BRITISH COMICS
(Rover Homepage)
THE TOUGH OF THE TRACK
First
episode (fifth series) is taken from The Rover No. 1404 - May 24th 1952.
He’s back today to give you laughs
and thrills.
Alf Tupper, your pal of the running
track!
TUPPER THE SCRAPPER
Alf Tupper, his hair as usual hanging untidily over his ears, rushed
towards the exit of the car factory at Brassingford as soon as the hooter
sounded on Thursday evening.
His
overalls were tattered and grimy and his boots were dull with grease. There was
a brown paper parcel under his arm. He was one of the welders in the body shop.
Hundreds of other employees were also in a hurry to get out. The gateman spoke
to Alf as he went by in the crush. “Aren’t you working overtime?” he asked. Alf
shook his head. “The chargehand said nothing about it,” he replied. “Anyhow,
I’m running tonight!” He scowled at a man who pushed past him. “Here who d’you
think you’re shoving?” The stampede continued towards the buses. Alf wanted to
get on the bus for Reservoir Lane which
was a couple of miles away. His sport was running and the Brassingford Harriers
were starting the season with an evening meeting. He wasn’t a member of the
club, but there were a number of open events. It was his intention to run in
the Mile Handicap Race. The “Works Special” for Reservoir
Lane had not yet arrived and with a final
sprint Alf took his place in the queue. Up to a month previously Alf had worked
with a racing car crew. When it was decided to race the car in America. Alf
had been given the option of going. His answer had been “No thanks, mister!”
They wouldn’t catch him going off to America at the
start of the athletic season. Not likely! In the past he had occasionally gained
a big success on the track, and a newspaper writer, in reviewing Olympic Games
prospects, had gone so far as to describe him as a British hope. When Alf’s
workmates had drawn his attention to this he had scoffed, “Some hope!” What he
really thought he kept to himself. The bus appeared and then there were
indignant shouts. Instead of the usual double decker, a single decker vehicle
turned towards the kerb. The queue shuffled forward. Alf watched anxiously. He
began to think he would be lucky and just get on. He was near the step when the
conductor called out, “One more only!” Alf had his foot on the step when Pug
Willis, whose flat nose was evidence of his success, or lack of it, as an
amateur boxer, shoved past him. Willis worked in the tool room and since he was
the local middleweight champion enjoyed a lot of prestige. “Come off it,”
snarled Alf. “I got here before you.” For all the notice Willis took he might
have been deaf. He was on the top step when Alf laid hold of his ankle and
pulled. Uttering a startled bellow, Willis slid down the steps and rolled in
the road. He scrambled up and clenched his fists. “I’m going to knock your
block off,” he exclaimed angrily. “Try it,” retorted Alf and threw down his
parcel. Willis took a swing at the Tough who ducked and slammed a punch into
the bigger fellow’s ribs. It hurt his knuckles. It also hurt Willis. To a
boxer’s eyes Alf looked wide open. Willis weaved in and hooked at the Tough’s
head. The blow found its target. Alf blinked but did not stagger away as Willis
expected. He hit back instantly and his fist thudded on the boxer’s nose. “I’ll
kill you for that,” howled Willis. “You’ll ‘ave to hit a blooming sight
harder,” snapped Alf and rushed in at him. Willis took a sock at Alf’s jaw and
hit it. As he waited to see the Tough crumple up, he received a set of knuckles
smack in the mouth. Ring tactics were no use against an opponent who had never
heard of them and who, when punched, hit back. Willis let fly with his left and
punched Alf in the eye. Without any pause for recovery the Tough whirled round
and his swinging fist took Willis full on the ear. He tottered across the
pavement, collided with the wall and slid down it into a sitting position amid
cheers from the onlookers who had reason to be tired of him. “Next time keep in
your place,” snarled Alf and turned to pick up his parcel. A gasp broke from
him. “Where’s the blooming bus?” he exclaimed. “It went while you were
scrapping,” said a spectator of the scrap. “Well, paint me pink,” growled Alf
in exasperation. “I’ll have to walk.”
He
picked up his parcel and, with his right eye half-closed, marched off down the
road. Through a maze of streets Alf made his way towards the Harriers’ ground.
He wasn’t far away when he first sniffed and then saw a fried fish and chips
shop with a cluster of people round the door. Alf had worked hard all the
afternoon and felt peckish. He joined the short queue. There had been occasions
when he was on athletic tours when he had sat down to six course dinners, but
none had been as satisfying as a feed of fried fish and chips. “I’ll have a
piece and six penn’orth of chips,” stated Alf, when his turn came. He kept his
eye—the one which wasn’t closing up—on the man behind the counter. “Hi, I don’t
call that a piece, mister! Keep it for the cat’s supper.” Another piece of fish
was laid on top of Alf’s chips. He gave them a good sprinkling of vinegar and
left the shop. Both to save time and because he was hungry, he ate his fish and
chips as he headed for the ground. Noel Meecham, the Harriers’ champion miler,
drove past in his red sports car. Maybe he saw the Tough, maybe he didn’t. In
any event he didn’t give him a nod. From astern of Alf sounded the kind of
whistle produced by sticking two fingers in the mouth and blowing. “Hello, Charlie,
so you’ve turned up,” chirped the Tough, as he glanced back. Charlie Crabtree
hurried after Alf. Charlie had unusually thin legs and though without his
bicycle, wore the clips. His neck had a couple of inches clearance above his
collar and he had a long, thin nose. He was a couple of years older than the
Tough and they knew each other because they both had “digs” with Mrs Narker in Canal
Road. Charlie was a storeroom clerk in one of
the town’s multiple shops. Athletics were a passion with him. He could not
compete himself because he had a tendency to asthma, but he turned up at every
meeting and had his own stopwatch. “I never thought I’d make it,” he panted.
“Crowing cats, what have you done to your eye?” “It was done for me,” said Alf.
“Barking fish, who done it?” asked Charlie. “A chap who got out of his place in
the bus queue,” Alf explained. A car went by and then they crossed the street
and turned into Reservoir Lane, a
long street lined with brick houses. Up at the far end was a pool and, on what
had been a rubbish tip, the Harriers had their ground. “How long will it take
you to run the Mile tonight?” Charlie inquired. “It’ll be slow,” muttered Alf.
“It’s my first time out this season and working overtime has cut down my
training time. I’d be satisfied with four minutes twenty this evening—but only
this evening. I’ll have to sharpen up a lot by a fortnight Saturday for the
sports at London.”
Charlie rolled his eyes excitedly. “I’ll be there to watch you, Alf,” he
exclaimed. “I shan’t miss those sports at White City, no
fear!” Alf had had his entry accepted for the Southern Meeting in the White
City Stadium which in a real sense, would be an Olympics Trial. “Well, don’t
bank too hard on me being there,” said Alf with an air of determination. “I’m not
going to the White City to
muck up my chances. I might as well give up the idea if I’m not sure of beating
four minutes ten. I’m not telling everybody, but I know I’ve a chance of making
the Olympics team, but it’d do me a lot more harm than good if I went along and
ran like a twerp’s uncle.” Following on this emphatic statement Alf popped the
last chip into his mouth and walked into the sports ground.
THE FIRST MILE OF THE SEASON
The Harriers’ ground wasn’t a White City or a Stamford Bridge, but
it was the centre of the district’s athletic activities and well up to the job.
The stand was small but there was a excellent track and a good grass oval. On
big occasions five or six thousand spectators could get on the banks.
The
chairman of the Club, Stewart Langley, was now nearer forty than thirty, but he
had been a good middle distance runner in his time. He was a Brassingford
auctioneer. Langley looked
hard at Alf as he approached the stand. “I’m glad you’ve turned up, Tupper,” he
exclaimed. “You’d have a job to keep me away from a bit of running,” said Alf.
“Gracious, what have you done to your eye?” asked Langley. “I
had a bit of an argument with a fellow,” explained the Tough. Alf went into the
dressing room under the stand. There was a cheerful chatter. Something like
thirty of the Harriers and visitors were starting to get into their running
strip. Alf crossed the room to find a peg for his clothes. Noel Meecham had got
as far as taking off his jacket and was now loosening his old school tie. He
had been a Public Schools champion and, now that he had finished his National
Service as a lieutenant, was in strict training again. He had run a four
minutes fourteen seconds mile while in the Army. “Howdo, Noel,” said Alf.
Meecham shot a startled glance at him. “I didn’t recognise you,” he exclaimed.
“Did—did I see you eating fish and chips?” “How did you guess?” inquired Alf.
Meecham shuddered. “I saw the newspaper,” he said. “But, surely you can’t run
after eating that greasy stuff?” “I eat when I feel like it,” replied Alf. “If
I had anything more than a poached egg I wouldn’t finish a lap,” said Meecham.
Alf sat on the bench and shook his brown paper parcel loose. An undervest from
which moths had found sustenance and a pair of khaki shorts, ex-Army, 3s 3d, fell
out, together with his track shoes. Terry Benger, the Harrier’s aspiring Miler,
made his entry. His fastest mile, at the peak of the previous season, had been
four minutes fifteen seconds. The starters in the 100 yards heats were called
out and when they had gone there was a bit more room to move about. The Tough
enlarged the moth holes when he pulled on the vest. He never wore socks nor had
any protection for his feet. He stood and started on his massage. “Done any
training, Noel?” he asked. “A bit,” said Meecham. “I’ve done quite a lot of gym
work this winter. Have you?” “Naw!” Alf shook his head. “I reckon the best
training for running is running.” The time came for the runners in the Mile to
go out. As it was a handicap race there were a dozen starters.
Alf
found he was on scratch by himself. Meecham had been given a couple of yards.
The Tough did not think that was unfair but when he saw Terry far up the track
he uttered a loud protest. “Here, how much start have you given Benger?” he
snarled. Cyril Huntley, the Harriers’ honorary secretary, frowned indignantly.
“He’s on forty yards,” he snapped. “I wonder you didn’t give him four hundred
while you were about it,” growled Alf. “It needs a telescope to see him.” The
Starter took charge. Alf still glowered at Benger. The start given to Benger
struck him as being a bit of favouritism. “Get to your marks!” Alf walked to
the line and started to get into his awkward looking crouch. “Get set!” The gun
was the signal Alf had waited for with impatience ever since the end of the
1951 season. He worked for his living and lived for his running. He catapulted
himself into motion and hit his stride. Meecham was off the mark smartly and
Alf gained nothing on him at the start. It was a minor race but Alf was on the
track to win. He started to think of his tactics as he got on the move. The
main thing was that he couldn’t afford to nibble at Benger’s lead. He felt it
was necessary to grab some distance as soon as he could. Meecham apparently had
the same idea, for he soon began to put on pace. Alf went with him and they
were soon passing some of the slower men. Alf really felt alive again now that
he had a running track under his feet and saw it curving away ahead. By the end
of the first lap it was evident to the handful of spectators that, barring
accidents, the race lay between Benger, Meecham and Alf. The second time round
the two tail-enders had gained something on Benger but he was running strongly
to take advantage of his long start. It was midway through the third lap that
Alf shot a glance towards Benger as he took the curve. “This is no blooming
good,” he muttered. Alf cracked on pace. There was a long way to go. He knew he
might be taking a risk of running himself out short of the tape, but he wasn’t
going to be licked by Benger if he could help it. He turned out spurted past
Meecham and went slogging along. His burst gave the spectators their first
excitement. He halved Benger’s lead by the time the latter entered the fourth
and last lap. “Go it, Alf,” yelled Charlie who, stopwatch in hand, was opposite
the finishing line. Alf tore into the last circuit. He hadn’t shaken off
Meecham, who was hanging on with great determination. Up in front Benger was
showing signs of flagging, but there was no doubt he would finish. Alf plugged
away. It was hard going now. He was driving himself unsparingly. He could see
he was gaining on Benger and that was a spur. With a hundred yards to go he was
twelve paces behind Benger and felt just about pumped out. It wasn’t evident in
his running. It was his determination and his big heart which urged him on when
his legs were nearly spent. Meecham made a big effort but couldn’t catch the
Tough. He was still there if Alf faltered. Alf gasped down a last long breath
and went for the tape. He could scarcely see out of his black eye and the other
was blurred. With his face twisted in determination he took a stride which put
him in front of Benger and with the next step broke the tape, staggered on and
flopped to the ground. “I run him,” he muttered triumphantly. “It wasn’t a fair
do, but I run him.” Charlie pranced up to him excitedly. “Whistling whales,
that was a race,” he exclaimed. “What was the time?” panted Alf. “I made it
four minutes nineteen seconds,” said Charlie. Charlie was right too. That was
also the official time.
Alf
was still blowing hard. “Not bad for the first race of the season,” he said.
“I’ve a fortnight to speed up.” Cyril Huntley bore down on Alf. “Tupper, as you
didn’t pay for your entrance fee of half a crown prior to the race, you are not
eligible for the prize,” he said pompously. “You can stick it down your
collar,” scoffed the Tough. “If you want the half dollar, come and get it.”
However, on his way out, Alf was stopped by Mr Langley. “If you want to use the
track for your training, Alf, you’re welcome,” he said. “Thanks,” exclaimed
Alf. “You’re a sport.”
OUT OF A JOB
The factory hooter was wailing when Alf sprinted past the gatemen in the
morning and headed for the body shop. No sooner had he entered the huge building,
with the unpainted metal car bodies looking like giant snails, and clocked in
than he was told he was wanted by the foreman.
Alf
made for the office. It had glass sides and he saw that Mr Wilkes, the foreman,
was not alone. The chargehand of the gang, Fred Ferritt, was in with him. As
Alf pushed the door open, the argument continued. “You knew the job had to be
finished last night,” snapped Wilkes, who had a heavy dark moustache. “You knew
it was a special body for the Brussels show.”
“I’ve told you I was left in the lurch,” whined Ferritt. Wilkes glared at Alf.
“You skipped out last night,” he snapped. “You were ordered to work overtime
but you beat it.” “That’s a blooming lie,” retorted Alf. “I was told nothing of
the kind.” Ferritt shifted his feet uneasily. “I told you to come back when
you’d had your tea, Alf,” he said. Alf just couldn’t believe his ears. He had
told the chargehand he was running and had received the reply of “Okay!” “You
never said anything of the sort,” he exclaimed. Wilkes stared hard at Ferritt.
“Did you or did you not tell Tupper to come back?” he demanded. “I told him to
come back,” said Ferritt brazenly. “I said ‘Get your tea and make it snappy’.”
Alf’s face blazed with indignation. “Your name ought to be Ananias,” he snarled.
Wilkes accepted the charge hand’s version. “It was a condition of your
employment that you should work overtime when called on, Tupper,” he said. “You
held up an important job by clearing off. On top of that a director saw you
fighting in the street. We’re paying you off. Go to the office for your cards.”
Alf turned on Ferritt and stared at him fiercely. “I hope you’re satisfied at
saving your own job,” he shouted. “I’d push your face in only I don’t want to
catch anything by touching you!” Alf slammed the door hard enough to fetch down
the foreman’s hat and coat off the peg and stalked away down the factory. It
had been a good job but they could stick it up their waistcoats. He had had a
dirty deal and they would never get him to go back. Before the end of the
morning Alf was down at the Employment Exchange. The clerk was both polite and
helpful. “You’ll soon get fixed up,” he said after he had glanced at the form
Alf had filled up and had a talk with him. “There are three places where you
can ask.” “In the town?” Alf exclaimed. “All in the town or close by,” stated
the clerk. “The Castle Garage people need a mechanic with some knowledge of
welding. It’s a five and a half day week.” Alf just grunted. “Neale & Co., the
firm which makes agricultural machinery, have vacancies,” the clerk added.
“It’s a good firm. They have their own canteen. It’s a five day week.” “That
suits me better,” exclaimed Alf. “What’s the other place?” “A fitter’s wanted
in the railway running shed,” was the answer. Alf grunted again. “I reckon I’ll
look Neale’s up,” he said after some thought. Alf left the Employment Exchange.
He crossed the road and went down the narrow street which would bring him out
on the new bus route. Neal & Company’s new factory was four miles out. He
had seen the building when out in the suburbs on a training run. Alf heard the
wail of a whistle. Steam gushed up around the high metal parapets of the
railway bridge as a locomotive rumbled below. He crossed the smoky bridge and
came to a fence made of railway sleepers. A wicket door opened. A driver and
fireman, with the badge of British Railways, Central Region, on their peaked
caps stepped out, their faces grimy and their eyes weary.
Alf
remembered that one of the jobs that were vacant was in the railway running sheds.
It was a job that wasn’t interesting him much but, seeing the two railwaymen,
he thought he might have a look at the place, no harm done. “Is this the way to
the running shed?” he asked. The driver gave a tired nod and trudged away with
his mate. Alf went through the doorway. A long flight of wooden steps led down
to a large building with smoke rising from the numerous ventilators in the
roof. Beyond the running shed he could see the turntable, on which an engine
was being turned, the coaling tower and the ash hopper discharge plant. A dozen
other locomotives waited on the tracks. Alf shrugged. “Now I’m here I might as
well inquire,” he muttered and went down the steps. A dour-looking man in a
bowler hat and dusty dark clothes appeared in the doorway of a brick office.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked gruffly. “The Labour Exchange sent me up,”
said Alf. Wal Webber, the loco foreman, looked hard at the Tough. If he noticed
his black eye he didn’t mention it. “Let’s see your hands,” he barked. Alf blinked
in surprise and then opened his hands with their engrained grime, hard skin and
broken nails. “You’re not afraid of hard work, then,” said Webber brusquely.
“Come on in.” As Alf followed the foreman into the dark stuffy office, a wall
phone buzzed. Webber snatched of the receiver and planked it against his ear.
“Loco Shed here,” he rapped out. “What’s that? Eh? Where d’you think I’m going
to find another engine? I’m not a conjurer. I can’t fetch them out of my hat.
What? Eh? Oh, all right I suppose so!” He jabbed a button on the phone.
“Listen, Bill,” he exclaimed. “The engine on the Liverpool Parcels has a
sticking ejector and it’s got to come off the train. What? Eh? That’s what I
told ‘em only a bit more politely. We’ll send the 407 away with the Liverpool and
try and get those injectors right in time to use the engine for the Bristol.” He
hung up the phone and turned to Alf. “There’s a sample for you,” he snapped.
“We’re up against emergencies day and night. Don’t come here thinking it’s a
soft job. You work all hours of the day and night, including weekends. You’re
liable to be fetched out anytime. Let’s see your card.” Alf passed over the
card he had brought from the Employment Exchange. “Tupper? Are you any relation
to the runner?” Webber asked. “It’s me,” said Alf. “You’d get plenty of running
about here,” retorted the foreman. An engine stopped just outside the office
and blew off steam. The phone buzzed. Webber grabbed the receiver. “What? Eh?
How did the clumsy elephants do that?” he snarled. “All right. I’ll come along
with the crane.” He hung up and turned towards the door. “Come back and see me
this afternoon,” he said. “I’ve got to go and put a shunting engine back on the
rails.” Alf departed through a shower of grit and ashes from an erupting
locomotive and climbed the steps to the street. “No thanks,” he murmured. “I’ll
go to Neale’s place.” Alf had walked on about fifty yards when on the corner,
he stopped and sniffed. “Where’s it coming from?” he muttered, for the scent of
fried fish and chips made him feel hungry. He stuck his head out inquiringly
and shuffled towards a doorway. There was a board over the top, “Railwaymen’s
Canteen.” Alf stood on the step. Then he advanced another pace. He looked into
a large, dingy room with a row of metal topped tables. On the far side was a
counter and, behind the counter the friers. A small man, in an apron and shirt
sleeves plunged a ladle into the sizzling fat. With an intent air he scooped up
a pile of golden yellow chips and the sight of them made Alf’s mouth water.
With his head on one side the man regarded the chips. Then he inverted the
ladle and watched them slide beck into the fat. Alf advanced. The cook turned
round on hearing him, to reveal a quaff of hair hanging over his damp forehead
and a black moustache, waxed into long spikes. He gestured towards a
slate—“Today’s Menu,” on which was chalked, “Soup, 3d; Meat and veg., 1s 3d;
Meat pie, 7d; Bread and butter pud. 4d.” “No, thanks,” exclaimed Alf. “I want
some fish and chips.” The dark beady eyes of the cook, glittered with pleasure.
“You like da feesh and da cheeps?” he asked. “Not half,” said Alf. “It’s real
grub.” With the air of a conductor about to lead his orchestra in a symphony,
Antonio flourished the ladle. He plunged it into the fat and by the time he had
finished bringing out the chips it was only with difficulty that Alf could see
the plate. It was with a similar air of pride that Antonio scooped out a piece
of fish with its coating of golden batter and laid it reverently on top of the
chips. Alf carried the plate to the nearest table and sat down. Antonio leaned
over the counter and watched tensely while Alf put a couple of chips in his
mouth. “You lika my cheeps?” he asked. Alf’s jaw moved slowly. In ecstasy he
closed his eyes. “Like ‘em?” he said, in a voice charged with emotion. “They’re
the best chips I’ve ever tasted.” “Ah!” Antonio waved his arms in delight at
finding such an appreciative customer. “You know what is good!” He scoffed
contemptuously. “Some peoples will only eat da meat and veg., and da bread and
butter pud! Bah!” “Bah!” echoed Alf. Voices were heard.
A
group of railwaymen entered the canteen. The secretary of the canteen
committee, a sharp-featured clerk from the locomotive superintendent’s office,
fixed his gaze on Alf and strutted towards him. “What are you doing in here?”
he demanded curtly. “This canteen is for the use of railway employees only.”
Alf swallowed a delicious morsel of fish. “I’m starting work on the railway
this afternoon, guv’nor,” he replied. “Any job where there’s fish and chips
like this is my job.”
THE MAD MILE
A hand pushed a wrench between the wheels of the Class 6 4-6-2 mixed
traffic locomotive that was standing over the inspection pit in the running
shed. Then the grimy face of Alf appeared. He had a miner’s lamp on his cap. He
wormed out and straightened up with a grunt.
Bill
clews, the chief fitter, left his work on a tank engine and came across.
“Finished?” he asked. Alf nodded wearily. One of the sections of the rocking
grate of the locomotive had jammed and it had taken a bit of shifting. He had
been working with only one break for something like ten hours. It was the
Wednesday of his second week on the railway. The work was hard, but he wasn’t
grumbling. Why grumble when he had only to nip round the corner for a
prodigious helping of the best fish and chips in the world. “Knock off, then,”
said Clews. “I’ve a bit of news for you, Alf. The boss says you can have
Saturday for your trip to the White City.” “I
hope I’ll get there,” Alf replied. “I’m going along now for a speed trial. If I
don’t beat four minutes twelve I’ll stay and run in the County meeting. It’s no
use me going to the White City if I
haven’t found my form.” Alf trudged away. He had found time for running each
day and had been concentrating on working up his speed. Now it was to be the
test. He was quite determined not to go to the White City if he
was below form. He was sure it would do him more harm than good. The Tough was
on his way out when Mr Webber came into the running shed. “How’s Tupper
shaping?” he asked. “He’s a real worker,” said Clews. “He’s a neat worker, but
I can use him on almost anything. Wish I had a few more like him.” Alf took the
bus to the Harriers’ ground. Charlie minus bicycle but plus clips, was waiting
to time him and Noel Meecham was taking a preliminary canter before pacing him.
“Shan’t keep you a couple of minutes,” Alf called out as he dashed in to
change. Charlie stood down the track where they could see him and started them
by swinging down his arm, simultaneously starting the watch and then leaping
out of the way. It was a real pace with Alf running his hardest and Meecham
staying with him until near the end when he had to break it off. Alf nearly ran
himself out but he found the energy from somewhere for a finishing spurt which
put him on his knees when his impetus faded. With his chest heaving and sweat
trickling down his face he looked anxiously up at Charlie. “Let’s know the
worst,” he said. Charlie pulled a miserable face. “Four seventeen, Alf,” he muttered. Alf’s expression went
glum. “I ain’t sharp enough for the White City,” he
said. “I’ll pack it in and run in the County sports.” “No, you have to go,”
Meecham urged. Alf shook his head emphatically. “I’d put myself right out of
the reckoning if I ran a bad race,” he said. “They won’t look at a four seventeen runner for the
Olympics team.”
There
was no arguing with him and he sent off a postcard canceling his White City entry.
He was convinced he had to sharpen up a lot before he appeared in top class
company. As he was not going to London he
worked on Saturday morning doing a welding job wanted urgently for one of the
Diesel shunting engines. Afterwards, he nipped into the canteen to see Antonio
and have a feed of fish and chips. Then he went along to the ground for the County Sports.
Meecham was running again and another fast strong man in the Mile was Don
Hudson, of the Mainford A.C. At the White City,
according to the radio there were 40,000 spectators. At Brassingford there were
about four hundred. At the start Alf pounced into the lead and maintained a
fast stride. He wasn’t an elegant runner. He had no style at all. He always
gave the impression that he was butting his way along. Charlie as usual had the
stopwatch on him. Alf felt he was going all right. The idea did occur that it
was too easy. Maybe it was that feeling that accounted for his lack of pace. He
decided that in the last lap he would drive himself to the limit. Hudson and
Meecham tailed him through the first three laps. When the bell rang for the
final circuit Alf cracked on speed. He quickened his stride and the other
runners fell away. The excitement of the spectators faded as it ceased to be a
race and there was hardly a shout as the Tough finished far away in front on his
own. Alf carried the tape with him, staggered and flopped down with his hair
plastered over his forehead and his vest stained with sweat. He stared up
questioningly at Charlie as his pal ran to him. He was too pumped out to speak.
Charlie pulled a doleful face. “I make it four
seventeen again, Alf,” he sighed. Alf gulped for
breath. “It must be old age creeping over me,” he panted. Somebody in the crowd
had a portable radio. A terrific din issued from it. A commentary on the sports
at London was
being given. “Kershaw has won, Kershaw has won the Mile in excellent time,”
raved the commentator on the radio, “I make his time four minutes eight
seconds—yes, that’s right. Four minutes eight seconds. Well done, Kershaw!” Alf
put on his jacket and began to walk away. “You see, I would have looked a
proper mug at the White City,” he
said to Charlie. The loudspeakers in the ground were switched on for the
announcement of the result of the race just ended. “Ladies and gentlemen,
ladies and gentlemen,” screeched the excited announcer as he held the slip of
paper just received from the official timekeeper. “Our record has been smashed!
Alf Tupper has just broken the record for our track with the wonderful time of
Four Minutes Seven point eight seconds.” Alf reeled to a stop. “Say that
again,” he gasped and, just to prove there was no mistake, the announcer
repeated the time and called for a cheer for the record breaker. Alf’s mouth
gaped. He stared flabbergasted at Charlie. “Then I ain’t dreaming,” he
spluttered. “Chase me, Charlie, what went wrong with your watch?”
The
Tough of the Track (1st series)
32 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1244 - 1275
The
Tough of the Track (2nd series)
30 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1295 - 1324
The
Tough of the Track (3rd series) 10
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1331 - 1340
The
Tough of the Track (4th series) 12
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1350 - 1361
The
Tough of the Track (5th series) 20
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1404 - 1423
The
Tough of the Track (6th series) 22
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1434 - 1455
The
Tough of the Track (7th series) 13
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1460 - 1472
The
Tough of the Track (8th series)
22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1503 - 1524
He’s in
the Army Now (9th series) 31 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1543 - 1573
The
Tough of the Track (10th series)
22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1646 – 1667
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007