The White Feather

failure had ended, the Easter before, in a huge triumph, when O’Hara, of Dexter’s and Drummond had won silver medals, and Moriarty, of Dexter’s, a bronze. If only somebody could win a medal this year, the tradition would be established, and would not soon die out. Unfortunately, there was not a great deal of boxing talent in the school just now. The rule that the winner at his weight in the House Competitions should represent the school at Aldershot only applied if the winner were fairly proficient. Mr. Spence exercised his discretion. It was no use sending down novices to be massacred. This year Drummond and Stanning were the only Wrykinians up to Aldershot form. Drummond would have been almost a certainty for a silver medal, and Stanning would probably have been a runner-up. And here they were, both injured; Wrykyn would not have a single representative at the Queen’s Avenue Gymnasium. It would be a setback to the cult of boxing at the school.

Mr. Spence was pondering over this unfortunate state of things when Sheen was shown in.

“Can I speak to you for a minute, sir?” said Sheen.

“Certainly, Sheen. Take one of those cig⁠—I mean, sit down. What is it?”

Sheen had decided how to open the interview before knocking at the door. He came to the point at once.

“Do you think I could go down to Aldershot, sir?” he asked.

Mr. Spence looked surprised.

“Go down? You mean⁠—? Do you want to watch the competition? Really, I don’t know if the headmaster⁠—”

“I mean, can I box?”

Mr. Spence’s look of surprise became more marked.

“Box?” he said. “But surely⁠—I didn’t know you were a boxer, Sheen.”

“I’ve only taken it up lately.”

“But you didn’t enter for the House Competitions, did you? What weight are you?”

“Just under ten stone.”

“A lightweight. Why, Linton boxed for your house in the Lightweights surely?”

“Yes sir. They wouldn’t let me go in.”

“You hurt yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why wouldn’t they let you go in?”

“Drummond thought Linton was better. He didn’t know I boxed.”

“But⁠—this is very curious. I don’t understand it at all. You see, if you were not up to House form, you would hardly⁠—At Aldershot, you see, you would meet the best boxers of all the public schools.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause.

“It was like this, sir,” said Sheen nervously. “At the beginning of the term there was a bit of a row down in the town, and I got mixed up in it. And I didn’t⁠—I was afraid to join in. I funked it.”

Mr. Spence nodded. He was deeply interested now. The office of confessor is always interesting.

“Go on, Sheen. What happened then?”

“I was cut by everybody. The fellows thought I had let the house down, and it got about, and the other houses scored off them, so I had rather a rotten time.”

Here it occurred to him that he was telling his story without that attention to polite phraseology which a master expects from a boy, so he amended the last sentence.

“I didn’t have a very pleasant time, sir,” was his correction.

“Well?” said Mr. Spence.

“So I was a bit sick,” continued Sheen, relapsing once more into the vernacular, “and I wanted to do something to put things right again, and I met⁠—anyhow, I took up boxing. I wanted to box for the house, if I was good enough. I practised every day, and stuck to it, and after a bit I did become pretty good.”

“Well?”

“Then Drummond got mumps, and I wrote to him asking if I might represent the house instead of him, and I suppose he didn’t believe I was any good. At any rate, he wouldn’t let me go in. Then Joe⁠—a man who knows something about boxing⁠—suggested I should go down to Aldershot.”

“Joe?” said Mr. Spence inquiringly.

Sheen had let the name slip out unintentionally, but it was too late now to recall it.

“Joe Bevan, sir,” he said. “He used to be champion of England, lightweight.”

“Joe Bevan!” cried Mr. Spence. “Really? Why, he trained me when I boxed for Cambridge. He’s one of the best of fellows. I’ve never seen anyone who took such trouble with his man. I wish we could get him here. So it was Joe who suggested that you should go down to Aldershot? Well, he ought to know. Did he say you would have a good chance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My position is this, you see, Sheen. There is nothing I should like more than to see the school represented at Aldershot. But I cannot let anyone go down, irrespective of his abilities. Aldershot is not child’s play. And in the Lightweights you get the hardest fighting of all. It wouldn’t do for me to let you go down if you are not up to the proper form. You would be half killed.”

“I should like to have a shot, sir,” said Sheen.

“Then this year, as you probably know, Ripton are sending down Peteiro for the Lightweights. He was the fellow whom Drummond only just beat last year. And you saw the state in which Drummond came back. If Drummond could hardly hold him, what would you do?”

“I believe I could beat Drummond, sir,” said Sheen.

Mr. Spence’s eyes opened wider. Here were brave words. This youth evidently meant business. The thing puzzled him. On the one hand, Sheen had been cut by his house for cowardice. On the other, Joe Bevan, who of all men was best able to judge, had told him that he was good enough to box at Aldershot.

“Let me think it over, Sheen,” he said. “This is a matter which I cannot decide in a moment. I will tell you tomorrow what I think about it.”

“I hope you will let me go down, sir,” said Sheen. “It’s my one chance.”

“Yes, yes, I see that, I see that,” said Mr. Spence, “but all the same⁠—well, I will think it over.”

All the rest of that evening he pondered over the matter, deeply perplexed. It would be nothing less than cruel to let Sheen enter the ring at Aldershot if he were incompetent. Boxing in the