He stopped and listened. No sound of horse’s hoof broke the silence. He walked on again.
Then, faint at first, but growing stronger every instant, there came from some point in the road far behind him a steady droning sound. He almost shouted with joy. A motor! Even now he might do it.
But could he stop it? Would the motorist pay any attention to him, or would he flash past and leave him in the dust? From the rate at which the drone increased the car seemed to be travelling at a rare speed.
He moved to one side of the road, and waited. He could see the lights now, flying towards him.
Then, as the car hummed past, he recognised its driver, and put all he knew into a shout.
“Bruce!” he cried.
For a moment it seemed as if he had not been heard. The driver paid not the smallest attention, as far as he could see. He looked neither to the left nor to right. Then the car slowed down, and, backing, came slowly to where he stood.
“Hullo,” said the driver, “who’s that?”
Jack Bruce was alone in the car, muffled to the eyes in an overcoat. It was more by his general appearance than his face that Sheen had recognised him.
“It’s me, Sheen. I say, Bruce, I wish you’d give me a lift to Seymour’s, will you?”
There was never any waste of words about Jack Bruce. Of all the six hundred and thirty-four boys at Wrykyn he was probably the only one whose next remark in such circumstances would not have been a question. Bruce seldom asked questions—never, if they wasted time.
“Hop in,” he said.
Sheen consulted his watch again.
“Lockup’s in a quarter of an hour,” he said, “but they give us ten minutes’ grace. That allows us plenty of time, doesn’t it?”
“Do it in seven minutes, if you like.”
“Don’t hurry,” said Sheen. “I’ve never been in a motor before, and I don’t want to cut the experience short. It’s awfully good of you to give me a lift.”
“That’s all right,” said Bruce.
“Were you going anywhere? Am I taking you out of your way?”
“No. I was just trying the car. It’s a new one. The pater’s just got it.”
“Do you do much of this?” said Sheen.
“Good bit. I’m going in for the motor business when I leave school.”
“So all this is training?”
“That’s it.”
There was a pause.
“You seemed to be going at a good pace just now,” said Sheen.
“About thirty miles an hour. She can move all right.”
“That’s faster than you’re allowed to go, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never been caught, have you?”
“Not yet. I want to see how much pace I can get out of her, because she’ll be useful when the election really comes on. Bringing voters to the poll, you know. That’s why the pater bought this new car. It’s a beauty. His other’s only a little runabout.”
“Doesn’t your father mind your motoring?”
“Likes it,” said Jack Bruce.
It seemed to Sheen that it was about time that he volunteered some information about himself, instead of plying his companion with questions. It was pleasant talking to a Wrykinian again; and Jack Bruce had apparently either not heard of the Albert incident, or else he was not influenced by it in any way.
“You’ve got me out of an awful hole, Bruce,” he began.
“That’s all right. Been out for a walk?”
“I’d been to the ‘Blue Boar.’ ”
“Oh!” said Bruce. He did not seem to wish to know why Sheen had been there.
Sheen proceeded to explain.
“I suppose you’ve heard all about me,” he said uncomfortably. “About the town, you know. That fight. Not joining in.”
“Heard something about it,” said Bruce.
“I went downtown again after that,” said Sheen, “and met the same fellows who were fighting Linton and the others. They came for me, and I was getting awfully mauled when Joe Bevan turned up.”
“Oh, is Joe back again?”
“Do you know him?” asked Sheen in surprise.
“Oh yes. I used to go to the ‘Blue Boar’ to learn boxing from him all last summer holidays.”
“Did you really? Why, that’s what I’m doing now.”
“Good man,” said Bruce.
“Isn’t he a splendid teacher?”
“Ripping.”
“But I didn’t know you boxed, Bruce. You never went in for any of the School competitions.”
“I’m rather a rottenweight. Ten six. Too heavy for the Lightweights and not heavy enough for the Middles. Besides, the competitions here are really inter-house. They don’t want day-boys going in for them. Are you going to box for Seymour’s?”
“That’s what I want to do. You see, it would be rather a score, wouldn’t it? After what’s happened, you know.”
“I suppose it would.”
“I should like to do something. It’s not very pleasant,” he added, with a forced laugh, “being considered a disgrace to the house, and cut by everyone.”
“Suppose not.”
“The difficulty is Drummond. You see, we are both the same weight, and he’s much better than I am. I’m hoping that he’ll go in for the Middles and let me take the Lightweights. There’s nobody he couldn’t beat in the Middles, though he would be giving away a stone.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Not yet. I want to keep it dark that I’m learning to box, just at present.”
“Spring it on them suddenly?”
“Yes. Of course, I can’t let it get about that I go to Joe Bevan, because I have to break bounds every time I do it.”
“The upper river’s out of bounds now for boarders, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Jack Bruce sat in silence for a while, his gaze concentrated on the road in front of him.
“Why go by river at all?” he said at last. “If you like, I’ll run you to the ‘Blue Boar’ in the motor every day.”
“Oh, I say, that’s awfully decent of you,” said Sheen.
“I should like to see old Joe again. I think I’ll come and spar, too. If you’re learning, what you want more than anything is somebody your own size to box with.”
“That’s just what Joe was saying. Will
