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The following episode of Wilson is taken from The Wizard No. 1119 (Christmas Number) December 21ST 1946.

Two New Champs

Snow was whirling against the windows of the tiny post office in the village of Axmoor, and the bleak moors on the borders of Somerset and Devon round about were blanketed in white, when the door opened. Into the post office walked a wiry man whose only garment was a pair of shorts. The snow had plastered his thin hair down over his forehead and where it melted, water glistened on his bare body. Old John Samson, who had kept the post office for years, gazed across the counter and shook his head slowly. “It’s pneumonia weather an’ you walk about like this,” he gasped. “I don’t know how you don’t catch your death of cold or die from exposure, Mr Wilson.” Wilson, the world-famous athlete gave a laugh. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he pointed to the glowing oil stove. “You’re the one who ought to be afraid of catching cold, John – staying in this stuffy atmosphere,” he chuckled. “Any letters for me?” Samson glanced at the door which Wilson had left wide open and gave a shudder. The wind was blowing flakes of snow into the room. He could not understand how a man could live in the open on Axmoor. “Yes, there’s a letter for you – been here a couple of days,” he said, fishing in a drawer for an envelope. “London postmark. Postman’s been unable to get across the moors to you.” Wilson took the letter and, avoiding the stove, stood near the doorway to read it. The letter was from his old friend, Frank Ducker, the enthusiastic amateur athlete official. “Dear Wilson,” he had written. “You have asked to be kept in touch with current events in the athletic world, and I think you ought to get to the Midland Association’s meeting at Leicester on Saturday. There are two fellows I should like you to see – Rex Myland and Don Davis. “Rex is a runner. He is a well-built lad and as keen as mustard. His best distance is the quarter-mile. Don Davis is a promising high-jumper. His best so far is 6ft. 1inch, but he has it in him to do a lot better. “I shall be at Leicester myself on Saturday and hope to see you there. “Have you brought yourself an umbrella yet? – yours, Frank.” Wilson grinned at the concluding remark. Then he re-read the letter. Ducker was one of the few people in his confidence. Wilson was undertaking a great project, that of finding and training athletes for the Olympic Games in 1948. Britain’s chances, largely because of the war, seemed none too bright, but Wilson was determined to find men worthy of carrying their country’s colours. “Frank wouldn’t recommend these lads if they weren’t really promising, for he’s a sound judge of likely material,” Wilson murmured. He glanced up. “What day is it, John?” “Eh?” gasped the postmaster. “Why, it’s Thursday, of course.” “Let me see, and how far’s Leicester?” muttered Wilson. Samson rubbed his chin. “It’s about a hundred and seventy miles,” he said. “Well, if I’m to get there by Saturday, I’d better start walking,” remarked Wilson. “Walk?” gulped Samson. “What’s wrong with using the train?” “And what’s wrong with using your legs?” chuckled Wilson, and walked out of the post office. Samson shook his head and came round the corner of the counter. He stood in the doorway and saw Wilson striding back through the snow towards the moors. “Walking to Leicester,” he muttered. “If it were anyone else but Wilson I’d say he was crazy – but crazy’s the last thing you can call him.” Half an hour later Samson saw Wilson coming back. He was still wearing only his shorts, but he now had an oilskin pack on his back. He gave the postmaster a wave and, walking fast, passed through the village and struck out along the road to Taunton. The fall of snow had not been so heavy in the Midlands, and although it was a cold, frosty afternoon the track was clear for the Midland Association sports which were held on the Walnut Street ground. Frank Ducker, an official badge in his buttonhole waited outside the ground. He scanned the folk who were queueing up at the turnstiles. He strode forward when he caught sight of a figure in a familiar, loose-fitting homespun suit. Following his usual custom, Wilson was lining up to pay his eighteen pence for admission. He never would be bothered with getting an official badge or pass, but this time Ducker pounced on him. “This way in,” chuckled Ducker, grasping Wilson’s arm and marching him towards the official entrance. “I want to hear your comments on the events.” Wilson gave a shrug and went in with Ducker. There was no trace of fatigue on Wilson’s face at the end of his long walk. “The jumps are coming on first,” said Ducker. “You’ll see Don Davis.” When Don Davis slung off his coat he revealed a splendid physique. He was a shade under six feet and finely proportioned. He looked as if he were glowing with health. His greatest rival was Ken Hope, an experienced jumper now nearing the veteran stage, and from the five foot ten inches pegs they were left on their own. Wilson’s deep-sunk eyes missed nothing as Don Davis went to his mark. He did a couple of little hops, sprang from his mark, threw out his legs in long strides in a sideways run, hurled himself up and went over the bar in a stomach roll. It was a spectacular jump. Hope, leaping soundly went up to six feet, and there was excitement when the bar was pegged at six feet one inch. Don Davis just got over, and waved a hand in triumph as he scrambled up to the roar of the crowd. The height was too much for Hope and he knocked down the bar in each of his three bids. Ducker looked questioningly at Wilson. “Not bad?” he said. Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “He’s got plenty of stamina and really good legs,” Ducker insisted. “Mebbe, but he’s all wrong,” said Wilson slowly. “You never have liked the modern stomach roll,” Ducker said. “I can put up with that at a pinch,” Wilson said. “But Davis seems far too stiff altogether. Still, I’ll have a word with him later on.” Some junior events came next on the programme, and Wilson’s expression became animated as he watched the schoolboys’ races. “These boys have been well taught because they’ve not been over-taught,” he remarked to Ducker. “It’s important to start a boy off along the right track. But I’ve never believed you can turn out athletes on mass production lines,” Ducker chuckled, for he was well aware of Wilson’s dislike of rigid systems and knew that, basically, the great athlete’s methods were simple – to run, jump and train naturally. It was his amazing knowledge of what could be achieved by applying natural methods that had made him such a great athlete himself, and made him so uncannily successful as a coach and trainer. Excitement increased again when the starters were called for the quarter-mile. Rex Myland tossed off his duffle cloak and walked to the line. His brown limbs were as smooth and polished as marble. The muscles rippled under his skin as he did a little warming-up jog. There were some good men against him, notably Bert Howkins, the Coventry runner. Myland adopted a low crouch in his block hole. His muscles tensed. At the gun he catapulted himself from the mark, brought his foot down with a slap and thrust away. Howkins held him for three-quarters of the distance, and then Myland’s fast, fierce stride bore him to the front and he broke the tape an easy winner in the fast time of forty-nine and one-fifth seconds. Ducker shouted enthusiastically as he joined in the applause. “You haven’t wasted your time coming to see him,” he declared. Wilson planted his hands on his hips. He gave Ducker a challenging stare. “Who’s been coaching Davis and Myland?” he demanded. Ducker looked surprised. “Oh, they wouldn’t have the same coach,” he said. “Don Davis is from South WalesCardiff, I think. Myland’s a Londoner.” Wilson’s gaze did not waver. “They’ve both had the same coaching – and it’s wrong,” he declared. “It’s wrong!”

The Gino Finn System

Ducker shook his head. He was positive that Davis and Myland could not have been trained by the same coach. But he was only too keen for Wilson to talk to them and, at the end of the sports, he brought the two men across to a small café near the ground. Davis and Myland both seemed eager to have an introduction to Wilson, and after the handshakes Ducker led them to a table in an alcove. “Wilson’s got the idea that you’ve both been coached by the same trainer,” Ducker began. “But we’ve never even seen each other before,” Don Davis said. Myland dropped a couple of lumps of sugar in his tea. “I’ve trained myself,” he stated. “So have I,” said Don Davis. Ducker looked triumphantly at Wilson. “There you are, then!” he exclaimed. “Matter of fact, I’ve used the Gino Finn system,” added Myland. Don Davis spoke sharply. “Gosh so have I!” he blurted out. Wilson’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Ducker, whose mouth had dropped open. “There you are, then, Frank,” he said. “Well I’m blessed,” gasped Ducker. “Gino Finn, the great American athlete.” Myland’s voice was full of enthusiasm. “There’s nothing he doesn’t know about running,” he said. “I’ve myself absolutely on his style –“ “Same here,” declared Don Davis. “I couldn’t jump five ten before I read his book and followed his teaching.” “Um, yes, I’ve heard about his book, of course,” Ducker remarked. “It’s had a big sale over here.” “Matter of fact, I’ve got it with me,” Myland exclaimed. The quarter-miler felt in his raincoat pocket. The book he brought out and handed to Wilson bore the title “My System.” On the cover was an action picture of the author, Gino Finn, racing down a track towards the tape. Beneath was the slogan “Gino Finn’s Methods Will Gain Many Olympiad Victories.” Wilson opened the book and began to turn over the pages, studying the diagrams with care and reading some of the print with close attention. “D’you say this book’s in big demand here?” he asked. “Oh yes,” Ducker said. “I know it has sold by the thousand.” Wilson shut the book. “It’s wrong, all wrong,” he said. Myland bristled. “It can’t be,” he declared. “It’s done me no end of good. Besides look at Gino Finn’s own career. No American athlete has ever equaled him – and only last week he broke the four minute mile again unofficially.” “But he isn’t only a runner,” Don Davis exclaimed. “He’s a first class jumper, and tops at field sports, too.” Ducker asked a question. “What’s wrong with the system?” he asked. “I can put in a few words,” Wilson retorted. “It’s designed to turn men into machines, I spotted it in an instant when I was watching you two chaps. Put it like this, you were both wound up as tightly as a clockwork spring.” “But that’s the system,” declared Myland. “Gino Finn insists you must regard your muscles as springs. Your body’s an intricate machine. He says, and you’ve to tune it right up – just as you do the engine of a racing car.” “Your body must be in tune certainly, but you’re a human being not a machine,” Wilson said harshly. “In this book Gino Finn is out to make robots. He’ll only spoil an athlete.” Myland opened the book and shut it again. “You’ve to remember we’re not all like you, Mr Wilson,” he said. “We look on you as in a class by yourself and you must look on us as intelligent fellows who know what suits us. Gino Finn’s system has – well, enabled me to run the quarter-mile in under fifty seconds.” “And put my jumping over the six-foot mark,” added Don Davis. Wilson looked at Myland. “I’d like to take you in hand,” he said. “Come down with me to Axmoor for a week or two and let me try and remould your style, for I’m sure you have it in you to run a lot faster.” To Ducker’s surprise, Myland did not leap at the offer. He sat considering it for what seemed a minute. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve confidence in Gino Finn’s system,” he replied. “I appreciate your offer of course, but I’ll carry on the way I’m going.” Wilson spoke abruptly to Don Davis. “How about you?” he asked. Don Davis paused. At last he gave a nod. “I’ll come along,” he said. “There’s a fortnight before the Southern Championships at Southampton and I’d like to get hold of the high jump title.” “Fine,” added Ducker. “Wilson will have you jumping six feet six by the time he’s finished with you.”

A Threat To British Sport

The Southern Championship meeting drew a very large entry and most of the best athletes in the country were at Southampton for the event. Ducker was one of the judges, but before the programme started he spotted Don Davis in the dressing-room. His face and limbs were deeply tanned and he looked fitter than ever. “Wilson here?” Ducker asked. “Yes he’s somewhere about,” said the high jumper. “How did you get on with him?” Ducker inquired.  “Well, from the point of view of getting one fit, he’s succeeded a hundred times over,” said Don Davis. “I’ve been living in the open with him and doing all his exercises, but ---“ Ducker lifted his eyebrows at the pause. “I’m not so sure about my jumping, to be honest,” Don Davis went on. “You know Wilson’s way of jumping?” “Yes, a short straight run up and up and over,” Ducker exclaimed. “Feet tucked up and no stomach-roll.” “That’s right, but it’s not my style,” Don Davis said. “I’ll be trying it to-day, though, and perhaps it’ll come off.” The sports were starting and Ducker had to hurry away to take up his position. There were various heats to be run off and it was an hour before the quarter-milers were called to the starting line. It was a day favouring fast times – dry and not too cold. Rex Myland lined up with stocky Alf Mills and Fred Langton on either side. At the gun they were away from their block-holes together, gaining an immediate advantage on the rest of the field. From the point of view of the spectators it was a thrilling race as the three leaders kept together. But, as he glanced across the track, Ducker caught sight of Wilson. He was leaning over the fencing of the sixpenny enclosure with a glum expression on his face. The runners had reached the hundred and twenty yards mark when Myland was able to turn in and take the inside of the track. Mills was at his shoulder during the next fifty yards, with langton going strongly in his shadow. Coming round to the tape, Langton made a strong challenge and, passing Mills, looked like drawing away. Myland sprinted and they raced neck and neck for the last thirty yards. It was in the last few strides that Myland just grabbed the lead and broke the tape with Mills coming up to dead-heat with langton for second place. Myland’s time was given as forty-nine and one-fifth seconds which was the same as at Leicester. Ducker strode across the barrier to speak to Wilson. “Now, then, you old croaker, that was a good effort,” he said. Wilson shook his head. “Everything was in Myland’s favour – a dry day and a real challenge,” he said. “But, he doesn’t better his Leicester time, and it’s evident that forty-nine and a fifth is about his limit. It won’t get him through the Olympic heats, Frank.” He frowned. “He has championship stuff in him, but it isn’t coming out – and won’t come out the way he’s running. There’s another thing. Both Mills and Langton must have been reading that Gino Finn book, too, for their style was cast in exactly the same method –“ Ducker had to dash away to judge the hurdles, and this kept him busy till the high jump was reached. Les Lascelles, of London, went over five feet ten inches to start the ball rolling. There was surprise among the critics when Don Davis stood in front of the frame instead of coming in from the side. He jogged forward and, suddenly letting go with every ounce in the take-off, soared high over the cross-bar, Ducker chuckled. Don Davis had made that jump in the perfect, natural style that Wilson taught. By six feet-one inch other competitors had been eliminated and the title lay between Lascelles and Wilson’s pupil. The bar shivered, but stayed on the pegs as Lascelles went over. Ducker, watching Don Davis’s run-up, saw him stiffen as he jumped, and his toe caught the bar and kicked it off hard. With an anxious frown on his face, Don Davis returned for his second attempt. The same thing happened. If anything he was lower, for his toe got right under the bar and lifted it off. His third and last chance was called. With a gesture of defiance Don Davis strode out to the side. He was going to use his old style in an endeavour to get over. He hopped, ran in fast, threw himself up and just managed to roll over the bar in a successful jump. Lascelles failed when the bar was lifted another inch. At his third try, using the stomach roll, Don Davis did it again, and thus won the title with six feet two inches to his credit. It was at the end of the meeting that Don Davis sought out Wilson, whose face was clouded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it your way,” he said. “It was a darned fine jump anyway,” declared Ducker, coming up with the evening paper he had just bought. “It was Don’s limit – jumping that way,” snapped Wilson. “And, you know that six feet two won’t be enough to win the Olympic Games. It seems to me I got hold of him too late. The other system has got into his bones.” Ducker held the newspaper out to Wilson. “Read that paragraph on the sports page,” he said, pointing to an item :- “After competing in the forthcoming Decathlon at Philadelphia, which he is expected to win, Gino Finn, the great American athlete, is to visit Britain. He is to give a series of lectures on the system to which he attributes his own success and on which an ever-increasing number of British athletes are basing their style.” Wilson barely seemed to glance at the second paragraph, which was as follows:- “The Decathlon is the greatest test of stamina in athletics. It consists of ten events decided in two days. For each event points are awarded, and the winner, of course, compiles the biggest aggregate. America’s greatest athletes will compete in this tremendous endurance test, which also requires a great measure of all-round skill.” Ducker folded up the newspaper as Wilson thrust it back in his grasp. “So Gino Finn’s coming over here,” Ducker remarked. He joked lamely, “I don’t suppose you’ll be on the landing stage to meet him.” Wilson made no reply. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away.

Wilson Takes The Field

It was nearly a fortnight later that, on a Monday morning, Ducker lay in bed in his London flat, sipping a morning cup of tea and listening to the seven o’clock new on the radio before getting up. He was not paying a great deal of attention, and was raising the cup to his lips when the announcer paused and then went on. “Sports –“ Ducker cocked up an ear. “Wilson, the British athlete, has arrived in Philadelphia to take part in the Decathlon starting tomorrow –“ Ducker’s cup of tea splashed all over the bed. He flung the clothes aside and in his pyjamas, dashed to the phone. He dialed hastily and eventually got through. “Is that the Trans-Atlantic Airways?” he roared. “Listen, I want to go to America today. What’s that? My only chance is to be at the airport in case anyone cancels a reservation at the last minute?” Ducker was fortunate. Two hours after hearing the radio announcement he was airborne. Twenty-four hours after leaving London, Ducker sat in a taxi-cab that was whirling him along a concrete highway towards the vast stadium at Philadelphia. A newspaper lay across his knees. His gaze scanned the big headline : “Wilson Here As Gino Finn Challenger.” The article stated that the ten events in the Decathlon, were, on the first day, the Hundred Metres Sprint, High Jump, Long Jump, Putting the Shot, and the Four Hundred Metres : on the second day, Throwing the Discus, Pole Jump, Throwing the Javelin, Hurdles, and Fifteen Hundred Metres. Points were awarded for each event as follows :- First, one thousand; second, nine hundred; third; eight hundred; down to the sixth position. The writer, who struck Frank as knowing what he was talking about, held the opinion that the winner would total between five and six thousand points. He recalled that the winner of the 1944 Decathlon, the last held, won three events outright, was second in two events, and third in another. Gino Finn, the critic stated, would at least equal this record by his terrific running and jumping. The Kansas giant, Pete Purdo, was reckoned as unbeatable in putting the shot and throwing the discus. The pole vault was apparently a certainty for Joe Legunne, a Red Indian by ancestry, and Cal Lee, the Flying Yank, would take the thousand points for the hurdles. Wilson, the critic thought, would prove to be a back number against “this shining constellation of American stars.” Frank put on a pair of sun-glasses as he paid off the taxi and entered the stadium. His long journey had ended in the nick of time. The twenty athletes, who were competing for what was virtually the championship of America., were just marching out into the arena in single file to the blare of brass band music. The crowd were rooting for their favourites, bur loudest of all was the cry of “Gino! Gino!” In glistening white, except for the golden eagle on the front of his singlet, Gino Finn looked like a lord of the sun with his fair hair, piercing blue eyes and magnificent bronzed body. Pete Purdo, dark and grim had a torso like the trunk of a tree. Joe Legume walked lightly with the inturned toes of his race. Cal Lee, the Flying Yank, moved with a long loping stride. Wilson, hardly heeded in the excitement, appeared last, shuffling along in his old black costume and canvas shoes that he had not bothered to lace up. There were to be three heats for the hundred metres (one hundred and nine yards 1 foot 1 inch) sprint, the first two in each heat to run in the final. Wilson kicked off his shoes and walked bare-footed to the line when his name was called. The crowd first seemed to notice him for his bare feet – and then when he beat Joe Legume into first place in eleven-seconds. The cheers thundered when Gino Finn won the second heat in ten and three-tenth seconds, equaling the existing U.S. record. Cal Lee took the third heat in a tenth of a second slower time. The six finalists were called. Five crouched low on their marks, tensing themselves for the sprint into action. Wilson, despite a puzzled stare from the starter, just stood waiting with his arms hanging loosely. Ducker held his breath in excitement and anxiety. The gun cracked and Wilson flowed into movement. Before the crouchers had hit their fast stride he was in front of the lot of them. It was astonishing to see the heads of the spectators turning to follow his course. So tearaway was his speed, so big a lead did he gain that he could have finished walking, but he crossed the line like a flash and was carried on by his impetus for another ten yards. The voice that announced that Wilson had run one hundred metres in nine seconds was harsh with amazement. Gino Finn, in second place, had taken a second and a half longer, and one thousand points appeared against Wilson’s name on the scoreboard. The high jump was held without delay. The bar was pegged at six feet, and, as he watched Gino Finn take his run, Ducker could have imagined it was Don Davis, so closely had the young Britisher modeled himself on the American’s style. Gino Finn went over easily. Wilson was standing just in front of the frame as his turn came round. Just as the spectators expected him to go back for his run he swung his arms, ducked, and then shot up high over the bar with a tremendous spring, landed lightly on his feet, and then sat on the grass to watch the others. Ducker grinned. He enjoyed the looks of consternation on the faces around him. The bar was up to six feet five inches with only Gino Finn and Wilson left in. The American paused, measuring his distance before starting his run. With a desperate heave he rose, slanted over horizontally, and rolled over. Wilson sauntered forward and stood with his back to the frame. His arms started to swing, he sank on to his haunches, and then shot up like an arrow fired vertically before going cleanly over the bar in a backward somersault. Gino Finn cast a queer look at Wilson before making a tremendous effort that scraped him over six feet six inches. A minute later two thousand points appeared against Wilson’s name, for Gino Finn failed at six feet seven inches while the Britisher went over with a normal jump. The crowd was in a fever of excitement. Attention fixed on the long jump pit. Gino Finn had equaled Jesse Owens’ record jump of twenty-six feet eight and a quarter inches in practice, and it was believed that he would better it in the Decathlon. Wilson was called, however, to jump first. His run was no more than ten paces, but the speed he gained was so terrific that he took off and seemed to fly. On and on, holding his jump, feet tucked up beneath him, arms supple as they balanced him, he skimmed through the air till he landed, not in the pit at all, but on the grass beyond it. A tape measure had to be fetched and then a spluttering announcer stated that Wilson had jumped twenty-eight feet. Wilson sat down again and chewed at a blade of grass, while the other places were decided. Gino Finn actually jumped twenty-six feet nine inches, but the crowd were too busy discussing Wilson to take much heed.

Piling Up Points

Pete Purdo strode into the ring for putting the shot. His supporters yelled for him as he picked up the sixteen-pound weight. He crouched and the veins in his neck stood out as he crossed the circle in a great spring and pushed the shot away with a tremendous thrust of his muscular arm. The shot soared and dropped with a heavy thud fifty-two feet away, and the loudspeakers jubilantly proclaimed a specially good putt. Wilson stood in the middle of the circle with the shot palmed. He took no spring across the ring. His arm was drawn slowly back and then came forward smoothly. Heads turned up as the heavy shot rose thirty feet at the apex of its flight and dropped sixty feet away from the circle. The four hundred metres at the end of the day’s programme provided another sensation. At last it seemed as if Wilson great efforts had had their effect for, instead of his being away first at the gun, the field burst away from him and he was seen cantering slowly until he was twenty yards behind the other stragglers. Gino Finn’s rooters came to life and yelled and howled for their favourite as they saw him well in front with the chance of winning his first victory. He was one hundred metres from the tape when the shouts ceased abruptly. Wilson had worked up speed. His legs were moving in fast, tremendous strides as he sped past the stragglers, overtook Legume, flashed by Cal Lee, cut ahead in front of Gino Finn, and went through the tape in forty-six seconds. If Wilson, with five thousand points up on the scoreboard, had astonished America, he got his surprise when Frank Ducker collared him as he walked from the arena. “What! You here?” he exclaimed. “Think I could stop away?” snorted Ducker. “Gosh, I wouldn’t have missed it!” Wilson shrugged. “I had to come,” he muttered. “I had to stop Gino Finn from arriving in England as a conquering hero.” “Well, you’re going the best way about deflating his much-vaunted system,” said Ducker. “Your feats to-day will get world-wide publicity.” “I’ve made rather an exhibition of myself, I’m afraid,” said Wilson. “Just the same, I felt it had to be done. Gino Finn’s system was becoming dangerous and I had to try and stop it.” “The Americans themselves have a word for it – debunking,” chuckled Ducker. The second day was a repetition of the triumphs of the first. Joe Legume cleared fourteen feet six inches with the pole. Wilson swung himself over fifteen feet six inches. Purdo hurled the discus one hundred and sixty-five feet. Wilson put it one hundred and seventy feet. Legume threw the javelin two hundred and fifty feet. Wilson, using his left hand for a change, slung it ten feet farther. In the hurdles he was through the tape before the Flying Yank was over the last hurdle. The punishing fifteen hundred metres ended in his winning in the amazing time of three minutes forty-five seconds. The fact that Wilson had scored ten thousand points in the Decathlon, seven thousand more than Gino Finn managed to scrape together with seconds and thirds, had the effect he desired. In the first place, Gino Finn decided to cancel his lecture tour in Britain. In the second place…. Three weeks later, when rain was lashing against the window of Axmoor post office, the door opened. Water glistened on Wilson’s bare body as he walked in. “Two letters for you, Mr Wilson – and would you oblige by closing the door,” said Samson. Wilson grinned and shut the door. The first envelope he opened had a Cardiff postmark. He tore it open and read :- Dear Mr Wilson, - I’d like to have another try at jumping the proper way since I feel I’ll make no progress following the Gino Finn system. – Yours, Don Davis. Wilson chuckled and opened the second letter, from London. It was as follows :- Dear Mr Wilson, - After reading about what you did in America I reckon the Gino Finn system is all wrong and if you’d take me on I’d like to have a spell of training with you on Axmoor. – Yours truly, Rex Myland.

The Truth about Wilson 16 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1029 - 1044

The Further Truth about Wilson 25 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1049 - 1073

Has Wilson come Back? 19 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1081 - 1099

The Great Wilson – The Champion of Champions 11 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1102 - 1113

Wilson – Seeker of Champions 32 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1114 - 1145

It’s Wilson Again 12 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1146 - 1157

The Black Olympic Games 17 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1169 - 1185

The Truth about The Ship of Shivers – Revealed by Wilson 11 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1314 - 1324

Wilson – The 1952 Exploits of the Ageless Super Athlete 9 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1373 - 1381

The Year of the Shattered Stumps 15 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1421 - 1435

I Met the Barefoot Stranger 2 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1459 - 1460

The Barefoot Stranger was Wilson 7 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1461 - 1467

Wilson did It 17 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1491 - 1517

The Man from Camp 90 19 episodes (Reprint of ‘Has Wilson Come Back?’) appeared in The Wizard issues 1565 - 1583

Wilson – Trainer of Champions 29 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1625 – 1653

There were other reprints which are not listed.

© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd 

Vic Whittle 2003