BRITISH COMICS
THE
YELLOW
First
episode, taken from Rover and Wizard issue:
Thousands of people lined the approaches to
“Who’s number seven?” asked many of the puzzled
spectators. “Look! He’s catching up on the leaders. He’s going faster uphill
than he did downhill!” The four leaders might have been standing still judging
by the way this mystery rider overtook them. It was true that they were not
expecting any further challenge from the rear, for when last they had checked
they had been fives minutes ahead of anyone else. Jack Jenkins had the shock of
his life when someone flashed past him on the outside when there was only
half-mile to go. He had been saving himself for the last four hundred yards,
intending then to make a decisive sprint. Now he called out his last reserves
of strength and was after the unknown rider. Don Payne saw his rival begin to
sprint, and met the challenge. The two foreigners did likewise. The bunched
four shot forward as though suddenly jet-propelled, but that rider in the
black-edged jersey was many lengths ahead of them. “He can’t be human!” panted
Don Payne to himself as he saw the mystery man’s lead increasing. “He couldn’t
go faster on a sprint track. A roar went up in the crowded square, and a
thousand handkerchiefs and hats were waved in the air. Number 7, the unknown
rider, was an easy first. To him would go the coveted Yellow Jersey and the
bonus of one minute to be deducted from his total time. Jack Jenkins came
second, and earned the thirty seconds bonus, while his old rival, Don Payne,
earned a fifteen seconds bonus for third place. The rest of the field came
streaming along the road from
Those in the rear of the race told how Tetford had
suddenly put on a superhuman sprint this side of
THE MAN
WHO COULDN’T QUIT.
Over their evening meals the other competitors in the
Tour of Britain indulged in a good deal of speculation about the lone rider who
had carried off the day’s honours. Nobody seemed to know anything definite
about the young victor. He appeared to be no more than twenty-one, and would
have had a pleasant face but for that strangely intent stare of his and his
lack of expression. Some of them remembered they had noticed that he had not
even showed signs of strain during that last crazy spurt. His face might have
been carved from a block of wood. Officials were looking up entry lists and
verifying the fact that Tom Tetford had been the last competitor to enter the
Tour of Britain. Beyond the fact that his manager’s name was Van Vonder, little
more was known about Tetford. During the early evening a warning was sent round
that the start in the morning would be half an hour later than arranged. It was
something to do with police regulations, and the competitors did not grumble
because it would mean half an hour extra in bed. After a satisfying supper,
Jack Jenkins and Dick Pringle went for a walk along the undercliff. Returning
inland just as it was getting dark, they passed the site that the newspaper
reporter had mentioned and saw the black caravan standing in the middle of it.
Lights shone from the windows, but the curtains were drawn. Jack Jenkins pulled
up. “Tetford wasn’t around when they altered the time for tomorrow,” Jenkins
said. “Maybe he hasn’t heard. Let’s call and give him the information.” Not
sorry to have an excuse to have a few words with the mystery rider, Dick Pringle
agreed, and they crossed the uneven ground and reached the caravan. In spite of
the warmth of the evening, the doors and windows were all closed. Jack Jenkins
reached up to knock on the door, then paused when a deep voice within declared:
- “You will win! You will win! You will win! Nothing can tire you!” Jenkins
looked at his friend in shocked surprise, then backed away, shaking his head.
“I’m not going to bust in there! Something queer going on. Maybe they want to
be left to themselves,” he muttered, and hurriedly made for the hotel where
they were staying. He was not a nervous man, but for some reason, as he had
stood outside the motor caravan, a sense of fear and foreboding had gripped
him.
The next day’s run was to be along the coast as far as
Sidmouth, and then inland to
The Belgian team was strong and well up in road-race
tactics. His team-mates had agreed to give Bellenger a big chance this day, and
he was saving himself for the right moment. At
To the horror of the onlookers he smashed into a stone
wall and lay still. His bicycle finished up in the nearby ditch, undamaged.
Jenkins, Payne, and the others saw people lifting the wearer of the Yellow
Jersey as they raced by. They told themselves that was the last they would see of
him that day, and hoped that his injuries were not serious. They knew they were
taking the same risks themselves. Some cottagers carried the unconscious man
into their home, and there his bleeding head was bathed and bandaged. The last
of the competitors flashed by as this was being done, then came the procession
of service vans and attendant vehicles. Foremost amongst these was the black
caravan. It was the small driver in the outsize coat who spotted the black
bicycle leaning against the cottage fence, and shouted incoherently as he
applied the brakes. The stout manager scowled in the direction of the other’s
finger, muttered something under his breath, and bounced down from the front
seat to the road. He ran to the cottage gate and flung it open. “Is Tom Tetford
here?” he demanded. “What’s happened to him?” In spite of his appearance and
his name, there was no trace of foreign accent in Vonder’s speech. A stout
woman told him that the cyclist had been knocked unconscious and that she had
sent for the doctor. “A doctor?” exclaimed Van Vonder. “He does not want a
doctor. I am his manager. Let me see him.” They showed him into the room were
Tearaway Tetford lay on a couch. He was just beginning to stir and open his
eyes. He was groaning a little at the pain in his head. Van Vonder pounced on
him and ran fingers over the bump on his head, then he swung round at the
gaping cottagers. “There is not much wrong with him—nothing that I cannot cure
in two or three minutes,” said Vonder. “Get out of the room and leave us
alone—please!” “What’s he going to do?” muttered the woman as she and her
husband left the room. “That young fellow’s badly hurt. He can’t ride again.”
“S-sh!” hissed her husband. “What are they doing in there? What’s that man
saying over and over again? I wish the doctor would arrive and—” The door of
the parlour was thrown open and out came Tearaway Tetford. His eyes were fixed
straight ahead as though he was sleep-walking. The blood-stained bandage was
still in place around his head, but his stride was firm and purposeful as he
made for the gate and grabbed his racing cycle. Running out into the middle of
the road, he vaulted on to the saddle and pedaled round the corner as if he
were in for a sprint race. “I told you there was very little wrong with him,”
muttered Van Vonder, following more slowly from the parlour. “He is quite able
to continue the race. Thank you for your assistance.”
AN
AMAZING FINISH.
The head of the procession of racing cycles had almost
reached Sidmouth. The last half-hour had been a fierce tussle for position
between Pericles and the Belgian teams. Each had tried to baulk the other while
letting their leaders go ahead. By a series of overlapping sprints, one man
taking up the pacemaking after another, the Belgians had sought to wear down
the Pericles men, who were doing all they could to nurse Jack Jenkins until the
time when he would make his supreme effort. It was on the other side of
Colyford that a Frenchman who had tyre trouble was passed in a flash by a
madly-pedalling figure on an all-black cycle. He just had time to glimpse the
Yellow Jersey worn by the cyclist, then he vanished round a bend in the road.
“It is the unknown British rider, the one who won yesterday!” thought the
startled Frenchman. “They said he was out of this race. What chance does he
think he has of catching up now?” A little farther on the Italians and the
Swiss had begun to jostle one another for position. Some of them were passing
three abreast when an all-black cycle ridden by a figure in the Yellow Jersey
hurtled past them down a steep hill. A little farther on a motorist emerging
from a side road, hurriedly braked in time to avoid collision with a speeding
cyclist in the Yellow Jersey, who scraped across his front bumper and
disappeared down the road towards Sidford and Sidmouth. Three miles out of
Sidmouth he came up with the L.T.A. team, which was just increasing pace with
the intention of challenging the leaders. With them was John Cuthbert, of the
Pericles team, who had strained a muscle and been obliged to drop back. It was
he who heard the whirring of wheels coming up from the rear, and looked round
before shouting: - “Thought someone said Tearaway Tetford was out of the race!
Here he comes!” Hardly had he said this than Tearaway Tetford was level with
the rear man, who sprinted to prevent the wearer of the Yellow Jersey from
passing.
Tetford promptly put on another spurt, cut in ahead of
his challenger and almost put him in the ditch. Then he went after the rest of
the team. Meaning glances passed between them, and they spread out, each man
taking turns to try to run Tetford to exhaustion point. But these tactics
didn’t work. One by one he passed them, and caught up with the tail of the
Pericles team, who were being held back by the tactics of the Belgians, who had
put Bellenger in front. Jack Jenkins glimpsed the dead-white face under the
blood-stained bandage, and nearly fell off his cycle. He had seen those
cottagers lifting the unconscious Tetford, and if ever he had seen a man
completely knocked out of a race it had been then. Yet here was Tearaway
Tetford challenging the leaders! There was now only a mile to go into Sidmouth,
and everyone was recklessly thrusting for openings. Two of the Belgians
collided and went down in a tangle, Jack Jenkins seized the chance to shoot
past and get within thirty yards of Bellenger, who was showing signs of tiring.
Realising that he might yet be beaten, the Belgian forced another sprint. The
two other Belgians barred Tetford’s way. For a moment it looked as though he
would ride straight into them, then he made a sudden swerve, bumped over up the
grass verge at the side of the road. Shot past them, and down on to the road on
the other side. Ahead of him there were now only Bellenger and Jenkins.
Bellenger and Jenkins were riding neck and neck. First one would get a little
ahead, then the other. They were both fully extended, but neither would give
in. To win today would mean a bonus of five minutes on their time, as well as
the honour of wearing the Yellow Jersey. People at the side of the road cheered
madly when they saw Tetford coming up so rapidly. Once again he made the others
appear to be moving slowly. There was something inhuman about the way he drove
that machine along. Surely no ordinary human being could be capable of such a
fast sprint at the end of such a grueling race! Bellenger was cracking. Just
before they reached the Sidmouth check-point Jack Jenkins went ahead of him.
Tearaway Tetford was then only three lengths behind and for the moment he did
not press any harder. They swung north again in the centre of the town, through
cheering crowds. There was still fifteen miles to go to
There were shouts from the rear, but Jenkins did not
look round. It was Don Payne of the L.T.A. making his bid for leadership.
Jenkins and he fought it out over the next five miles, but the L.T.A. man was
the fresher. It was he who had tailed Tetford all through Parrington and down
into Clyst Vale, but he did not catch the wearer of the Yellow Jersey. A dog
ran across the road right under the front of the leader’s wheel as he entered
the city, but he did not even swerve. His wheel must have touched its tail as
it leapt for its life, and for a moment it looked as though he was off. Somehow
he retained his balance, straightened from a speed wobble, and shot down the
final straight at a speed which brought gasps from the throats of those on the
pavements. Into the cleared square, where the police formed a cordon round the
finishing line, shot the wearer of the Yellow Jersey, and a great shout went up
for the second time in succession Tearaway Tetford, the unknown rider from
nowhere, secured the honours for the day’s run. Somehow he braked to a standstill,
dropped his feet, shut his eyes—and dropped in a dead faint.
THE YELLOW
THE YELLOW
ENTITLED: WHO IS STONEFACE? – When
the story made its appearance in The Hotspur - 1959
©
D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2005
