The competition was reported in the Boxing column. The first thing that caught his eye was the name of the school among the headlines. “Honours,” said the headline, “for St. Paul’s, Harrow, and Wrykyn.”
“Hullo,” said Linton, “what’s all this?”
Then the thing came on him with nothing to soften the shock. He had folded the paper, and the last words on the half uppermost were, “Final. Sheen beat Peteiro.
”
Linton had often read novels in which some important document “swam before the eyes” of the hero or the heroine; but he had never understood the full meaning of the phrase until he read those words, “Sheen beat Peteiro.”
There was no mistake about it. There the thing was. It was impossible for the Sportsman to have been hoaxed. No, the incredible, outrageous fact must be faced. Sheen had been down to Aldershot and won a silver medal! Sheen! Sheen!! Sheen who had—who was—well, who, in a word, was Sheen!!!
Linton read on like one in a dream.
“The Lightweights fell,” said the writer, “to a newcomer Sheen, of Wrykyn” (Sheen!), “a clever youngster with a strong defence and a beautiful straight left, doubtless the result of tuition from the middleweight ex-champion, Joe Bevan, who was in his corner for the final bout. None of his opponents gave him much trouble except Peteiro of Ripton, whom he met in the final. A very game and determined fight was seen when these two met, but Sheen’s skill and condition discounted the rushing tactics of his adversary, and in the last minute of the third round the referee stopped the encounter.” (Game and determined! Sheen!!) “Sympathy was freely expressed for Peteiro, who has thus been runner-up two years in succession. He, however, met a better man, and paid the penalty. The admirable pluck with which Sheen bore his punishment and gradually wore his man down made his victory the most popular of the day’s programme.”
Well!
Details of the fighting described Sheen as “cutting out the work,” “popping in several nice lefts,” “swinging his right for the point,” and executing numerous other incredible manoeuvres.
Sheen!
You caught the name correctly? Sheen, I’ll trouble you.
Linton stared blankly across the school grounds. Then he burst into a sudden yell of laughter.
On that very morning the senior day-room was going to court-martial Sheen for disgracing the house. The resolution had been passed on the previous afternoon, probably just as he was putting the finishing touches to the “most popular victory of the day’s programme.” “This,” said Linton, “is rich.”
He grubbed a little hole in one of Mr. Seymour’s flowerbeds, and laid the Sportsman to rest in it. The news would be about the school at nine o’clock, but if he could keep it from the senior day-room till the brief interval between breakfast and school, all would be well, and he would have the pure pleasure of seeing that backbone of the house make a complete ass of itself. A thought struck him. He unearthed the Sportsman, and put it in his pocket.
He strolled into the senior day-room after breakfast.
“Anyone seen the Sporter this morning?” he inquired.
No one had seen it.
“The thing hasn’t come,” said someone.
“Good!” said Linton to himself.
At this point Stanning strolled into the room. “I’m a witness,” he said, in answer to Linton’s look of inquiry. “We’re doing this thing in style. I depose that I saw the prisoner cutting off on the—whatever day it was, when he ought to have been saving our lives from the fury of the mob. Hadn’t somebody better bring the prisoner into the dock?”
“I’ll go,” said Linton promptly. “I may be a little time, but don’t get worried. I’ll bring him all right.”
He went upstairs to Sheen’s study, feeling like an impresario about to produce a new play which is sure to create a sensation.
Sheen was in. There was a ridge of purple under his left eye, but he was otherwise intact.
“ ’Gratulate you, Sheen,” said Linton.
For an instant Sheen hesitated. He had rehearsed this kind of scene in his mind, and sometimes he saw himself playing a genial, forgiving, let’s-say-no-more-about-it-we-all-make-mistakes-but-in-future! role, sometimes being cold haughty, and distant, and repelling friendly advances with icy disdain. If anybody but Linton had been the first to congratulate him he might have decided on this second line of action. But he liked Linton, and wanted to be friendly with him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Linton sat down on the table and burst into a torrent of speech.
“You are a man! What did you want to do it for? Where the dickens did you learn to box? And why on earth, if you can win silver medals at Aldershot, didn’t you box for the house and smash up that sidey ass Stanning? I say, look here, I suppose we haven’t been making idiots of ourselves all the time, have we?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sheen. “How?”
“I mean, you did—What I mean to say is—Oh, hang it, you know! You did cut off when we had that row in the town, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Sheen, “I did.”
With that medal in his pocket it cost him no effort to make the confession.
“I’m glad of that. I mean, I’m glad we haven’t been such fools as we might have been. You see, we only had Stanning’s word to go on.”
Sheen started.
“Stanning!” he said. “What do you mean?”
“He was the chap who started the story. Didn’t you know? He told everybody.”
“I thought it was Drummond,” said Sheen blankly. “You remember meeting me outside his study the day after? I thought he told you then.”
“Drummond! Not a bit of it. He swore you hadn’t been with him at all. He was as sick as anything when I said I thought I’d seen you with him.”
“I—” Sheen stopped. “I
