Under the Dragon’s Tail

“Oh my, you must explain the rules to me, Will,” said Clarice.

“Man the rope!” shouted the referee.

Both teams picked up the heavy manila rope, holding it tight but not pulling yet. Standing to the side were the coaches. The police team’s was Archie Wilson from the mounted division in number-seven station. He was a slim fellow, dressed in his best suit and hat for the occasion, and he was regarding the opponents the way he studied the horses at a sale. Get a sense who was strong, who had some weakness. Puller number four looked to be in pain. He was favouring his right leg. Use that at the crucial moment.

“Take the strain!”

With one sharp movement, all the men leaned backward, their muscles taut. The spectators who lined the strip were silent, expectant.

“Steady – pull!” The referee drove his red-and-white striped stake into the ground at the point of the white centre marker. Immediately, the grenadiers took the advantage and the red ribbon wrapped around the police team’s rope moved forward two inches. Dangerous. Wilson called out.

“Hold.” His voice was clear and commanding. Murdoch almost expected him to click his tongue. His men grunted. They were all wearing black knee-length drawers and sleeveless undershirts. The muscles in their calves and arms bulged. Crabtree crouched low to the ground. The team held. The ribbons didn’t budge on either side.

“Yeah! Come on, George, pull.” Murdoch cupped his hands and yelled at his constable.

“This is so exciting,” burbled Clarice. He glanced down at her. She hardly reached to the middle of his chest if you discounted the foliage on her hat. Her face was aglow with pleasure.

“Mr. Murdoch,” said Enid on his right, “what is the significance of the red ribbons?”

“They are the markers for each side. If it passes the referee’s pole, the team has lost the pull.”

Wilson was standing with his back to his team. His hand was behind him and he was giving signals with his fingers. Number four of the grenadiers was ready to crumble. Wilson swirled around with a little jump like a dancer.

“Now!”

The police team heaved, all together, one body. The grenadiers were dragged forward. Their marker was only three inches from the referee’s pole.

“Oh, Will. I don’t think I can watch.” Clarice turned her head away so she was practically hiding in his arm.

“Mr. Murdoch, what are those blue bands for?” Enid touched his other sleeve.

“Pull!” cried Wilson.

“Dig!” countered the other coach.

The men dug in, grunting with the effort and took the strain. Murdoch fastened on the white marker as it wavered in the centre of the rope.