Strong arms plucked him up, and walked him to the grass.“Well done, very fine finish,” he heard. Down again, sitting now. The world swam round you. There was Redbrooke, standing up, not so done then.
Ache, how those legs ache and your thigh muscles, too—must stand up, hell, what does it matter though when you won!
Redbrooke came over to Andrew smiling and controlled.
“Well done,” he said, “you had me nicely.”
“Ow,” said Andrew, still panting, “muscles in my thighs.” He got up and limped about. His legs felt absurd. The muscles in his haunches hurt abominably.
Redbrooke smiled. “I know that feeling,” he said, “comes of running untrained!”
“Oh, I had trained a bit,” said Andrew, “a fair amount really. Do you know what the time was?”
“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” Redbrooke told him. “I was just inside two minutes. I must say I think we did fairly well for the first effort of the season.”
“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” said Andrew, “was it really?”
One of the judges joined them.
Others came up. They all said the same.
“Why on earth didn't you sprint before?”
“No idea I could,” explained Andrew.
Brewster joined the group.
“Well, that's my last half mile,” he said. “Never had to move so fast in my life before.”
But he was obviously pleased. He had finished about ten yards behind Redbrooke and must have done about two two or two three.
Now Andrew began to enjoy himself thoroughly. Gloriously relaxed in mind and body, gloriously contented, he watched the other events. He made new friends. Then he went in and soaked himself in a steaming bath and smoked, shouting to Brewster in the next compartment. Life was very kind.
He came out on to the ground, chatted with everyone he saw: discussed his race a dozen times: had three or four beers:spent a few shillings with wild extravagance. He saw, to his amazement, Redbrooke turn out again for the quarter and fight another grueling finish to win by inches in fifty-one and a fifth seconds. Andrew was the first to pat him on the back.
“Great work,” he said. “How you managed it after that half beats me!”
“Oh, well,” said Redbrooke, “it loosened me up. Why didn't you come, lazy devil?”
In the bus going home, Andrew leant back and puffed deeply at his pipe. Alone for the first time, he went over the race in his mind. Well, he had done it. He could tackle anything on earth now.
After all running was a thing men had always done. Football, other games, came and went. A good runner was a good runner for all time—with hundreds and hundreds of years of kinship behind him. And he, Andrew, was a good runner. A class runner. One fifty-nine. Damn good!
His head was slightly swimming with fatigue and excitement and beer. He leant back and sighed—as happy as it is possible to be on this planet.
Notes
hooters, whistles of the various potteries.
potteries, shops or factories where earthern ware is made.
Royal Chorley, the name of the pottery where Andrew worked as dipper.
the half mile, the half mile or the 880-yds. race.
self-consciously, as if conscious of oneself as an object of the observation of others.
one fifty-eight, one minute fifty-eight seconds, for the half mile.
class running, good running; high-class running.
two four, two minutes four seconds for the half mile.
trot, a jogging pace, not so fast, for warming up.
Club races, races conducted by various clubs, organizations, or associations.
final, a deciding heat, or trial.
cross-country, generally a long-distance race over country roads.
four thirty mile, running a mile in 4 minutes 30 seconds.
Cambridge Blue, a Cambridge University athlete who has made the varsity team.
earthly, chance; possibility.
trial spin like, like trying or testing out.
stick, follow closely and persistently.
come up, come or spring forward.
first quarter, first quarter mile.
on the outside round bends, on the outside edge of the race track, path or course.
a hellova lot, a slang expression meaning “a great deal,” a-hell-of-a-lot.
sandwiches, a sandwich consists of two slices of bread usually buttered and having a thin layer of meat, cheese, or the like, spread between them. Named after Lord Sandwich.
paced out, in racing, one's rate of movement, or speed is called the pace, which is generally a slow, regular, or measured pace. Hence, paced out means to pace or follow behind, without intending to pass the person in front.
run off his legs, to cause his legs to be tired; hence, to cause him to run himself out at the start, and thus exhaust him before he could finish the race.
too much of a needle, nervous; vexed; disquieted, too excited, too much on an edge.
“Sentinel, ” the name of the local newspaper.
“uns, ” ones. The old uns are his parents.
jogged, moved slowly, leisuredly, or monotonously.
“Sixpence Entrance, ” entrance for spectators who pay sixpence for a seat in the arena.
“This stand a shilling, ” entrance for those who pay a shilling for a seat. The seats or bleachers are known as the stand.
changing room, room where the athletes change into their uniforms.
spiked shoes, shoes with spikes, pointed irons, or nails of special design, set with the points downward fastened to the sole of a runner's shoe to prevent slipping.
three laps to the mile instead of the four. The size of the ordinary track field is so laid out that a runner going four times around the track covers distance equivalent to a mile. A three laps to the mile course is, therefore, a trifle larger track field than the ordinary one, so that three laps make the mile.
start, the starting point of the race.
sprints, short runs at top speed.
back straight, the section of a race track between the last turn and the winning post.
jostling, crowding or bumping together.
massaged, treated by means of rubbing, stroking, kneading or tapping with the hand or an instrument.
rub, massage.
bags, loose-fitting garments; especially, in England, ordinary loose trousers.
pommeled, beat with the fists; beat soundly.
buttocks, the part at the back of the hip, which in man forms one of the protuberances on which he sits.
gingered, enlivened; animated; inspirited.
international, a runner who has participated in international track competitions.
next event due, time for the next race to start.
programs, usually, printed or written lists of the features composing a performance, with the names of the performers.
hovered, hung about.
eclipsed, caused the obscuration of; hidden.
brushed, touched or rubbed in passing.
after the gun's gone, after the starter of the race has fired his gun in starting the race.
six hundred, 600 yards.
casual, incidental; having the air of a chance occurrence.
banks, tier upon tier; layer upon layer.
arena, any place of public contest or exertion.
a lap and a half, one and one-half times around the track field.
feel the collar, feel the strain; feel the pace.
imminent, near at hand.
elastic turf, springy race course.
muscle-stretching burst, breaking forth in such a speed that the muscles stretched beyond their ordinary tension.
flex, bend; loosen.
capering, skipping; jumping.
ash path, the runner's path, or course, which is paved with ash, the earthy or mineral parts of combustion, as of wood or coal.
take Brewster off his legs early, this is, take Brewster by surprise by beating him at the start of the race.
premature, arriving before the proper or usual time.
cantered, ran at an easy gait.
his blazer, his light jacket, —usually of wool, or silk and of a bright color, for wear at tennis, cricket, or other sport.
Achilles Club colors, the colors of the club of which he is a member, the Achilles Club.
disheveled crop, disarranged or ruffled hair that is cut loose or short.
on your marks, set, and then fire, the regular signals given at the start of races.
tautness, tightness.
scurry, hasten away.
Mind out, be sure to get clear of the other runners.
tentatively, experimentally.
“Blinking fool, ” big fool. Andrew realized that he had made a mistake and he was scolding himself.
bad technique, not good style of performance; poor execution.
cramping pain, a pain in the muscles in form of a cramp-spasmodic and painful involuntary contraction of a muscle or muscles.
guts, that quality of being strong, powerful, and having a capacity for exertion and endurance, whether physical, intellectual, or moral.
winded, put out of breath; rendered scant of wind by violent exertion.
quarter-mile mark, the half-way mark of the half-mile race.
punch, power; energy; “guts.”
grueling, exhausting the capacity or endurance.
mindless, out of one's mind; heedless; not controlled by his mind or reason.
taped, bettered; beaten.
speed-spent, exhausted by running rapidly or at great speed.
white wool, a piece of string, thread, or worsted stretched across the finishing line and broken by the first man to finish the race.
haunches, the hind quarters.
compartment, one of the parts into which an inclosed portion, or space is pided, as by partitions, or lines; next booth.
beers, glasses of brewed liquor made with malted grain, with or without other starchy material, and with hop or other substances to give a bitter flavor; in Great Britain, and the United States, beer frequently signifies the lighter kinds and all the heavier kinds of malted liquors.
Questions
1. Who was Andrew?
2. What were his thoughts and feelings （a） before the race, （b） during the race, （c） after the race?
3. What did Andrew gain from winning the race?
参考译文
【作品简介】
《半英里》，作者T.O．比奇克罗夫特，选自迈克尔·罗伯茨编辑的《新国家》，伦敦霍加斯出版社1933年出版，72—85页。
【作者简介】
T.O．比奇克罗夫特是英格兰最年轻的作家之一。