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THE TOUGH OF THE TRACK
First episode (sixth series) is taken from The Rover No. 1434 - December 20th 1952.
He’s back TODAY
with laughs and thrills
Alf Tupper, the
all-weather athlete!
END OF A SEASON
Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track, was waiting near the end of the
platform at Brassingford Central Station when the midday train for London came
in. Alf had been a bit too busy to get his hair cut, but he was wearing his
sports jacket and flannels.
Many
people would have added an overcoat as there was a nip in the air, but not
having an overcoat, he did without. He also did without a collar since he
didn’t like to feel half strangled. There was a brown paper parcel under his
arm. The engine crew recognised Alf, since he worked at the local locomotive
depot, and Ed Bailey, the top-link driver, leaned out of the cab. “Are you
riding up with us today, Alf?” he asked. There had been an occasion when Alf
had ridden on the engine and then had to do all the stoking when the fireman
injured an eye. Alf grinned at the question. “No blooming fear,” he said. “I’m
riding on the cushions.” “Best of luck tonight, anyway,” Ed Bailey said. “Ta,”
answered Alf. “It’ll be nice to do a bit of running again.” “I shall try and
get along to the White City
myself,” the driver remarked. “We lay over till midnight.” Alf strolled along to find a seat and
discovered an empty compartment. He was looking forward to the trip. By way of
an experiment, and athletic meeting by floodlights was being held that night at
the White City Stadium, and the Tough had been invited to run in the Mile. It
was an invitation that was merited, because he held the Gold medal for his 1500
Metres win in the Olympic Games. The best part of a month had gone by since Alf
had had the chance of running in any sports. He’d kept in training as best he
could and was thinking of joining the Brassingford Harriers so as to get in
some cross-country running during the winter months. Running was his sport, and
cross-country racing would supply the competitive element which put an edge on
his employment. Alf knew he’d be strongly challenged in the Mile. Tom Peel, the
Cumberland
runner, who had beaten him once, and Skimba Ru, the Zulu, with whom he had
tied, were both announced as taking part. Just as he’d got into the carriage, a
pompous looking man in spats waddled towards the compartment. There were plenty
of others he could have picked. The Tough gave a tremendous “Atishoo!” “Have
you got a spare handkerchief you could let me have, mister?” he asked and
sneezed again. “I must have forgotten mine.” The pompous passenger backed away
hurriedly and waddled off to look for another compartment. Alf closed the door
and leaned out of the window. The doors were being banged and the platform
inspector was blowing his whistle when on to the platform, at a ponderous run,
came a man with a quaff, a spiky moustache, and a stomach which wobbled at
every step. He carried a pudding basin tied in a cloth. At that moment the
guard waved his flag. “Antonio!” yelled Alf. “Hi, Antonio!” Antonio lumbered
round a luggage trolley. He was an old pal of Alf’s. He was a fish and chips
expert. Once he had been cook at the Railwaymen’s Canteen. Now he had a small
café of his own. The whistle boomed and Ed Bailey opened the regulator. Antonio
was puffed. He had to stop. With a frantic fling, he tossed the pudding basin
towards the train. Alf, leaning as far out of the window as he could, made the
catch of his life and held the basin. “Thanks,” he shouted. Antonio smirked and
mopped his perspiring face. “Eat da feesh and da cheeps while they are hot,” he
advised breathlessly. “Good luck!”
Alf
put the basin down on the seat and remained in the window as the train passed
by the Locomotive Sheds. Chalked on the sooty brickwork of the wall was, “Run
‘Em, Alf!” Wal Webber, the foreman waved his bowler hat and Bill Clews, a chief
fitter, turned up a thumb. Cyril Brayford, a tall youth in well-fitting overalls,
turned his back. He was an apprentice and had never liked Alf since the day the
Tough had given him a smack on the nose for putting salt in his tea. Alf pulled
up the window and sat down. He took off his boots for the sake of comfort and
then swung up his bare feet since he never wore socks. His next step was to
remove the pudding cloth. Well, he wasn’t going to get to London with
an empty stomach. Golden chips filled the basin, and on top were two pieces of
fish coated with crisp batter. Antonio hadn’t put in a knife and fork, but Alf
didn’t miss them. He settled down to eat his grub and it tasted better than
ever. There were more chips than he really wanted, but it was a pity to waste
them so he cleared the lot. After putting the basin under the seat, he
stretched out for a snooze. A couple of hours had passed when Alf received a
poke in the ribs. He blinked and looked up sleepily. “Hello, Mr Ducker,” he
said. “I was just having a bit of shut-eye. Have you just got in?” Frank
Ducker, a man of nearly forty, gave a nod. Nobody in Britain was
keener on athletics. He’d never been a great athlete himself, but his
enthusiasm burned with white heat and he served on about a dozen committees. “I
looked for you,” he said. “I thought you’d be on the train.” “What d’you think
of this floodlighting idea?” Alf asked interestedly. “I’d like to see more of
it, Alf,” Ducker answered. “Our season is comparatively short. That’s one
reason we didn’t do well at Helsinki. Over
in America they
have their indoor tracks and can keep going throughout the year.” “Ay, even
with floodlighting we’d be up against the weather,” grunted Alf. “You couldn’t
do your best in pelting rain or with snow coming down.” “You’re right,” said
Ducker gloomily. “Tonight’s sports are the last of any importance until the
University events in the spring. It makes the winter seem long, Alf.” “It don’t
‘arf,” agreed the Tough with a gloomy face.
SLOW TIME
On the fine autumn evening thousands of spectators were attracted to the
White City. With
time in hand before changing, Alf went out to have a look round. He heard his
name called. He turned and saw Tom Peel striding towards him.
“Are you keeping fit, Tom?” Alf
asked as they shook hands. “I’m in fair nick,” said the burly Peel. “You’re
looking all right.” “Yes, I’m okay,” replied Alf. “We aren’t as busy on the
railway as during the summer and that cuts down overtime. The weekends were
wicked.” “I wondered you found the time for running,” Peel remarked. “I made it
somehow,” said Alf. “What d’you think of the lights?” “Fine,” Peel answered.
They took a walk along the track and found it in good condition. Alf remarked
that they couldn’t blame the track if they failed to return smart times. “I was
looking at a London
evening newspaper, and the sports critic said he expects to see Four Minutes
Ten Seconds broken,” Peel said. “I hope he isn’t disappointed,” replied Alf.
Just as they were approaching the gangway, a tall, muffled figure appeared.
With the fur collar of his thick overcoat turned up, a muffler round his
throat, and gloves on his hands, Skimba Ru, the Zulu runner, came out. Alf
grinned. “Well, I hardly recognised you,” he said. “Did your collar come off
that lion you chased with a spear?” Skimba Ru scowled. There was always
arrogance about him which the Tough found funny. On the track there was
tremendous rivalry between them. “It is too cold for running,” he snapped and
shivered. “Cold?” exclaimed Alf in surprise. “It’s just right.” But there was
no doubt that Skimba Ru had raised a point. Britain’s winter
climate, with its cold and damp, was all against athletics. As Ducker had said,
these sports were the last until the late spring. Alf saw one or two of the
opening events and then went into the dressing room. It was warm in there. He
thought the atmosphere was stuffy, but heard Skimba Ru complaining that there
was a draught. “I wish I could find one. I’d go and sit in it,” muttered the
Tough. He went to his corner and shook his brown paper parcel loose. His track
shoes and shorts fell out. So did a moth-eaten vest. “Lummy, I’ve forgotten my
Olympic jersey,” gasped Alf. “Nuts, it don’t matter. It wouldn’t make me run
any faster.” Skimba Ru, after putting on his running strip, encased himself in
a new, fleece lined tracksuit. He also put on his gloves before going out. Alf
was the only one of the six runners who did not own a tracksuit. He’d never
felt the need for one. When he got out, the crowd had grown to vast proportions
and the smoke from their pipes and cigarettes added to the haze. Alf trotted up
and down on the grass and did some bends and stretches. He felt in fine fettle
and ready to go. The runners were in order: — Tom Peel, Alf, Skimba Ru, Ken
Kershaw, Wal Whitman, and Cliff Rogers. Alf’s eyes twinkled at the sight of
Skimba Ru taking off his outer garments. “You’d think he’d come back from
hunting sea-lions,” he remarked. Skimba Ru didn’t like it and glowered at the
Tough.
There was a sensation at the gun.
In starting, Cliff Rogers pulled a muscle and hobbled off the track before he’d
gone ten yards. Up in front, Skimba Ru was setting the pace. In action he
presented a magnificent spectacle, with the muscles rippling under his ebony
skin. Peel had a strong free style. Alf gave the impression of butting his way
along. The experts said he had no style at all and wondered where his speed
came from. Alf decided it was going to be a fast all out race and responded to
it jubilantly. At the end of the first lap the runners were in single file on
the inside of the track. Skimba Ru led; Tom Peel was second, and Alf a close
third. Ken Kershaw and Wal Whitman were fully in the race. There was no easing
up by the Zulu. He could hear the pattering feet of his pursuers. At any sign
of slackening they’d come up. The second lap saw no change in positions. Alf found
the third circuit hard work. Then the bell rang and the race soon blazed into
furious action, with Tom Peel turning out to pass and Alf storming up. The
crowd roared as the battle was waged. Ken Kershaw flashed up and was in it,
too. The astonishing sight was seen of four runners in a line down the far
straight and going like furies. Alf threw a huge demand on his big heart and
lungs. He burst to the front. Skimba Ru responded instantly. Tom Peel timed his
burst and came in. Kershaw stayed up. With all of a hundred yards to go, the
sitting spectators were fetched to their feet by the tremendous finish. Alf saw
the Zulu out of the corner of his eye. Skimba Ru came up again, preventing Alf
from slipping inside on the curve. The leaders whirled into the finishing
straight in a cluster. It was now or never and Alf flung everything into his
finish, even producing a spurt as he saw the tape. He held his spurt and went
through it with an impetus that carried him far on. Skimba Ru and Tom Peel
finished together just behind him. Alf eased down gradually and pulled up
panting. He reckoned he’d never won a faster race. He’d felt in peak condition
and did not think he’d ever run better. The loud speakers boomed out to
announce the result. “Just a moment and I’ll give you the time,” exclaimed the
announcer. “Here it is now! Alf Tupper’s time was Four Minutes Nineteen
Seconds.” Alf lost his grin. His mouth opened in a flabbergasted gape. “Lummy,
I hope it’s a mistake,” he gasped. “Folk walk quicker behind a funeral.” But there
was no correction. That was the time. “Tom, we’re slipping,” Alf growled. “It
wasn’t as fast as I’d expected,” Peel said. “I was all out.” “Same here,” Alf
exclaimed. Skimba Ru pulled on his tracksuit. “It was too cold for running,” he
said. “Nuts to that,” Alf retorted. “I’m still sweating. Peel shrugged. “We
haven’t run for a month, Alf, that’s the reason,” he said. “We’ve lost our
edge. That’s what it is.” “Guess so,” growled the Tough. Alf was going home on
the 11.30 p.m. train.
Ducker took a taxi and they travelled to the station together.
The Tough had a new medal in his
pocket for his win, but that was small solace for what he regarded as a poor
race. Ducker brought the last edition of an evening paper and, when he looked
at it in the train, an item caught his eye. “Just listen to this, Alf,” he
exclaimed, and read out: — “At the Chicago A.A. Indoor meeting Gus Shellman
turned in a time of Four Minutes Eight Seconds to beat Andy Pearce by a yard.
The two miles was won by Riff Peters in Eight Minutes Fifty Three Seconds.”
“Lummy, that’s real running,” Alf declared. “Those chaps are never out of
training,” Ducker answered. “You see Shellman’s name in the paper every other
week. It isn’t really so surprising that the Americans won so many gold medals
at Helsinki.”
“It’s time we had some chances over here,” growled Alf. “Indoor sports have
caught on in America, but
not here,” Ducker said gloomily. “That’s the answer.
SHOOK FOR ALF
A week later Alf woke to the sound of rain lashing down on the roof of
the hut he used as his home. It stood at the side of the branch line leading to
a colliery and was the best part of a mile from the Loco Sheds. At one time it
had been a platelayer’s hut.
It came back into the Tough’s mind
as he yawned and sat up that Brassingford Harriers had arranged to hold a
training run that evening. He had sent in his five shillings and been accepted
as a member of the cross-country club. Alf tossed aside his blankets and stood
up on his old mattress which lay on the floor. He slept in his shirt. He had an
oil stove, but it took a long time to boil a kettle and he was thinking he
would have to do without a cup of tea when he heard the slow puffing of a
locomotive. Alf hurriedly put on his trousers and boots. He spooned some tea
into his battered teapot and opened the door. The old 0-8-0, pulling a long
train from the colliery, was having its work cut out to keep moving up a grade
and on the wet rails. Alf stepped out in the rain. As the engine drew level, he
grabbed hold of the handrail and climbed to the cab. The driver and fireman had
obliged him before! Alf took the lid off the teapot and the fireman inserted
the nozzle of the hose pipe. Steam and scalding water hissed out and filled the
teapot. “Ta for the tea,” Alf chirped. He lowered himself from the cab and ran
back to the hut. He had a swill in a bucket and “dried” himself on a small,
damp towel. He hacked some thick slices of bread off a loaf and daubed them
with some lard given him by Antonio. Alf had a keen appetite and, thanks to the
tea, enjoyed his breakfast. He put on his grimy old overalls, pulled the door
shut, and jogged away at the side of the line, and, with the rain teeming down,
to the Sheds. He arrived there just on half
past seven. A pall of smoke hung over the sidings.
Water dripped through the roof. Ernie Bell, one of the fitters was there,
looking cold and damp. “Nice morning, Ernie,” said Alf. “A nice morning for
ducks,” sniffed Ernie. “Your clothes are wet through.” Alf gave himself a
shake. “They’ll dry on me,” he said. Cyril Brayford came along whistling. “Hark
at him,” remarked Alf. “I know why he’s so chirpy,” said Ernie as Cyril went by
with his nose in the air. “He’s going to America.”
Why?” Are they looking for another Tarzan?” inquired Alf. “We’re sending a
train over,” Ernie stated. “What the heck for? Haven’t the Americans got any?”
exclaimed the Tough. “Did you read about them London Buses that went over?”
asked Ernie. “Their tour was such a success that we’re sending over one of our
new engines and the carriages and guards van and restaurant car of the famous
express, the Highlander. It’s been done before. Now it’s going to be done
again.” “And Cyril’s going is he?” muttered Alf. “They’re taking him as one of
the maintenance crew,” Ernie answered. “He was told last night.” “Well, chase
me round the Royal Scot, he don’t know the difference between a split-pin and
my ear hole,” snarled the Tough. “Ain’t his uncle the superintendent?” Ernie
asked. “That don’t make him a fitter,” growled Alf. Ernie looked curiously at
the Tough. “It sounds as if you’d like to go,” he exclaimed. “Are you
interested in American railroads?” “No, but I’m interested in their indoor
running tracks,” growled Alf. Bill Clews came on the scene to dish out the jobs
and Alf clicked for a morning in the firebox of a Mogul, replacing suspect
stays. In the afternoon he had a tough job helping to withdraw the pistons and
valves on a tank engine for examination and replacement. Cyril was supposed to
be helping, but soon disappeared. “Where’s he gone?” Bill Clews demanded when
he discovered that the apprentice was missing. “Home, I hope,” growled Alf.
“He’s useless.”
When Alf knocked off, the air was
full of drizzle. He stepped out sharply because the Harriers were starting
their canter from outside the Hare and Hounds at seven o’clock. Alf hurried to his hut and put on his
running shoes. He hauled on his old jacket and was ready to go. He climbed the
embankment, with its long and sopping grass, vaulted the fence and walked
briskly away. It was a good mile to the Hare and Hounds, which was a convenient
rendezvous as the entrance to the park, where the drives were lighted, was
close by. Alf understood that the pack usually ran through the park and then
along the road round the common and back. Lamp posts all the way rendered this
possible. He heard a clock striking seven as he approached the Hare and Hounds.
There was no crowd waiting. The forecourt, glistening damply, was deserted.
Time went by and, like the boy on the burning deck, but not half so warm, Alf
stood alone. With his cape glistening, a cyclist came speeding along, saw Alf,
and stopped. “What are you waiting for, pal?” he called out. “I’m waiting for
the blooming Harriers,” Alf growled. “You’ll find them at the club room down Park
Street,” said the cyclist. “They won’t go
running on a wet night like this.” Alf’s expression was exasperated. “I thought
I was joining a pack of Harriers, not a lot of cissies,” he scoffed. “I hope
they haven’t forgotten their umbrellas.” He found a nail on which to hang his
jacket and went running into the park on his own. Alf did a good three miles
through the drizzle. He would not have said he enjoyed it, but, as he saw it,
the only way to keep fit for running was to run. He returned to his starting
point, sopping wet, collected his jacket, and then set out for the small corner
café kept by Antonio. The smell which greeted his nostrils, even before he
opened the door, was a sufficient reward for his lone canter. The moment
Antonio saw the Tough he waved his scoop in greeting, and put a dish on the
counter. He plunged the scoop into the sizzling fat and brought out a stack of
chips which he slid on to the plate. “I’m ready for ‘em,” said Alf. “Haf you
heard da news?” asked Antonio. “It ain’t often I listen in,” said Alf. “No, no,
not da B.B.C. news,” exclaimed Antonio. “I mean da news about me—” He tapped
his chest. “My wife she will look after da café while I am in America.”
“Antonio, you ain’t leaving me,” gasped Alf. “But I am going at da request of
da Breetish Railway,” said Antonio. “Da Breetish Railway is transporting a
train to America and I
am going to cook for da crew. I thought dat you one of da crew would be, yes,
no?” “No,” muttered Alf. “They won’t ask me. How long will you be gone,
Antonio?” “Four, five months,” replied Antonio. It was a body blow, Alf had a
very long face at the prospect of not tasting real fish and chips over
Christmas and the New Year. “My heart will be sad when I depart, but I must
go,” said Antonio. “I haf one, two, three uncles, three aunts, six cousins,
seven nephews, and six nieces in America, whom
I must visit. Da chance it ees too good to miss.” “It’s me who’ll miss you,”
mumbled Alf. Antonio seized his scoop. “You will haf some more cheeps?” he
cried.
The Tough shook his head. “Not
tonight,” he said bitterly. “They’d choke me.”
THE BRASSINGFORD LION
Alf came out of the Loco Shed next morning to hear excited shouts.
Engine crews and fitters were hurrying across the tracks to inspect the
resplendent new locomotive which was going to the States and which had just
arrived from Swindon. It
was the 7MT Pacific, “Lord High Admiral,” of the Britannia class, and
everything about it shone.
Alf observed that Mr Scott the
Divisional Locomotive Superintendent, was up on the footplate. So was Cyril
Brayford. Muttering to himself, the Tough turned away. It wasn’t his job, but
he went and helped Ernie Bell deal with a mechanical lubricator that had packed
up on an Austerity 2-8-0. “Had
a look at the new engine?” Ernie asked, blowing hard through the wide gaps in
his teeth as was his habit while working. “Saw it in the distance,” grunted
Alf. “Who’s going out with it, along with Cyril?” “Ed Bailey and his mate, Ted
Small, are the engine crew,” Ernie said. “The fitters are being supplied from
the London shed.
I dunno about the guards.” “I know who’s going as cook,” growled Alf. “They’re
taking Antonio away from us.” “That’s a blinking shame,” exclaimed Ernie. “He
cooks a nice pig’s heel.” “Pig’s heel, my foot,” snapped Alf. “Haven’t you
tasted his fish and chips?” “Give me pig’s heel,” said Ernie and smacked his
lips. They were wrestling to loosen a nut when Wal Webber came round the front
of the engine. “It’s barmy,” the foreman snarled, shoving his bowler hat on the
back of his head. “Barmy!” Alf raised a grin. “What’s barmy?” he asked. “You
know that old engine that stands in the Station Hall—stuck up on a blinking
pedestal,” snapped Webber. “I often wonder how they got it up there,” Ernie
said. “Well, we’ve got to fetch it down,” roared the foreman. “We’ve got to get
it down and put it in running condition. They’re going to take it to America along
with the Class Seven. Barmy crumpets. There’s some blooming centenary on the
American railroad that runs through Brassingford, Pennsylvania, and they
want out ole engine to be on show. Pick me primroses, haven’t we got enough to
do?” Half an hour later a committee consisting of Webber, Clews, Ernie, and Alf
stood in the great hall at Brassingford Station and gazed up at the locomotive
of 1852 on the pedestal upon which it had been preserved.
The little engine bore the name of
“Brassingford Lion.” It was a 2-2-2, with
six feet driving wheels, a huge chimney, two domes, and an open footplate. “How
much does she weigh?” Ernie inquired. “Fifteen tons at a guess,” Clews said.
“There isn’t room to use a crane. We’ll have to build a ramp and ease her down
it. It’ll be a weekend job.” “Where’s the tender?” Alf asked. “They’re going to
build one.” Said Clews. “Some old carriages are going as well. It’ll be a rush
job. They want to ship the lot inside a fortnight. It’s barmy.” Alf was on the
job during the weekend. With sweat and skill, with jacks and baulks of timber,
with winch and pulleys, the Brassingford Lion was lowered from its pedestal to
a low loading trailer and transported to the loco sheds. The boiler was given a
pressure test and, rather to the disappointment of Webber, did not burst. Thus
satisfied, Mr Scott gave the order for the mechanism to be taken down and
overhauled. The foreman put Clews, Ernie and Alf on the job. Primitive as was
the design of the locomotive compared to the modern machine, all of them were
stuck by the excellence of the workmanship. Alf enjoyed his work on the ancient
engine, especially as they had to use their wits in improvising some of the
parts that had to be renewed. It was announced that Lord Tydesdale, a
vice-president of the Transport Executive, the chief mechanical engineer,
central region, and other important officials were coming down to see the
Brassingford Lion make its run along the branch line. Two old coaches of the
same era and two ancient trucks fitted with canopies and seats arrived from the
carriage and waggon works to be used as rolling stock. Invitations were sent to
the Mayor, Alderman, and Councillors of Brassingford, and other interested
people to ride in the train. Alf and his mates worked hard all through the
preceding night to put the finishing touches to the Brassingford Lion. Cleaners
swarmed over it, polishing till the brasswork shone. It was eight o’clock in the morning
when Clews climbed down wearily from the footplate. “We’ve done all we can,” he
said hoarsely. “Now will it work?” The fire lighter approached to get the fire
going. The test run was due to take place at eleven o’clock. “Are you staying to watch, Alf?” Clews
asked. Alf’s eyes were bleary. He shook his heavy head. “I couldn’t keep my
eyes open,” he said. “I’m off home.” The Tough staggered along the side of the
branch line to his hut. He unrolled his mattress on the floor. He was too tired
even to take off his boots. He just dropped and went to sleep as soon as he got
his head down. It seemed to be in a dream that he heard a violent hissing of
steam. He turned over on his mattress, half-awake. The hissing continued. He
scrambled up and pulled open the door. With steam gushing from the safety
valves, the Brassingford Lion stood stranded in the cutting. Behind the engine
the passengers in the carriages and trucks were becoming very impatient. Lord
Tydesdale and the Chief Mechanical Engineer looked extremely annoyed. Up on the
footplate the driver and fireman were trying to coax the engine into motion
again. Mr Scott and Wal Webber stood by the side of the stalled locomotive,
and, even with their experience, looked as flummoxed as they left. “The steam’s
going into the blooming air instead of to the cylinders,” Webber exclaimed.
Shouting to make his voice heard above the din. “Can’t we screw the valves
down?” the Superintendent demanded in exasperation, well aware of the indignant
stares fixed on him by Lord Tydesdale and the chief mechanical engineer. Webber
shook his head. “They’re set safe,” he said. “I always said it was a barmy
idea. We’ll have to fetch a shunting engine and tow the whole thing back to the
station.” “I don’t want to do that!” exclaimed Mr Scott. “The reporters will
make fun of us if we do.” Alf, with his hair all over the place, marched out of
the hut with a spanner. He pushed Webber aside, heaved himself across the
running board and bent down. For a few moments his head and shoulders were lost
to view under the curve of the boiler. The hush was startling as the escape of
steam ceased. Alf slid upright. “Try her now,” he said. The driver eased the
regulator open. Smoke and sparks gushed from the chimney. The driving wheels
skidded and then got a grip. The passengers settled down again to enjoy their
novel ride, and Mr Scott and Webber jumped aboard.
Alf watched the ancient train go
slowly up the cutting, gave a tremendous yawn and went back to his mattress. A
hand shaking his shoulder woke him up an hour later. His first view was of a
bowler hat, and then he saw Webber’s face. “Has the blamed engine struck
again?” Alf grumbled. “No!” Webber exclaimed. “You’ve got to have your photo
taken.” “Eh? What for?” gasped Alf. “It’s for your passport,” said Webber.
“You’re going to America with
the Brassingford Lion. It’s by Lord Tydesdale’s orders. He says you seem to be
the only one who knows how to make it run.” Alf shot up like a rocket. His face
was gleeful. He was going to the land of the indoor running tracks, and
wouldn’t be separated from Antonio. “When do we start?” he chirped.
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
