Part 66

The 100 metres race they did win in the good time of 11⅕ sec. by Hahn (America), with Moulton (America) second, and Barker (Australia) third. But that, even with Lightbody, America’s present one and half-mile champion, magnificent runner as he is, they should win the 800 and 1,500 metres, was open to the greatest doubt. Even in the regrettable absence of Hawtrey, owing to a swollen ankle, the result of his great five mile race, it was thought that Crabbe and Halswell in the former, and Crabbe and MacGough in the latter, were capable enough of beating our oversea cousins, who at long distance events are proverbially weak. Yet none of these were sufficiently good to hold Lightbody and Pilgrim, the former of whom won the 1,500 metres in 4 min. 12 sec., whilst both of these men put up such a splendid race in the 800 metres that Pilgrim, who had previously beaten Halswell in the 400 metres in 53⅕ sec., only gained the verdict on the tape by a breast in 2 min. 1½ sec. Halswell, who does not seem so good at a half as a quarter, was third, and Crabbe fourth, whilst the latter in the mile could do no better than fifth, MacGough taking pride of place for Britain with second. This race was completely thrown away by MacGough not showing to the front and making the pace, for the four American representatives ran the race as they pleased, and Lightbody proved faster than MacGough in the straight. The five miles provided us with our only athletic victory, and in this Hawtrey showed what a strong runner he is, as, making the pace all the way, he finished little the worse for the journey in the good time of 26 min. 11⅘ sec. Perhaps one should chronicle as an English victory—certainly as a British one—the win of Sherring, of Canada, in the Marathon Road race. This, the great event of the meeting, was looked on by the Greeks as of the supremest importance, for ten years ago it was won for them by Louis, their kinsman, and they felt quietly confident of repeating that success. However, Sherring, who had been training on the road for seven weeks, ran superbly, and after twelve miles out had no one near to cause him a moment’s doubt, and in consequence he almost walked the last five miles. His time showed what a great performance it was, being returned as 2 hrs. 51 min. 23⅗ sec., beating Louis’ time of ten years ago by over 3½ min. Being of athletic build he is an ideal man for the journey, weighing but 9 st. 4 lbs., and he finished remarkably strongly, whereas a heavy man like Daly was in a woe-begone condition, footsore, weary, and in a complete state of collapse, eight miles from home, where he retired, being taken with several others to the hospital there, which was soon in a crowded condition, as very few of the competitors got beyond this point. The performance of Svanberg, a Swede, who ran second to Hawtrey in the five-mile race, was excellent, he being but 7 min. behind the winner, and Franc, the American—who would have stood a better chance but for forcing the pace at the commencement when it was made inexcusably hot—third, two minutes later. The three first places in the Marathon cycle race were gained by Frenchmen, whilst Britain won the Tandem by Matthews and Rushen; the 12½ miles through Pett; and secured second in the mile and lap against time by the aid of Crowther, and in the 1,000 metres with Bouffler. These last two men found their master in Verri, of Italy, a rider of immense pluck and resource. Leahy won the high jump with 5 ft. 11 in., and was second to O’Connor in the hop, skip and jump with 13 metres 98. The latter’s jump was 14 metres 7½, but he completely failed in the long jump, and had to be content with second place to Prinstein, of America. The walking race was rather a fiasco, owing to disqualifications—Wilkinson, our representative, was the first to go—and ended in a win for Bonhag, of America, whilst a beautiful walker in Linden, of Canada, was second. The 110 metre hurdle race fell to Leavitt, of America, in 16⅕ sec., with Healey second, though if the first race, which was unfortunately stopped by some official, had been permitted, Healey, whose damaged foot was paining him badly, could probably have won. In swimming, we won the mile through Taylor, with Jarvis second, and in fencing the Englishmen were exceedingly unfortunate and only robbed of a victory, after a draw, by the strange award of the jury. Max Decuglis, for France, won the tennis singles, and with his wife the mixed doubles; whilst Gouder also credited his country with first position for a capital pole jump of 11 ft. 4 in. The great success for the Greeks was the putting the stone, won by Georgantas. Sheridan (America) won the discus throwing (free style) with approximately 137 ft., beating his own record, and Jaervinem (Finland) the restricted style (35 metre 17).

[Illustration:

PUNT GUNNING. ]

“A Clever Shot.”

The shores of the Wash, on the coast of South Lincolnshire, are bounded by a large expanse of mud-flats, where hosts of waders collect soon after the close of the breeding season and inhabit the innumerable creeks of salt water that form a network over the foreshore. In August, as soon as the season for shooting wildfowl has commenced, very fair sport may be had walking the salt marsh with a 12-bore in quest of the red shank, knot, or golden plover that feed amongst the pools and creeks in the day-time; there are a good number also of curlew, and the miniature curlew, or “curlew-jack,” as it is called in this part of the world. As a good many of these are young birds they may be stalked occasionally with success, or will approach within gun-range sometimes if flying over—a thing that the parent birds, especially curlew, will never do unless you are under good cover. Some grey duck, too, are about at the early part of the season, sometimes singly, or in small lots; later on in the autumn birds come from oversea that join our home-bred birds and augment their numbers; then, also, come widgeon, pochard, and sea-fowls of various kinds in the hard winters. These shallows, when covered at high tide, offer a splendid field for punting. I knew a doctor, of sporting proclivities, living in that neighbourhood, who kept a two-handed punt at the foreshore, driving down from the village where he lived sometimes for a shot at the ducks, if there was a prospect of sport. These excursions in many cases were attended with poor success, for, unless you are a professional gunner, living on the spot and always ready, you miss most of the chances that offer, though, of course, any one experienced in wildfowling knows well the uncertainties of the sport and is prepared for disappointments; occasionally, however, there were red-letter days, as that afternoon in December, when Ted L., the doctor’s son, and I were out together, proved.

It was a bitterly cold day, with a blizzard from the east, bringing with it snow-squalls every half hour or so, and afterwards a lull, in short, a capital day for sport, though the intense cold, exposed as we were in the punt, was most trying.

Besides the stanchion gun, taking a charge of ¾ lb. of shot and breech-loading, we took two shoulder guns, a heavy 8-bore, and a stout 10-bore, the latter intended chiefly as a “cripple-stopper” if we had a successful pull with the big gun. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon as we launched the punt, the tide was rising and beginning to fill the creeks nicely. We cruised about, keeping to the large creeks where we could find shelter from the piercing wind that came from the sea directly in our teeth. Crouching low in the boat and taking the punt into sheltered coves as much as possible we found it more bearable, though in raising our heads to look round every now and then, the wind brought the sleet into our eyes and faces stinging like a whip. I had two or three shots into golden plover with the 10-bore, and fetched down over a score of birds, though unable to gather two-thirds of the number, as they often fell on the soft mud. or, wounded, quickly made their way to the water, out of reach.

Now and again as the snow-squalls came over us, the flakes falling so thickly as to make the air quite dark all round, we could hear a muffled sound of geese calling out seawards, and wisps of widgeon or grey duck came past, often within shot, but lost again too quickly in the murky atmosphere to give much chance of bringing any down; I had one or two pulls at them, but it was impossible to say if I killed or not, what with the bad light and the gale in our faces. In about half an hour the wind dropped a little, and the tide beginning to ebb, we paddled out from our shelter and began to keep a sharp look-out on the mud-banks for ducks and other fowl that would be dropping down to feed as the tide receded.

“There’s a nice bunch yonder,” said Ted, as he pointed out a black mass on a point of mud some two hundred yards ahead, and taking out my binoculars I looked and saw that it was a company of widgeon with grey duck amongst them feeding away greedily.

Losing no more time, I commenced paddling in their direction. Ted having already prostrated himself forward, to manage the punt gun, opening the breech and inserting a shell with No. 1 shot. I had all my work cut out with the paddles, as the water was very choppy, and it required all my strength to keep the punt’s head in the right direction whilst keeping my body as flat as possible; at any rate, I had to keep down after the first quarter’s distance was passed, as the birds, hungry as they were, might have taken alarm. We were getting on well, and the air having become clear again, could see the ducks with heads together and necks stretched out as they gobbled hungrily at the weeds that floated in the shallows; we seemed now to be not much over 100 yards away, though it might be more, as the distances over water are so deceptive and always appear less than they really are. Ted now gave me a warning kick to go steady, so I took the short paddles and “set” to the birds, hoping to get inside of eighty yards’ range, if possible; the tide running out helped us somewhat, and presently another kick from Ted gave me the cue to stop paddling, as we had approached near enough, and he prepared to take the shot. Raising my head an inch or two, I could just see above the coaming that the birds, apparently, were undisturbed, as they were still feeding.

Ted was waiting for them to gather together more before he fired.

Now they are in closer formation and Ted slightly elevates his gun, and, with his hand ready to strike the trigger, gives a loud whistle. Up spring a cloud of widgeon and the half hundred or so grey duck that were amongst them, but they hardly clear the mud when Ted’s gun booms forth. The shot charge at that distance, between seventy and eighty yards, opened beautifully and cut a lane through the black mass; birds dropped like hail on to the spot where they had but just risen from feeding, as the shot was perfectly timed, only allowing the flock to get on the wing and with no time to rise or spread themselves out. Making vigorous use of the paddles we soon had the punt up against the mud bank and proceeded to gather the slain; the mud, without the cumbersome mud-boards on, would just bear us, and I got out with the 10-bore and stopped two or three very lively “cripples” that were fast making good their escape towards the creeks. Ted knocked over one or two others that were swimming around with wings broken, with a punting pole, and as soon as these were disposed of we began to turn our attention to the main lot of dead or nearly so, strewn over the foreshore.

Ted was delighted and so was I when we realised what a pretty shot he had made, and we forgot the numbing cold that we had so grumbled at a short time before, and thought our sport worth all the discomfort. We picked up seven mallard and nineteen widgeon altogether, or twenty-six head as the result of the shot, and no doubt there would be some others in the flock hit very hard having strength to fly some distance but would afterwards drop. These were out of count, but we were well satisfied, and felt compensated for many previous failures, when, after laboriously setting up to birds we had the mortification of seeing them rise just as we were on the point of getting within range.

This time it had “come off” and our show of fine plump mallard and widgeon made quite a sensation when we returned to the village that evening.

HERBERT SHARP.

Cricket Notions.

There is a movement afoot to present a testimonial to Mr. S. M. J. Woods upon his retirement from the captaincy of the Somerset County Cricket Club, and it is to be hoped that a very substantial compliment will be paid to this great athlete.

Certainly the debt which his county owes to him is immeasurable, for ever since he first played for Somerset, whilst still a school-boy at Brighton College, he has been the mainstay of the team, and it is scarcely too much to say that without “Sam” Woods, Somerset could never have for even a brief season escaped from mediocrity.

His first appearance for his county was in 1887 against Warwickshire upon a new and rough wicket at Birmingham, which caused his very fast bowling to create quite a sensation, and Mr. Woods will always remember the game, from the fact that for the first, and probably only, time in his life he failed to score a run in either innings. During his four years at Cambridge he was a perfect terror to Oxonians, and his side proved thrice victorious, the other game being drawn, through rain. The combination of Mr. Woods bowling and Mr. Gregor MacGregor keeping wicket was an exceptional feature for a ’Varsity team, and one that was frequently seen also to great advantage for the Gentlemen against the Players. Mr. Woods, by right of birth, played for Australia against England in a memorable match at Lord’s in 1890, when his side won a fighting match on a sticky wicket, and upon other occasions his compatriots were only too anxious to seek his assistance. Indeed, the range of Mr. Woods’ cricket career is probably the widest of any man. He has played for Australia, for Brighton College and Cambridge, Somerset, the Gentlemen, the South, the West, and in every other sort of match; whilst he has twice visited America and Canada, and toured in the West Indies and South Africa. A winter or two ago, moreover, he was in his native country and taking part in some Australian cricket.

As a footballer, too, Sam Woods has attained the very highest honours. At Brighton College the Association game is played, and it was not long before the young Australian ran into county form at the dribbling code, as it used journalistically to be described in those days.

At Cambridge he turned his energies to Rugby, and speedily became one of the greatest exponents of the modern forward game. He has repeatedly played for England, and captained the English fifteen. And now that he has retired from the active pursuit of the ball, he is recognised as one of the greatest authorities on the game that the Rugby Union possesses.

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” Mr. Woods has always been loyal to this precept, and since he has been playing cricket and football in this country for the last twenty years, he must have afforded very great pleasure and happiness to the crowds of people with whom he has played or before whom he has played, and we hope that none of these will grudge the pains of sending a subscription to emphasise the compliment which it is proposed to pay to this great athlete.

Another great cricketer, Mr. A. C. MacLaren, was on May 10th the recipient of a testimonial from his admirers, which amounted to a sum over £1,200, and as the presentation was made by Mr. A. N. Hornby, the President of Lancashire cricket, on the steps of the pavilion at Old Trafford, during the luncheon interval, it must have been a great occasion for the Manchester crowd to cheer their two great captains.

Lancashire literally came within an ace of being beaten by Leicestershire in the very first week of the season.

It was a match of the genuine old-fashioned interest, where the highest total was 159 and the lowest 112. The highest individual score was 56, and there were seven “ducks eggs,” including two “pairs of specs,” and plenty of catches missed.

Very good sport for everyone, and Lancashire won by just one run.

If there were more games of this description, what good fun cricket would be again!

Whilst Lancashire were going through this thrilling experience at Leicester the great rivals from Yorkshire were trying conclusions with a not very powerful side of the M.C.C. and Ground at Lord’s, who beat the champions by 40 runs. It was an interesting game, and was lost by Yorkshire when they all got out for 132 runs in their first innings, after M.C.C. had made 218.

Mr. Gilbert Jessop showed signs of a busy season by brushing up scores of 63 and 65, and in each innings he was out to Rhodes’ bowling. It is interesting to note how often the great hitter gets out to Rhodes’ bowling; he seems to be hitting him for fours all the time, and then something happens and down goes the wicket or up goes the hand of the umpire, which is just as bad.

In Rothery, Yorkshire have a good man to go in first. He appears to have great defensive powers and can cut with dexterity, and he brought off some fine hook strokes at Lord’s in his scores of 32 and 88. He will be a better bat when he scores more runs in front of the wicket.

Yorkshire with a more pronounced “tail” than they have shown of late years did not start the season with such an appearance of solidity as usual. On the other hand, Surrey, rejuvenated under the inspiriting leadership of Lord Dalmeny, began in fine style against some not very strong opponents, such as Hants, Northamptonshire and Leicestershire, and up to the time of our writing this the Surrey batsmen all seem to be at the top of their game and the Surrey bowlers seem to be unplayable. Against Northamptonshire, Tom Hayward scored 219, as against 136 and 79 by the whole of Northamptonshire, so that he alone beat them by an innings and 4 runs, a great and unusual performance.

On this occasion Mr. J. N. Crawford took nine wickets at a cost of 46 runs, so it looks as if he and Hayward, with a boy or two to field, might beat Northamptonshire comfortably enough on their own. Surrey look like being well in the running for the championship this year, as many of their men, including their captain, seem to improve every day; and Tom Hayward, whose long and invaluable services to his country entitle him to the endearing term of veteran, has been hitting away with all the vigour of a kicking colt.

The Surrey team remind us of the sheep of Bo Peep, and with the warnings of past muddles in our memory we feel inclined to quote to the Surrey Committee the invaluable and slightly altered advice of the poet, “Leave them alone and they’ll come home, and very likely bring the championship behind them.”

QUID.

The Salmon’s Visual Apparatus.

There has been no end of speculation on salmon flies, for every angler has his favourite patterns in which he professes to have implicit faith. After all, these personal predilections, however strong, do not carry us very far. They are merely individual experiences, certainly of interest, but not founded on any scientific principle. Before assuming that the salmon has a liking for a particular colour, it would be more scientific to settle, if possible, whether the salmon is sensitive to colour, to discover the range of his colour perception and the effects of the refraction of water upon objects presented to his eye. Such an enquiry involves the science of anatomy as well as the science of optics; but granted an investigator adequately equipped in both departments and endowed with a little constructive imagination, we see no reason why the problem of the salmon’s vision should not be solved. There is no doubt that the proper way to go about the enquiry is for the observer to examine the salmon’s optical apparatus in comparison with man’s, to project himself in imagination to the bed of the river and applying his knowledge of optics to the refracting effect of water, to try to construct a picture of any object as it would appear to the human eye under such circumstances. When this is done it proves a very illuminative method. The two following papers show a laudable attempt to apply such principles, and if they do not say absolutely the last word on the subject, they are uncommonly suggestive, and make a valuable contribution to the solving of the problem. It is often assumed that the salmon sees a fly merely as a dark silhouette against the sky. That is now shown to be a very rare occurrence. He would seem to be sensitive to colour, and under certain circumstances has a distinct sense of the gaudiness of the lures presented to his observation.

The investigation is not without its bearing on trout-fishing, for it brings home to the angler the conditions under which, in clear water, the trout may behold him and his rod from the bank; it explains, perhaps, why, in certain conditions of air and water, the fish miss the fly, and it throws indirect light on many other mysteries that trouble the angling mind.

IS THE SALMON COLOUR-BLIND?

Has a fish’s eye any sense of colour? Does it see a worm, a fly, or a minnow in all the varied colours that these creatures present to us? Are these colours blurred by the medium in which the fish lives, or are they equally brilliant below water and above, just as a cathedral window shows its tinted panes no less gorgeous in the evening light than in the noonday brightness? Or is it that the fish is colour-blind, and sees only a monotone, a grey of varied depth. Is the picture one of mere shading and devoid of colour?