BRITISH COMICS
THE
TOUGH OF THE TRACK
First
episode (first series) taken from The Rover No. 1244 -
Meet Alf Tupper, the outcast of the
running track.
His bitter struggle from the
backstreets to the forefront of British athletics will grip you as no other
story has ever done!
THE FIGHT IN
THE FOUR-FORTY
When the runners in the 440 Yards
were called for at the Greystone Harriers’ sports, Alf Tupper pulled off his
ragged jacket, tossed it on to the ground and trotted to the starting line.
“Hullo,” he said to Vic Mason, the Harriers’ best quarter-miler. Mason’s nod
was curt. No fashion-plate athlete was Alf. He would never have been chosen to
carry the Flame at the Olympic Games. His hair wanted cutting and he was
wearing an old under-vest as a singlet. His hands were blackened and hard as a
result of his job in Ike Smith’s two-man welding shop under a railway arch in
the town.
Mr Jack Pearce, the Starter, loaded
his pistol. It was just an evening meeting and only members of the Harriers
were competing. Alf, who was nearly nineteen, had been a member for about three
weeks. It had taken him the best part of the winter to scrape together the
half-guinea subscription, for he was apprenticed to Ike Smith and his wages
only came to twenty-five shillings a week. Of this sum, a big cut went to his
Aunt Meg with whom he stayed down Anchor Alley.
“On your marks!” Pearce shouted.
Alf dug himself a starting hole. He was next to Mason, and three other runners
were outside him on the rather rough cinder track. Alf put his left foot behind
the line and knelt on his right knee. He looked clumsy compared with the
taller, well-balanced Mason. At school, one of the teachers had been a pretty
good coach and his advice about running had been the only lesson that Alf had
remembered.
The Starter raised the gun. “Get
set!” he shouted. Mason sprang away and an instant later the pistol banged. A
shout broke from Alf, but the Starter did not call a false start. “You ain’t
getting away with that, Mason!” yelled Alf, and put his foot between Mason’s
striding legs. Mason stumbled and crashed to the cinders. Officials shouted and
ran towards the scene. With fury on his face, Mason scrambled up. “You dirty
dog!” he shouted. “You’re the dirty dog!” snarled Alf. “You jumped the blooming
gun!” Mason swung at him. Alf ducked and then smashed his fist against the
other runner’s nose. Bob Richards, the honorary secretary, grabbed Alf’s arm
and pulled him back. “None of that!” he snapped angrily. Alf pointed at the
Starter. “He’s a bald-headed, old twister,” he growled. “He knew it was a false
start, but he never fetched Mason back.” Mr Ken Roberts, an old runner and now
the chairman of the club, hurried to the spot. “Get off the track, Tupper!” he
rapped out. “Get off! You’re out of the race.” “Yes, and I can tell you that
your behaviour will be considered by the Committee,” added Richards, curtly.
Alf looked at the Starter and muttered something out of the corner of his mouth
as he walked off the track. Mason, surrounded by sympathetic officials, wiped a
smear of blood from his nose and said he was ready to go. Alf stood sullenly as
the Starter told the four runners to get on their marks. “Get set!”
At the bang of the pistol, Mason
and the other runners burst away from the line. Shouts broke out from the
indignant officials as Alf, on the grass on the outer edge of the track, went
into his stride and started as well. “What’s his idea?” exclaimed Roberts.
“Silly fool!” There were jeers as well as indignant remarks for, outside there,
Alf had at least twenty yards further to run than Mason on the inside of the
track. With Alf plugging along on his own, Mason cut away from the other
competitors. With an easy, balanced stride, his arms moving smoothly, he padded
along. Alf looked hunched, for he ducked his head down as if he had to butt his
way along and his arm movements were jerky. At halfway, Mason had a five-yards
lead on the next man—but Alf was level with him on the outside. The Harriers’ crack
runner sped on. Alf was not shaken off. He plugged along and he was still
there, thirty yards from the tape. Mason cut loose and spurted. He worked up
his finishing dash and went all out for the tape. He was two strides away, when
a figure swerved on to the track and carried the tape away round his chest. It
was Alf round whom the tape was dangling. He turned and his lips shaped for a
razzberry. This he delivered with loud effect. Then snatching up his jacket, he
stamped away.
THE ATLETICS
CENTRE
The din kicked up by Alf’s vehicle
caused people to turn and signal him to stop. He pulled up. He had had no idea
that his errand would clash with the opening ceremony of the new institution.
The Mayor’s voice boomed out in his concluding words. “It is particularly
gratifying,” he said, “that the Warden is to be Commander Harold Churcher who,
upon his retirement from the Royal Navy, has made the future of British
athletics his principal work. I do not have to remind you, ladies and gentlemen,
that Commander Churcher was himself a runner of note and was a member of the
British team that won an Olympic Games Relay race. I am now going to ask him to
tell us what his plans are for the Granton Hall Athletics Centre.”
“Gosh, Commander Churcher!”
muttered Alf. “I never knew he was coming here.” Commander Churcher, an
extremely fit-looking man of about forty, looked down at his audience from the
terrace. He was bare-headed and wearing a dark red blazer and white flannels.
“If I were to ask you why
Churcher waited for the applause to
die down.
“I hope that before you go you will
inspect our equipment and lay-out,” he said. “Here, again, we are striving to
be a model for the country with out splendid running track and up-to-date
timing equipment, our gymnasium, our baths, our massage rooms, out lecture
hall, and our cinema. I would like now to introduce the members of my staff.”
Behind the Commander stood a row of
men, each of whom wore a dark red blazer and badge, sweater and white flannel
trousers. He introduced, amid bursts of applause, Frank Hamilton, track coach;
Peter Boyd, the swimming instructor; Vince Rogers, the field sports coach; Bob
Ellis, the P.T. instructor; George Whittaker, the massage and heat therapy
expert; and Royce Vardon, who was in charge of the camaras, timing apparatus
and other scientific equipment. Churcher then invited the visitors to split up
into parties for conducted tours of the new establishment. Alf abandoned the
handcart and attached himself to a group of people who had Vince Rogers as
their guide.
First of all he took them into the
field. The oval track, he said, was equal in quality to that which gained so
many compliments at Wembley. The closely mown turf inside the oval was, he
stated, good enough for championship lawn tennis. He showed them the jumping
pits and then took them into the box where the timing equipment was installed.
Then he took his party back across the field to the gymnasium that was
fitted-up with every modern appliance. A visitor was interested in the boxing
ring. The coach said that though boxing was not on the schedule, it would be
used as a contribution to training. He took them on into the cinema and then
into the lecture hall. He showed them the massage rooms and the heat therapy
department. At the kitchen door he handed them on to Dr Bryant, the medical
officer and diet expert of the establishment. When the latter started to talk
about calories and vitamins, Alf ceased to be interested and slipped out to
fetch the handcart and push it round to the back door.
He was just going to unload the
radiator when a fellow about his own age, wearing a dark red blazer and flannel
trousers, hurried across the courtyard. Alf blinked. “Howard, what are you
doing here?” he exclaimed, for Howard Potter had been at the same school as
Alf. “I’m on the staff,” he said. “What’s you job, cleaning out the drains?”
asked Alf. “I am in the office,” retorted Howard. “Chase me, you don’t half
look a sight in them togs,” growled Alf. “Who parted your hair for you?” “You’d
like to be here,” Howard said indignantly. “Me?” Alf uttered a sarcastic laugh.
“I wouldn’t be seen dead in them togs. I ain’t no cissy.” Turning his back on
Howard Potter, Alf started to unload the radiator.
ANOTHER
SCALP FOR ALF
Next morning Alf, half-asleep,
heard the stairs creak under Aunt Meg’s weight. Their place in Anchor Alley had
one room up and one down. His bed was a mattress on the kitchen floor. “Get up,
you lazy young hound,” bawled Aunt Meg, a big brawny woman, with her hair
hanging over her red, bad-tempered face. “Get up!” She padded across the dirty
flagstones in her bare feet and started to poke at the ashes under the copper.
She took in washing and the continuous steam in the air kept the walls running
with water. Alf stood up. He rolled up the mattress and pushed it under the
table. He had slept in his shirt and trousers. Now he stuck his feet in his
boots, picked up a bucket and went out to fill it at the tap down the yard. He
had a swill while he was out there. Then he took the bucket back into the
house. Aunt Meg had made the tea. She took half a loaf and a greasy package of
“marge” from a cupboard and put them on the dirty sheet of newspaper that
served for a tablecloth. Alf was eating a thick piece of bread when there was a
tap at the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see the postman holding
out a letter.
The letter bore the heading of the
Greystone Harriers. Alf’s face was fierce as he read:-
“I am directed by the Committee to
instruct you to return your membership card herewith.
Your violent behaviour was not in
keeping with the standards expected of a Harrier, and your membership is hereby
cancelled.
Yours faithfully,
Bob Richards,
Hon. Secretary.”
With a growl, Alf crunched up the
letter and slung it into the fire. The loss of his membership meant that now he
had nowhere to do his training. The Harriers were the only local athletic club.
Aunt Meg scowled at her nephew. “Going to hang about here all morning?” she
shouted through the thickening steam. “Get along to your work!” Alf hacked
himself a slice off the loaf, spread it with margarine, and tore a strip off
the “tablecloth” to wrap it up in. Then he went off to the workshop, riding the
ramshackle bike he had had for years and which had been old when he got it off
a rubbish heap.
There was work to do on some angle
pipes for the Granton Hall heating system. He and Ike Smith finished that job
in the middle of the morning and the boss told him to take them along. Alf tied
the pipes to the handlebars and pedalled away to Granton Hall. Over the hedge, he
saw that running and jumping was going on in the field. According to a
paragraph he had seen in Ike Smith’s newspaper, twelve athletes were now
staying permanently at the Hall, while another twenty had arrived on a
fortnight’s course. He had just turned into the drive when the boom of
loudspeakers startled him and caused him to swerve.
“Will everybody come to the cinema
please,” requested the announcer. “Please assemble in the cinema.” Alf put a
leg out to regain his balance and pulled up. From all directions, coaches and
students were cantering towards the cinema. As he stood astride the bike in the
drive, he looked towards the now deserted field and at the reddish track
curving away round the closely-mown grass. Alf’s eyes flashed. “Nuts to the
Harriers!” he muttered, as he leaned the bike against a tree. “Let ‘em keep
their blooming cinders!” He pushed his way through the bushes lining the drive
and vaulted the fence into the field. Off came his jacket and then his boots.
There were so many holes in his socks that he was practically in his bare feet.
He trotted on to the track and sampled the hard, true surface with a toe. Off
he went round the track, warming up and taking it easily. He carried on
steadily and was breathing easily when he finished the quarter-mile circuit. He
did two laps of alternate jogging and sprinting. He had a breather and felt
fine. Turning on to the grass, he ran towards one of the long-jump pits, worked
up speed, took off and flopped down opposite the 21ft mark. The bar of the high
jump frame had been left on the pegs at 5ft 10in. “I reckon I can jump that,”
sniffed Alf—and then did it. A javelin had been left about. Alf picked it up.
He had never had a javelin in his hand before, but that did not stop him
swinging it back and having a throw. He was watching it fly away, when an angry
voice rang out. Howard Potter came running towards him. “Get out of here!” he
shouted. “Get out, you cheeky dog!” “Did you call me a cheeky dog?” snarled
Alf. “You heard me!” said the bigger youth. “Oh!” Alf swung out with his fist
and his knuckles clipped Howard’s chin. “All right, you’ve asked for it!”
Potter exclaimed. “If you want a good hiding, you can have it!” Alf made a rush
at Howard. He left himself wide open to anyone with any knowledge of boxing,
and the punch he received cut his lip. Howard was strong. He had some skill as
a boxer and was being coached by Bob Ellis. He hit Alf on the chin and sent him
down on his knees. In a moment Alf was up and going for Howard again. He ran
his chin into a straight left and dropped. He scrambled up. Howard darted in
and again put him down. Commander Churcher ran into the field shouting. “Stop
it! Stop it!” he exclaimed. Alf shook his head and got on to his feet. He had
been learning. He tucked his chin behind his left shoulder and worked in close.
He let out with a sudden right that walloped Howard in the mouth and he knew he
had him. Howard winced and forgot his craft. Alf slung another punch and hit
his opponent on the ear. When a punch followed to his nose, the other fellow
had had enough and backed away, gasping out, “Stop it!” Alf stared round and
had a blurred glimpse of Churcher striding towards him. He dodged away,
snatched up his boots and jacket and bolted.
A SHOCK FOR
CHURCHER
About a week later, Commander
Churcher lectured on athletic fitness in the cinema. At the end of his talk he
asked Clem Gatacre to come up to his office. Gatacre was the young athlete
chosen to be the Granton Hall captain. He was tall and fair-haired and looked
superbly fit. He was one of the permanent pupils at Granton as he was training
to become an expert in the scientific side of athletics. “I’ve one or two
things to talk about,” said the Commander. “We have been invited, by the way,
to enter a team in the Town Sports, and, through it’s small stuff, I think we
should stay on friendly terms with our neighbours. “Yes, sir, we don’t want to
appear stand-offish,” agreed Gatacre. “After all, we—” He was interrupted by
the Commander, who had glanced out of the window. “Well I’m blowed, he’s at it
again!” the Commander snapped. Gatacre hurried to the window. It gave a view of
the field. There, jogging round the track was a lone runner. “Go and catch
him!” exclaimed the Commander. “It’s that fellow from the town again.”
Gatacre nodded and slipped out of
the room. Churcher remained at the window. He watched Alf lap the track—and
then saw Gatacre enter the field. The Commander saw Alf glance over his
shoulder, snatch up his jacket and run towards the gate on the far side of the
field. Gatacre broke into his long, flowing stride and went after him. The
phone rang, and Churcher turned from the window. He was wondering how to deal
with the trespasser. It seemed a trifle heavy-handed to threaten him with
prosecution, but all the same he was not going to tolerate this continual
trespassing. Churcher moved towards his desk and was engaged on the phone for a
couple of minutes. The door opened. Gatacre, red in the face, walked in
breathlessly. “Well, where is he?” snapped Churcher. Gatacre looked decidedly
shamefaced. “I couldn’t catch him,” he said. “You couldn’t catch him?” gasped
Churcher. “Of course, I wasn’t in running togs,” began Gatacre. “Neither was
he!” retorted the Commander. “You couldn’t catch him, you said?” “He jumped the
gate,” replied Gatacre. “His bike was waiting and he was off like a shot.”
“Umphm, surprising!” said Churcher. “Well, next time he comes we’ll make sure
he doesn’t have the chance to run away.”
THE TOWN
SPORTS
On Friday night, Aunt Meg’s voice
rang out angrily in the kitchen. Here eyes were fierce as she looked at the
money Alf had just handed over. It was the day he got his wages. “Where’s the
other half-dollar?” she demanded. “There’s only a quid here out of your
twenty-five bob.” Alf shifted round to the other side of the table. “I want
five bob,” he said. “I’m running in the Town Sports to-morrow, and I want to
enter in the Two-Twenty Yards and the Quarter-Mile. They touch you half-a-crown
a time as the entry fee.” “Bah, you hand it over, Alf Tupper!” shouted Aunt
Meg. “I lets you keep half-a-crown, don’t I?” “I tell you, I want five bob!”
retorted Alf. “If you don’t give it me, don’t you come in this house again!”
screeched Aunt Meg. “I kept you long enough before you earned any wages, didn’t
I? Come on, hand it over.” Alf pushed his hand into his pocket took out two
shillings and a sixpence, and threw them down on the table. Alf shrugged.
“What’s for supper?” he asked. “I’ve got nothing in,” said Aunt Meg. “You’ve
got money in your pocket, ain’t you? Go and get your own supper.” Alf slouched
out of the house into the shadows of Anchor Alley.
The darkness was broken by the
bright light shining through one of the windows. People were dotted around
there and there was the unmistakable smell of fish and chips. Alf sniffed and
moved towards the doorway of the fried fish and chips shop. Bert Bivens, a chap
he knew, was in the shop, and asked Mrs Spicer for six-penn’orth of chips and a
piece.” Mrs Spicer dug her scoop into the gleaming container and brought it out
full of golden chips. With the deftness of long practice, she slid the chips on
to a piece of paper. On the top she dropped a piece of fish. Alf did not miss a
detail. Bert sprinkled salt and vinegar over his chips, then walked out of the
shop, and stood on the pavement to eat his supper. Alf’s hand was in his pocket
and his fingers shut round his half-crown. Bert’s jaws moved busily. “Had your
supper, Alf?” he asked. Alf looked hungrily at the chips in Bert’s piece of
newspaper. “Not yet,” he said. “I don’t know that I want any to-night.” “Ain’t
you hungry?” inquired Bert. “Maybe a bit, but I’m in training,” replied Alf.
“It’s the sports to-morrow.” “Come off it, a few chips won’t spoil your wind,”
said Bert. Alf opened his fingers. He let the half-crown slip back into his
pocket. With a farewell nod to Bert, he shuffled off up the alley.
The secretary of the Town Sports,
sitting at a trestle table in the committee tent, was busy receiving the late
entries. He was an impatient sort of man and frowned when the youth who had
just come in seemed to be tongue-tied. “Well, make up your mind,” he snapped.
Alf hesitated. “I’m just wondering whether to go in for the Quarter-Mile or the
Two-Twenty,” he muttered. “I can’t wait here all day while you decide!”
exclaimed the secretary. Alf threw down his half-crown. “Make it the
Quarter-Mile, mister,” he said. “Name and club?” asked the secretary. “Alf
Tupper—and I don’t belong to any club,” replied Alf. The secretary scooped the
half-crown into the cash box and picked up his pen to attend to the next
entrant.
The big crowd gathered in the small
stadium had a thrill when the Granton Hall contingent arrived. Commander
Churcher was a firm believer that a smart display was good for morale. He
himself led the twenty athletes who were to represent Granton Hall. Clem
Gatacre carried the red and gold standard and was followed by the others,
wearing their dark red blazers and white flannel trousers. Alf sniffed as he
watched. “Swankers!” he growled. “What’s the sense of all that dressing-up?”
The parade turned towards the
pavilion and when next the athletes appeared they were muffled up in track
suits. Alf grinned again. He was used to the cold wind whistling round his
legs. The starters for the 100 Yards heats were called. Howard Potter who was
in attendance, dashed off to the starting line and took charge of the track
suits as the Granton Hall entrants peeled them off. The running kit of the
Granton men consisted of white singlets with badges and dark red borders, white
shorts and dark red socks.
Somebody dropped a programme and
Alf whipped it up. The information was not complete, but it did state that in
the Quarter-Mile the Granton Hall representative would be Len Rayner, a former
Public Schools Champion over the distance. The invitation to Granton Hall to
enter men in the sports did not seem to be such a good idea when they won event
after event so easily that it became monotonous. Alf’s patched jacket was off
in a second when the loudspeaker called up the starters in the Quarter-Mile.
Len Rayner, a dark, handsome fellow, zipped off his track suit and handed it to
Howard. Vic Mason, who was running for the Harriers, stared coldly at Alf. Alf
was drawn between Rayner and Mason. At the gun, Rayner was away to a
streamlined start.
He snatched a narrow lead from
Mason and held it in the early stages of the race. Alf lost a bit of ground in
getting away. He was third at the end of sixty yards. The pace surprised Alf
for it was the first time he had been in class company. He felt that he could
hold it and followed Mason round. By halfway, the patter of the feet behind him
was fading. Th spectators started to shout as the three runners came round
close enough for a tablecloth to have covered the lot of them, but with Rayner
still comfortable in the lead. Forty yards to go, Rayner quickened his stride
into a spurt and went hard for the tape. Mason was out of it and dropped back.
Alf took second place.
Commander Churcher, standing near
the finishing line, stop-watch in hand, was calmly timing Rayner, when he saw a
runner whom he recognised as the trespasser, come up level with the leader and
start to fight it out with him over the last ten yards. Rayner flung himself at
the tape, but Alf was up with him, and only spectators who were in a direct line
with the tape were able to pick out the winner. There was a hush as the judges’
announcement was awaited. Alf, breathing fast, brushed back his tangled hair
with his forearm. The loudspeaker boomed.
“The placings in the Quarter-Mile
were: First—Rayner; Second—Tupper; Third—Mason,” roared the announcer.
Alf was turning away to pick up his
jacket when he found Commander Churcher in front of him. “What have you done to
yourself, my lad?” demanded the Commander. Alf looked down at the bloodstains
spreading across his left shoe. “Aw, I spiked myself on the first bend,” he
muttered. “One of my spikes came right through my shoe.” The Commander glanced
at his stopwatch, and then lifted his gaze to stare after Alf with a look of
bewilderment on his face. This youngster had approached record time with an
injured foot! What would he have done if he’d been perfectly fit?
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 2006
