came in instead. It seemed to Tony for the next half-minute that his cousin’s fists were never out of his face. He looked on the world through a brown haze of boxing-glove. Occasionally his hand met something solid which he took to be Allen, but this was seldom, and, whenever it happened, it only seemed to bring him back again like a boomerang. Just at the most exciting point, ‘Time’ was called.
The pessimist shook his head gloomily as he sponged Tony’s face.
‘You must lead if you want to ‘it ‘im,’ said the garrulous man. ‘You’re too slow. Go in at ‘im, sir, wiv both ‘ands, an’ you’ll be all right. Won’t ‘e, Fred?’
‘I said ‘ow it ‘ud be,’ was the only reply Fred would vouchsafe.
Tony was half afraid the referee would give the fight against him without another round, but to his joy ‘Time’ was duly called. He came up to the scratch as game as ever, though his head was singing. He meant to go in for all he was worth this round.
And go in he did. Allen had managed, in performing a complicated manoeuvre, to place himself in a corner, and Tony rushed. He was sent out again with a flush hit on the face. He rushed again, and again met Allen’s left. Then he got past, and in the confined space had it all his own way. Science did not tell here. Strength was the thing that scored, hard half-arm smashes, left and right, at face and body, and the guard could look after itself.
Allen upper-cut him twice, but after that he was nowhere. Tony went in with both hands. There was a prolonged rally, and it was not until ‘Time’ had been called that Allen was able to extricate himself. Tony’s blows had been mostly body blows, and very warm ones at that.
‘That’s right, sir,’ was the comment of the red-headed second. ‘Keep ‘em both goin’ hard, and you’ll win yet. You ‘ad ‘im proper then. ‘Adn’t ‘e, Fred?’
And even the pessimist was obliged to admit that Tony could fight, even if he was not quick with his guard.
Allen took the ring slowly. His want of training had begun to tell on him, and some of Tony’s blows had landed in very tender spots. He knew that he could win if his wind held out, but he had misgivings. The gloves seemed to weigh down his hands. Tony opened the ball with a tremendous rush. Allen stopped him neatly. There was an interval while the two sparred for an opening. Then Allen feinted and dashed in. Tony did not hit him once. It was the first round over again. Left right, left right, and, finally, as had happened before, a tremendously hot shot which sent him under the ropes. He got up, and again Allen darted in. Tony met him with a straight left. A rapid exchange of blows, and the end came. Allen lashed out with his left. Tony ducked sharply, and brought his right across with every ounce of his weight behind it, fairly on to the point of the jaw. The right cross-counter is distinctly one of those things which it is more blessed to give than to receive. Allen collapsed.
‘… nine … ten.’
The timekeeper closed his watch.
‘Graham wins,’ said the referee, ‘look after that man there.’
[2]
THIEVES BREAK IN AND STEAL
It was always the custom for such Austinians as went up to represent the School at the annual competition to stop the night in the town. It was not, therefore, till just before breakfast on the following day that Tony arrived back at his House. The boarding Houses at St Austin’s formed a fringe to the School grounds. The two largest were the School House and Merevale’s. Tony was at Merevale’s. He was walking up from the station with Welch, another member of Merevale’s, who had been up to Aldershot as a fencer, when, at the entrance to the School grounds, he fell in with Robinson, his fag. Robinson was supposed by many (including himself) to be a very warm man for the Junior Quarter, which was a handicap race, especially as an injudicious Sports Committee had given him ten yards’ start on Simpson, whom he would have backed himself to beat, even if the positions had been reversed. Being a wise youth, however, and knowing that the best of runners may fail through under-training, he had for the last week or so been going in for a steady course of over-training, getting up in the small hours and going for before-breakfast spins round the track on a glass of milk and a piece of bread. Master R. Robinson was nothing if not thorough in matters of this kind.
But today things of greater moment than the Sports occupied his mind. He had news. He had great news. He was bursting with news, and he hailed the approach of Tony and Welch with pleasure. With any other leading light of the School he might have felt less at ease, but with Tony it was different. When you have underdone a fellow’s eggs and overdone his toast and eaten the remainder for a term or two, you begin to feel that mere social distinctions and differences of age no longer form a barrier.
Besides, he had news which was absolutely fresh, news to which no one could say pityingly: ‘What! Have you only just heard
‘Hullo, Graham,’ he said. ‘Have you come back?’ Tony admitted that he had. ‘Jolly good for getting the Middles.’ (A telegram had, of course, preceded Tony.) ‘I say, Graham, do you know what’s happened? There’ll be an awful row about it. Someone’s been and broken into the Pav.’
‘Rot! How do you know?’
‘There’s a pane taken clean out. I booked it in a second as I was going past to the track.’
‘Which room?’
‘First Fifteen. The window facing away from the Houses.’
‘That’s rum,’ said Welch. ‘Wonder what a burglar wanted in the First room. Isn’t even a hair-brush there generally.’
Robinson’s eyes dilated with honest pride. This was good. This was better than he had looked for. Not only were they unaware of the burglary, but they had not even an idea as to the recent event which had made the First room so fit a hunting-ground for the burgling industry. There are few pleasures keener than the pleasure of telling somebody something he didn’t know before.
‘Great Scott,’ he remarked, ‘haven’t you heard? No, of course you went up to Aldershot before they did it. By Jove.’
‘Did what?’
‘Why, they shunted all the Sports prizes from the Board Room to the Pav. and shot ‘em into the First room. I don’t suppose there’s one left now. I should like to see the Old Man’s face when he hears about it. Good mind to go and tell him now, only he’d have a fit. Jolly exciting, though, isn’t it?’
