the oar to shove into the water. I've seen cats that could row better
than Tomlin."
"That's what I told him. At least, I said he couldn't row for toffee,
so he said all right, I bet I can lick you, and I said I betted he
couldn't, and he said all right, then, let's try, and then the other
chaps wanted to join in, so we made an inter-house thing of it. And I
want you to come and stroke us."
Jackson hesitated. Mr Dexter, setting the lines on Friday, had
certainly said that they were to be shown up "tomorrow evening." He had
said it very loud and clear. Still, in a case like this....After all,
by helping to beat the School House on the river he would be giving
Dexter's a leg-up. And what more could the man want?
"Right ho," said Jackson.
Down at the School boat-house the enemy were already afloat when
Painter and Jackson arrived.
"Buck up," cried the School House crew.
Dexter's embarked, five strong. There was room for two on each seat.
Jackson shared the post of stroke with Painter. Crowle steered.
"Ready?" asked Tomlin from the other boat.
"Half a sec.," said Jackson. "What's the course?"
"Oh, don't you know _that_ yet? Up to the town, round the island
just below the bridge, - the island with the croquet ground on it,
_you_ know - and back again here. Ready?"
"In a jiffy. Look here, Crowle, remember about steering. You pull the
right line if you want to go to the right and the other if you want to
go to the left."
"All right," said the injured Crowle. "As if I didn't know that."
"Thought I'd mention it. It's your fault. Nobody could tell by looking
at you that you knew anything except how to eat. Ready, you chaps?"
"When I say 'Three,'" said Tomlin.
It was a subject of heated discussion between the crews for weeks
afterwards whether Dexter's boat did or did not go off at the word
"Two." Opinions were divided on the topic. But it was certain that
Jackson and his men led from the start. Pulling a good, splashing
stroke which had drenched Crowle to the skin in the first thirty yards,
Dexter's boat crept slowly ahead. By the time the island was reached,
it led by a length. Encouraged by success, the leaders redoubled their
already energetic efforts. Crowle sat in a shower-bath. He was even
moved to speech about it.
"When you've finished," said Crowle.
Jackson, intent upon repartee, caught a crab, and the School House drew
level again. The two boats passed the island abreast.
Just here occurred one of those unfortunate incidents. Both crews had
quickened their stroke until the boats had practically been converted
into submarines, and the rival coxswains were observing bitterly to
space that this was jolly well the last time they ever let themselves
in for this sort of thing, when round the island there hove in sight a
flotilla of boats, directly in the path of the racers.
There were three of them, and not even the spray which played over them
like a fountain could prevent Crowle from seeing that they were manned
by Judies. Even on the river these outcasts wore their mortar-boards.
"Look out!" shrieked Crowle, pulling hard on his right line. "Stop
rowing, you chaps. We shall be into them."
At the same moment the School House oarsmen ceased pulling. The two
boats came to a halt a few yards from the enemy.
"What's up?" panted Jackson, crimson from his exertions. "Hullo, it's
the Judies!"
Tomlin was parleying with the foe.
"Why the dickens can't you keep out of the way? Spoiling our race. Wait
till we get ashore."
But the Judies, it seemed, were not prepared to wait even for that
short space of time. A miscreant, larger than the common run of Judy,
made a brief, but popular, address to his men.
"Splash them!" he said.
Instantly, amid shrieks of approval, oars began to strike the water,
and the water began to fly over the Wrykyn boats, which were now
surrounded. The latter were not slow to join battle with the same
weapons. Homeric laughter came from the bridge above. The town bridge
was a sort of loafers' club, to which the entrance fee was a screw of
tobacco, and the subscription an occasional remark upon the weather.
Here gathered together day by day that section of the populace which
resented it when they "asked for employment, and only got work
instead". From morn till eve they lounged against the balustrades,
surveying nature, and hoping it would be kind enough to give them some
excitement that day. An occasional dog-fight found in them an eager
audience. No runaway horse ever bored them. A broken-down motor-car was
meat and drink to them. They had an appetite for every spectacle.
When, therefore, the water began to fly from boat to boat, kind-hearted
men fetched their friends from neighbouring public houses and craned
with them over the parapet, observing the sport and commenting thereon.
It was these comments that attracted Mr Dexter's attention. When,
cycling across the bridge, he found the south side of it entirely
congested, and heard raucous voices urging certain unseen "little 'uns"
now to "go it" and anon to "vote for Pedder", his curiosity was
aroused. He dismounted and pushed his way through the crowd until he
got a clear view of what was happening below.
He was just in time to see the most stirring incident of the fight. The
biggest of the Judy boats had been propelled by the current nearer and
nearer to the Dexter Argo. No sooner was it within distance than
Jackson, dropping his oar, grasped the side and pulled it towards him.
The two boats crashed together and rocked violently as the crews rose
from their seats and grappled with one another. A hurricane of laughter
and applause went up from the crowd upon the bridge.
The next moment both boats were bottom upwards and drifting sluggishly
down towards the island, while the crews swam like rats for the other
boats.
Every Wrykinian had to learn to swim before he was allowed on the
river; so that the peril of Jackson and his crew was not extreme: and
it was soon speedily evident that swimming was also part of the Judy
curriculum, for the shipwrecked ones were soon climbing drippingly on
board the surviving ships, where they sat and made puddles, and
shrieked defiance at their antagonists.
This was accepted by both sides as the end of the fight, and the
combatants parted without further hostilities, each fleet believing
that the victory was with them.
And Mr Dexter, mounting his bicycle again, rode home to tell the
headmaster.
That evening, after preparation, the headmaster held a reception. Among
distinguished visitors were Jackson, Painter, Tomlin, Crowle, and six
others.
On the Monday morning the headmaster issued a manifesto to the school
after prayers. He had, he said, for some time entertained the idea of
placing the town out of bounds. He would do so now. No boy, unless he
was a prefect, would be allowed till further notice to cross the town
bridge. As regarded the river, for the future boating Wrykinians must
confine their attentions to the lower river. Nobody must take a boat
up-stream. The school boatman would have strict orders to see that this
rule was rigidly enforced. Any breach of these bounds would, he
concluded, be punished with the utmost severity.
The headmaster of Wrykyn was not a hasty man. He thought before he put
his foot down. But when he did, he put it down heavily.
Sheen heard the ultimatum with dismay. He was a law-abiding person, and
here he was, faced with a dilemma that made it necessary for him to
choose between breaking school rules of the most important kind, or
pulling down all the castles he had built in the air before the mortar
had had time to harden between their stones.
He wished he could talk it over with somebody. But he had nobody with
whom he could talk over anything. He must think it out for himself.
He spent the rest of the day thinking it out, and by nightfall he had
come to his decision.
Even at the expense of breaking bounds and the risk of being caught at
it, he must keep his appointment with Joe Bevan. It would mean going to
the town landing-stage for a boat, thereby breaking bounds twice over.
But it would have to be done.
IX
SHEEN BEGINS HIS EDUCATION
The "Blue Boar" was a picturesque inn, standing on the bank of the
river Severn. It was much frequented in the summer by fishermen, who
spent their days in punts and their evenings in the old oak parlour,
where a picture in boxing costume of Mr Joe Bevan, whose brother was
the landlord of the inn, gazed austerely down on them, as if he
disapproved of the lamentable want of truth displayed by the majority
of their number. Artists also congregated there to paint the
ivy-covered porch. At the back of the house were bedrooms, to which the
fishermen would make their way in the small hours of a summer morning,
arguing to the last as they stumbled upstairs. One of these bedrooms,
larger than the others, had been converted into a gymnasium for the use
of mine host's brother. Thither he brought pugilistic aspirants who
wished to be trained for various contests, and it was the boast of the
"Blue Boar" that it had never turned out a loser. A reputation of this
kind is a valuable asset to an inn, and the boxing world thought highly
of it, in spite of the fact that it was off the beaten track. Certainly
the luck of the "Blue Boar" had been surprising.
Sheen pulled steadily up stream on the appointed day, and after half an
hour's work found himself opposite the little landing-stage at the foot
of the inn lawn.
His journey had not been free from adventure. On his way to the town he
had almost run into Mr Templar, and but for the lucky accident of that
gentleman's short sight must have been discovered. He had reached the
landing-stage in safety, but he had not felt comfortable until he was
well out of sight of the town. It was fortunate for him in the present
case that he was being left so severely alone by the school. It was an
advantage that nobody took the least interest in his goings and
comings.
Having moored his boat and proceeded to the inn, he was directed
upstairs by the landlord, who was an enlarged and coloured edition of
his brother. From the other side of the gymnasium door came an
unceasing and mysterious shuffling sound.
He tapped at the door and went in.
He found himself in a large, airy room, lit by two windows and a broad
skylight. The floor was covered with linoleum. But it was the furniture
that first attracted his attention. In a farther corner of the room was
a circular wooden ceiling, supported by four narrow pillars. From the
centre of this hung a ball, about the size of an ordinary football. To
the left, suspended from a beam, was an enormous leather bolster. On
the floor, underneath a table bearing several pairs of boxing-gloves, a
skipping-rope, and some wooden dumb-bells, was something that looked
like a dozen Association footballs rolled into one. All the rest of the
room, a space some few yards square, was bare of furniture. In this
space a small sweater-clad youth, with a head of light hair cropped
very short, was darting about and ducking and hitting out with both
hands at nothing, with such a serious, earnest expression on his face
that Sheen could not help smiling. On a chair by one of the windows Mr
Joe Bevan was sitting, with a watch in his hand.
As Sheen entered the room the earnest young man made a sudden dash at
him. The next moment he seemed to be in a sort of heavy shower of
fists. They whizzed past his ear, flashed up from below within an inch
of his nose, and tapped him caressingly on the waistcoat. Just as the
shower was at its heaviest his assailant darted away again,
side-stepped an imaginary blow, ducked another, and came at him once
more. None of the blows struck him, but it was with more than a little
pleasure that he heard Joe Bevan call "Time!" and saw the active young
gentleman sink panting into a seat.
"You and your games, Francis!" said Joe Bevan, reproachfully. "This is
a young gentleman from the college come for tuition."
"Gentleman - won't mind - little joke - take it in spirit which
is - meant," said Francis, jerkily.
Sheen hastened to assure him that he had not been offended.
"You take your two minutes, Francis," said Mr Bevan, "and then have a
turn with the ball. Come this way, Mr - "
"Sheen."
"Come this way, Mr Sheen, and I'll show you where to put on your
things."
Sheen had brought his football clothes with him. He had not put them on
for a year.
"That's the lad I was speaking of. Getting on prime, he is. Fit to
fight for his life, as the saying is."
"What was he doing when I came in?"
"Oh, he always has three rounds like that every day. It teaches you to
get about quick. You try it when you get back, Mr Sheen. Fancy you're
fighting me."
"Are you sure I'm not interrupting you in the middle of your work?"
asked Sheen.
"Not at all, sir, not at all. I just have to rub him down, and give him
his shower-bath, and then he's finished for the day."
Having donned his football clothes and returned to the gymnasium, Sheen
found Francis in a chair, having his left leg vigorously rubbed by Mr
Bevan.
"You fon' of dargs?" inquired Francis affably, looking up as he came
in.
Sheen replied that he was, and, indeed, was possessed of one. The
admission stimulated Francis, whose right leg was now under treatment,
to a flood of conversation. He, it appeared, had always been one for
dargs. Owned two. Answering to the names of Tim and Tom. Beggars for
rats, yes. And plucked 'uns? Well - he would like to see, would Francis,
a dog that Tim or Tom would not stand up to. Clever, too. Why once -
Joe Bevan cut his soliloquy short at this point by leading him off to
another room for his shower-bath; but before he went he expressed a
desire to talk further with Sheen on the subject of dogs, and, learning
that Sheen would be there every day, said he was glad to hear it. He
added that for a brother dog-lover he did not mind stretching a point,
so that, if ever Sheen wanted a couple of rounds any day, he, Francis,
would see that he got them. This offer, it may be mentioned, Sheen
accepted with gratitude, and the extra practice he acquired thereby was
subsequently of the utmost use to him. Francis, as a boxer, excelled in
what is known in pugilistic circles as shiftiness. That is to say, he
had a number of ingenious ways of escaping out of tight corners; and
these he taught Sheen, much to the latter's profit.
But this was later, when the Wrykinian had passed those preliminary
stages on which he was now to embark.
The art of teaching boxing really well is a gift, and it is given to
but a few. It is largely a matter of personal magnetism, and, above
all, sympathy. A man may be a fine boxer himself, up to every move of
the game, and a champion of champions, but for all that he may not be a
good teacher. If he has not the sympathy necessary for the appreciation
of the difficulties experienced by the beginner, he cannot produce good
results. A boxing instructor needs three qualities - skill, sympathy,
and enthusiasm. Joe Bevan had all three, particularly enthusiasm. His
heart was in his work, and he carried Sheen with him. "Beautiful, sir,
beautiful," he kept saying, as he guarded the blows; and Sheen, though
too clever to be wholly deceived by the praise, for he knew perfectly
well that his efforts up to the present had been anything but
beautiful, was nevertheless encouraged, and put all he knew into his
hits. Occasionally Joe Bevan would push out his left glove. Then, if
Sheen's guard was in the proper place and the push did not reach its
destination, Joe would mutter a word of praise. If Sheen dropped his
right hand, so that he failed to stop the blow, Bevan would observe,
"Keep that guard up, sir!" with almost a pained intonation, as if he
had been disappointed in a friend.
The constant repetition of this maxim gradually drove it into Sheen's
head, so that towards the end of the lesson he no longer lowered his
right hand when he led with his left; and he felt the gentle pressure
of Joe Bevan's glove less frequently. At no stage of a pupil's
education did Joe Bevan hit him really hard, and in the first few
lessons he could scarcely be said to hit him at all. He merely rested
his glove against the pupil's face. On the other hand, he was urgent in
imploring the pupil to hit _him_ as hard as he could.
"Don't be too kind, sir," he would chant, "I don't mind being hit. Let
me have it. Don't flap. Put it in with some weight behind it." He was
also fond of mentioning that extract from Polonius' speech to Laertes,
which he had quoted to Sheen on their first meeting.
Sheen finished his first lesson, feeling hotter than he had ever felt
in his life.
"Hullo, sir, you're out of condition," commented Mr Bevan. "Have a bit
of a rest."
Once more Sheen had learnt the lesson of his weakness. He could hardly
realise that he had only begun to despise himself in the last
fortnight. Before then, he had been, on the whole, satisfied with
himself. He was brilliant at work, and would certainly get a
scholarship at Oxford or Cambridge when the time came; and he had
specialised in work to the exclusion of games. It is bad to specialise
in games to the exclusion of work, but of the two courses the latter is
probably the less injurious. One gains at least health by it.
But Sheen now understood thoroughly, what he ought to have learned from
his study of the Classics, that the happy mean was the thing at which
to strive. And for the future he meant to aim at it. He would get the
Gotford, if he could, but also would he win the house boxing at his
weight.
After he had rested he discovered the use of the big ball beneath the
table. It was soft, but solid and heavy. By throwing this - the
medicine-ball, as they call it in the profession - at Joe Bevan, and
catching it, Sheen made himself very hot again, and did the muscles of
his shoulders a great deal of good.
"That'll do for today, then, sir." said Joe Bevan. "Have a good rub
down tonight, or you'll find yourself very stiff in the morning."
"Well, do you think I shall be any good?" asked Sheen.
"You'll do fine, sir. But remember what Shakespeare says."
"About vaulting ambition?"
"No, sir, no. I meant what Hamlet says to the players. 'Nor do not saw
the air too much, with your hand, thus, but use all gently.' That's
what you've got to remember in boxing, sir. Take it easy. Easy and cool
does it, and the straight left beats the world."
* * * * *
Sheen paddled quietly back to the town with the stream, pondering over
this advice. He felt that he had advanced another step. He was not
foolish enough to believe that he knew anything about boxing as yet,
but he felt that it would not be long before he did.
X
SHEEN'S PROGRESS
Sheen improved. He took to boxing as he had taken to fives. He found
that his fives helped him. He could get about on his feet quickly, and
his eye was trained to rapid work.
His second lesson was not encouraging. He found that he had learned
just enough to make him stiff and awkward, and no more. But he kept on,
and by the end of the first week Joe Bevan declared definitely that he
would do, that he had the root of the matter in him, and now required
only practice.
"I wish you could see like I can how you're improving," he said at the
end of the sixth lesson, as they were resting after five minutes'
exercise with the medicine-ball. "I get four blows in on some of the
gentlemen I teach to one what I get in on you. But it's like riding.
When you can trot, you look forward to when you can gallop. And when
you can gallop, you can't see yourself getting on any further. But
you're improving all the time."
"But I can't gallop yet," said Sheen.
"Well, no, not gallop exactly, but you've only had six lessons. Why, in
another six weeks, if you come regular, you won't know yourself. You'll
be making some of the young gentlemen at the college wish they had
never been born. You'll make babies of them, that's what you'll do."
"I'll bet I couldn't, if I'd learnt with some one else," said Sheen,
sincerely. "I don't believe I should have learnt a thing if I'd gone to
the school instructor."
"Who is your school instructor, sir?"
"A man named Jenkins. He used to be in the army."
"Well, there, you see, that's what it is. I know old George Jenkins. He
used to be a pretty good boxer in his time, but there! boxing's a
thing, like everything else, that moves with the times. We used to go
about in iron trucks. Now we go in motor-cars. Just the same with
boxing. What you're learning now is the sort of boxing that wins
championship fights nowadays. Old George, well, he teaches you how to
put your left out, but, my Golly, he doesn't know any tricks. He hasn't
studied it same as I have. It's the ring-craft that wins battles. Now
sir, if you're ready."
They put on the gloves again. When the round was over, Mr Bevan had
further comments to make.
"You don't hit hard enough, sir," he said. "Don't flap. Let it come
straight out with some weight behind it. You want to be earnest in the
ring. The other man's going to do his best to hurt you, and you've got
to stop him. One good punch is worth twenty taps. You hit him. And when
you've hit him, don't you go back; you hit him again. They'll only give
you three rounds in any competition you go in for, so you want to do
the work you can while you're at it."
As the days went by, Sheen began to imbibe some of Joe Bevan's rugged
philosophy of life. He began to understand that the world is a place
where every man has to look after himself, and that it is the stronger
hand that wins. That sentence from _Hamlet_ which Joe Bevan was so
fond of quoting practically summed up the whole duty of man - and boy
too. One should not seek quarrels, but, "being in," one should do one's
best to ensure that one's opponent thought twice in future before
seeking them. These afternoons at the "Blue Boar" were gradually giving
Sheen what he had never before possessed - self-confidence. He was
beginning to find that he was capable of something after all, that in
an emergency he would be able to keep his end up. The feeling added a
zest to all that he did. His work in school improved. He looked at the
Gotford no longer as a prize which he would have to struggle to win. He
felt that his rivals would have to struggle to win it from him.
After his twelfth lesson, when he had learned the ground-work of the
art, and had begun to develop a style of his own, like some nervous
batsman at cricket who does not show his true form till he has been at
the wickets for several overs, the dog-loving Francis gave him a trial.
This was a very different affair from his spars with Joe Bevan. Frank
Hunt was one of the cleverest boxers at his weight in England, but he
had not Joe Bevan's gift of hitting gently. He probably imagined that
he was merely tapping, and certainly his blows were not to be compared
with those he delivered in the exercise of his professional duties;
but, nevertheless, Sheen had never felt anything so painful before, not
even in his passage of arms with Albert. He came out of the encounter
with a swollen lip and a feeling that one of his ribs was broken, and
he had not had the pleasure of landing a single blow upon his slippery
antagonist, who flowed about the room like quicksilver. But he had not
flinched, and the statement of Francis, as they shook hands, that he
had "done varry well," was as balm. Boxing is one of the few sports
where the loser can feel the same thrill of triumph as the winner.
There is no satisfaction equal to that which comes when one has forced
oneself to go through an ordeal from which one would have liked to have
escaped.
"Capital, sir, capital," said Joe Bevan. "I wanted to see whether you
would lay down or not when you began to get a few punches. You did
capitally, Mr Sheen."
"I didn't hit him much," said Sheen with a laugh.
"Never mind, sir, you got hit, which was just as good. Some of the
gentlemen I've taught wouldn't have taken half that. They're all right
when they're on top and winning, and to see them shape you'd say to
yourself, By George, here's a champion. But let 'em get a punch or two,
and hullo! says you, what's this? They don't like it. They lay down.
But you kept on. There's one thing, though, you want to keep that guard
up when you duck. You slip him that way once. Very well. Next time he's
waiting for you. He doesn't hit straight. He hooks you, and you don't
want many of those."
Sheen enjoyed his surreptitious visits to the "Blue Boar." Twice he
escaped being caught in the most sensational way; and once Mr Spence,
who looked after the Wrykyn cricket and gymnasium, and played
everything equally well, nearly caused complications by inviting Sheen
to play fives with him after school. Fortunately the Gotford afforded
an excellent excuse. As the time for the examination drew near, those
who had entered for it were accustomed to become hermits to a great
extent, and to retire after school to work in their studies.
"You mustn't overdo it, Sheen," said Mr Spence. "You ought to get some
exercise."
"Oh, I do, sir," said Sheen. "I still play fives, but I play before
breakfast now."
He had had one or two games with Harrington of the School House, who
did not care particularly whom he played with so long as his opponent
was a useful man. Sheen being one of the few players in the school who
were up to his form, Harrington ignored the cloud under which Sheen
rested. When they met in the world outside the fives-courts Harrington
was polite, but made no overtures of friendship. That, it may be
mentioned, was the attitude of every one who did not actually cut
Sheen. The exception was Jack Bruce, who had constituted himself
audience to Sheen, when the latter was practising the piano, on two
further occasions. But then Bruce was so silent by nature that for all
practical purposes he might just as well have cut Sheen like the
others.
"We might have a game before breakfast some time, then," said Mr
Spence.
He had noticed, being a master who did notice things, that Sheen
appeared to have few friends, and had made up his mind that he would
try and bring him out a little. Of the real facts of the case, he knew
of course, nothing.
"I should like to, sir," said Sheen.
"Next Wednesday?"
"All right, sir."
"I'll be there at seven. If you're before me, you might get the second
court, will you?"
The second court from the end nearest the boarding-house was the best
of the half-dozen fives-courts at Wrykyn. After school sometimes you
would see fags racing across the gravel to appropriate it for their
masters. The rule was that whoever first pinned to the door a piece of
paper with his name on it was the legal owner of the court-and it was a
stirring sight to see a dozen fags fighting to get at the door. But
before breakfast the court might be had with less trouble.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Sheen paid his daily visits to the "Blue Boar," losing flesh
and gaining toughness with every lesson. The more he saw of Joe Bevan
the more he liked him, and appreciated his strong, simple outlook on
life. Shakespeare was a great bond between them. Sheen had always been
a student of the Bard, and he and Joe would sit on the little verandah
of the inn, looking over the river, until it was time for him to row
back to the town, quoting passages at one another. Joe Bevan's
knowledge, of the plays, especially the tragedies, was wide, and at
first inexplicable to Sheen. It was strange to hear him declaiming long
speeches from _Macbeth_ or _Hamlet_, and to think that he was
by profession a pugilist. One evening he explained his curious
erudition. In his youth, before he took to the ring in earnest, he had
travelled with a Shakespearean repertory company. "I never played a
star part," he confessed, "but I used to come on in the Battle of
Bosworth and in Macbeth's castle and what not. I've been First Citizen
sometimes. I was the carpenter in _Julius Caesar_. That was my
biggest part. 'Truly sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as
you would say, a cobbler.' But somehow the stage - well..._you_
know what it is, sir. Leeds one week, Manchester the next, Brighton the
week after, and travelling all Sunday. It wasn't quiet enough for me."
The idea of becoming a professional pugilist for the sake of peace and
quiet tickled Sheen. "But I've always read Shakespeare ever since
then," continued Mr Bevan, "and I always shall read him."
It was on the next day that Mr Bevan made a suggestion which drew
confidences from Sheen, in his turn.
"What you want now, sir," he said, "is to practise on someone of about
your own form, as the saying is. Isn't there some gentleman friend of
yours at the college who would come here with you?"
They were sitting on the verandah when he asked this question. It was
growing dusk, and the evening seemed to invite confidences. Sheen,
looking out across the river and avoiding his friend's glance,
explained just what it was that made it so difficult for him to produce
a gentleman friend at that particular time. He could feel Mr Bevan's
eye upon him, but he went through with it till the thing was
told - boldly, and with no attempt to smooth over any of the unpleasant
points.
"Never you mind, sir," said Mr Bevan consolingly, as he finished. "We
all lose our heads sometimes. I've seen the way you stand up to
Francis, and I'll eat - I'll eat the medicine-ball if you're not as
plucky as anyone. It's simply a question of keeping your head. You
wouldn't do a thing like that again, not you. Don't you worry yourself,
sir. We're all alike when we get bustled. We don't know what we're
doing, and by the time we've put our hands up and got into shape, why,
it's all over, and there you are. Don't you worry yourself, sir."
"You're an awfully good sort, Joe," said Sheen gratefully.
XI
A SMALL INCIDENT
Failing a gentleman friend, Mr Bevan was obliged to do what he could by
means of local talent. On Sheen's next visit he was introduced to a
burly youth of his own age, very taciturn, and apparently ferocious.
He, it seemed, was the knife and boot boy at the "Blue Boar", "did a
bit" with the gloves, and was willing to spar with Sheen provided Mr
Bevan made it all right with the guv'nor; saw, that is so say, that he
did not get into trouble for passing in unprofessional frivolity
moments which should have been sacred to knives and boots. These terms
having been agreed to, he put on the gloves.
For the first time since he had begun his lessons, Sheen experienced an
attack of his old shyness and dislike of hurting other people's
feelings. He could not resist the thought that he had no grudge against
the warden of the knives and boots. He hardly liked to hit him.
The other, however, did not share this prejudice. He rushed at Sheen
with such determination, that almost the first warning the latter had
that the contest had begun was the collision of the back of his head
with the wall. Out in the middle of the room he did better, and was
beginning to hold his own, in spite of a rousing thump on his left eye,
when Joe Bevan called "Time!" A second round went off in much the same
way. His guard was more often in the right place, and his leads less
wild. At the conclusion of the round, pressure of business forced his
opponent to depart, and Sheen wound up his lesson with a couple of
minutes at the punching-ball. On the whole, he was pleased with his
first spar with someone who was really doing his best and trying to
hurt him. With Joe Bevan and Francis there was always the feeling that
they were playing down to him. Joe Bevan's gentle taps, in particular,
were a little humiliating. But with his late opponent all had been
serious. It had been a real test, and he had come through it very
fairly. On the whole, he had taken more than he had given - his eye
would look curious tomorrow - but already he had thought out a way of
foiling the burly youth's rushes. Next time he would really show his
true form.
The morrow, on which Sheen expected his eye to look curious, was the
day he had promised to play fives with Mr Spence. He hoped that at the
early hour at which they had arranged to play it would not have reached
its worst stage; but when he looked in the glass at a quarter to seven,
he beheld a small ridge of purple beneath it. It was not large, nor did
it interfere with his sight, but it was very visible. Mr Spence,
however, was a sportsman, and had boxed himself in his time, so there
was a chance that nothing would be said.
It was a raw, drizzly morning. There would probably be few
fives-players before breakfast, and the capture of the second court
should be easy. So it turned out. Nobody was about when Sheen arrived.
He pinned his slip of paper to the door, and, after waiting for a short
while for Mr Spence and finding the process chilly, went for a trot
round the gymnasium to pass the time.
Mr Spence had not arrived during his absence, but somebody else had. At
the door of the second court, gleaming in first-fifteen blazer,
sweater, stockings, and honour-cap, stood Attell.
Sheen looked at Attell, and Attell looked through Sheen.
It was curious, thought Sheen, that Attell should be standing in the
very doorway of court two. It seemed to suggest that he claimed some
sort of ownership. On the other hand, there was his, Sheen's, paper on
the....His eye happened to light on the cement flooring in front of the
court. There was a crumpled ball of paper there.
When he had started for his run, there had been no such ball of paper.
Sheen picked it up and straightened it out. On it was written "R. D.
Sheen".
He looked up quickly. In addition to the far-away look, Attell's face
now wore a faint smile, as if he had seen something rather funny on the
horizon. But he spake no word.
A curiously calm and contented feeling came upon Sheen. Here was
something definite at last. He could do nothing, however much he might
resent it, when fellows passed him by as if he did not exist; but when
it came to removing his landmark....
"Would you mind shifting a bit?" he said very politely. "I want to pin
my paper on the door again. It seems to have fallen down."
Attell's gaze shifted slowly from the horizon and gradually embraced
Sheen.
"I've got this court," he said.
"I think not," said Sheen silkily. "I was here at ten to seven, and
there was no paper on the door then. So I put mine up. If you move a
little, I'll put it up again."
"Go and find another court, if you want to play," said Attell, "and if
you've got anybody to play with," he added with a sneer. "This is
mine."
"I think not," said Sheen.
Attell resumed his inspection of the horizon.
"Attell," said Sheen.
Attell did not answer.
Sheen pushed him gently out of the way, and tore down the paper from
the door.
Their eyes met. Attell, after a moment's pause, came forward,
half-menacing, half irresolute; and as he came Sheen hit him under the
chin in the manner recommended by Mr Bevan.
"When you upper-cut," Mr Bevan was wont to say, "don't make it a swing.
Just a half-arm jolt's all you want."
It was certainly all Attell wanted. He was more than surprised. He was
petrified. The sudden shock of the blow, coming as it did from so
unexpected a quarter, deprived him of speech: which was, perhaps,
fortunate for him, for what he would have said would hardly have
commended itself to Mr Spence, who came up at this moment.
"Well, Sheen," said Mr Spence, "here you are. I hope I haven't kept you
waiting. What a morning! You've got the court, I hope?"
"Yes, sir," said Sheen.
He wondered if the master had seen the little episode which had taken
place immediately before his arrival. Then he remembered that it had
happened inside the court. It must have been over by the time Mr Spence
had come upon the scene.
"Are you waiting for somebody, Attell?" asked Mr Spence. "Stanning? He
will be here directly. I passed him on the way."
Attell left the court, and they began their game.
"You've hurt your eye, Sheen," said Mr Spence, at the end of the first
game. "How did that happen?"
"Boxing, sir," said Sheen.
"Oh," replied Mr Spence, and to Sheen's relief he did not pursue his
inquiries.
Attell had wandered out across the gravel to meet Stanning.
"Got that court?" inquired Stanning.
"No."
"You idiot, why on earth didn't you? It's the only court worth playing
in. Who's got it?"
"Sheen."
"Sheen!" Stanning stopped dead. "Do you mean to say you let a fool like
Sheen take it from you! Why didn't you turn him out?"
"I couldn't," said Attell. "I was just going to when Spence came up.
He's playing Sheen this morning. I couldn't very well bag the court
when a master wanted it."
"I suppose not," said Stanning. "What did Sheen say when you told him
you wanted the court?"
This was getting near a phase of the subject which Attell was not eager
to discuss.
"Oh, he didn't say much," he said.
"Did you do anything?" persisted Stanning.
Attell suddenly remembered having noticed that Sheen was wearing a
black eye. This was obviously a thing to be turned to account.
"I hit him in the eye," he said. "I'll bet it's coloured by
school-time."
And sure enough, when school-tune arrived, there was Sheen with his
face in the condition described, and Stanning hastened to spread abroad
this sequel to the story of Sheen's failings in the town battle. By the
end of preparation it had got about the school that Sheen had cheeked
Attell, that Attell had hit Sheen, and that Sheen had been afraid to
hit him back. At the precise moment when Sheen was in the middle of a
warm two-minute round with Francis at the "Blue Boar," an indignation
meeting was being held in the senior day-room at Seymour's to discuss
this latest disgrace to the house.
"This is getting a bit too thick," was the general opinion. Moreover,
it was universally agreed that something ought to be done. The feeling
in the house against Sheen had been stirred to a dangerous pitch by
this last episode. Seymour's thought more of their reputation than any
house in the school. For years past the house had led on the cricket
and football field and off it. Sometimes other houses would actually
win one of the cups, but, when this happened, Seymour's was always
their most dangerous rival. Other houses had their ups and downs, were
very good one year and very bad the next; but Seymour's had always
managed to maintain a steady level of excellence. It always had a man
or two in the School eleven and fifteen, generally supplied one of the
School Racquets pair for Queen's Club in the Easter vac., and when this
did not happen always had one of two of the Gym. Six or Shooting Eight,
or a few men who had won scholarships at the 'Varsities. The pride of a
house is almost keener than the pride of a school. From the first
minute he entered the house a new boy was made to feel that, in coming
to Seymour's, he had accepted a responsibility that his reputation was
not his own, but belonged to the house. If he did well, the glory would
be Seymour's glory. If he did badly, he would be sinning against the
house.