It was all over in half a minute.
The Tonbridgian was a two-handed fighter of the rushing type almostimmediately after he had shaken hands. Sheen found himself against theropes, blinking from a heavy hit between the eyes. Through the mist hesaw his opponent sparring up to him, and as he hit he side-stepped. Thenext moment he was out in the middle again, with his man pressing himhard. There was a quick rally, and then Sheen swung his right at aventure. The blow had no conscious aim. It was purely speculative. Butit succeeded. The Tonbridgian fell with a thud.
Sheen drew back. The thing seemed pathetic. He had braced himself upfor a long fight, and it had ended in half a minute. His sensationswere mixed. The fighting half of him was praying that his man would getup and start again. The prudent half realised that it was best that heshould stay down. He had other fights before him before he could callthat silver medal his own, and this would give him an invaluable startin the race. His rivals had all had to battle hard in their openingbouts.
The Tonbridgian's rigidity had given place to spasmodic efforts torise. He got on one knee, and his gloved hand roamed feebly about insearch of a hold. It was plain that he had shot his bolt. The refereesigned to his seconds, who ducked into the ring and carried him to hiscorner. Sheen walked back to his own corner, and sat down. Presentlythe referee called out his name as the winner, and he went across thering and shook hands with his opponent, who was now himself again.
He overheard snatches of conversation as he made his way through thecrowd to the dressing-room.
"Useful boxer, that Wrykyn boy.""Shortest fight I've seen here since Hopley won the Heavy-Weights.""Fluke, do you think?""Don't know. Came to the same thing in the end, anyhow. Caught himfair.""Hard luck on that Tonbridge man. He's a good boxer, really. Did wellhere last year."Then an outburst of hand-claps drowned the speakers' voices. A swarthyyouth with the Ripton pink and green on his vest had pushed past himand was entering the ring. As he entered the dressing-room he heard thereferee announcing the names. So that was the famous Peteiro! Sheenadmitted to himself that he looked tough, and hurried into his coat andout of the dressing-room again so as to be in time to see how theRipton terror shaped.
It was plainly not a one-sided encounter. Peteiro's opponent hailedfrom St Paul's, a school that has a habit of turning out boxers. At theend of the first round it seemed that honours were even. The greatPeteiro had taken as much as he had given, and once had beenuncompromisingly floored by the Pauline's left. But in the second roundhe began to gain points. For a boy of his weight he had a terrific hitwith the right, and three applications of this to the ribs early in theround took much of the sting out of the Pauline's blows. He fought onwith undiminished pluck, but the Riptonian was too strong for him, andthe third round was a rout. To quote the _Sportsman_ of thefollowing day, "Peteiro crowded in a lot of work with both hands, andscored a popular victory".
Sheen looked thoughtful at the conclusion of the fight. There was nodoubt that Drummond's antagonist of the previous year was formidable.
Yet Sheen believed himself to be the cleverer of the two. At any rate,Peteiro had given no signs of possessing much cunning. To allappearances he was a tough, go-ahead fighter, with a right which woulddrill a hole in a steel plate. Had he sufficient skill to baffle his(Sheen's) strong tactics? If only Joe Bevan would come! With Joe in hiscorner to direct him, he would feel safe.
But of Joe up to the present there were no signs.
Mr Spence came and sat down beside him.
"Well, Sheen," he said, "so you won your first fight. Keep it up.""I'll try, sir," said Sheen.
"What do you think of Peteiro?""I was just wondering, sir. He hits very hard.""Very hard indeed.""But he doesn't look as if he was very clever.""Not a bit. Just a plain slogger. That's all. That's why Drummond beathim last year in the Feather-Weights. In strength there was nocomparison, but Drummond was just too clever for him. You will be thesame, Sheen.""I hope so, sir," said Sheen.
* * * * *After lunch the second act of the performance began. Sheen had to meeta boxer from Harrow who had drawn a bye in the first round of thecompetition. This proved a harder fight than his first encounter, butby virtue of a stout heart and a straight left he came through itsuccessfully, and there was no doubt as to what the decision would be.
Both judges voted for him.
Peteiro demolished a Radleian in his next fight.
By the middle of the afternoon there were three light-weights in therunning--Sheen, Peteiro, and a boy from Clifton. Sheen drew the bye,and sparred in an outer room with a soldier, who was inclined to takethe thing easily. Sheen, with the thought of the final in his mind, wasonly too ready to oblige him. They sparred an innocuous three rounds,and the man of war was kind enough to whisper in his ear as they leftthe room that he hoped he would win the final, and that he himself hada matter of one-and-sixpence with Old Spud Smith on his success.
"For I'm a man," said the amiable warrior confidentially, "as knowsClass when he sees it. You're Class, sir, that's what you are."This, taken in conjunction with the fact that if the worst came to theworst he had, at any rate, won a medal by having got into the final,cheered Sheen. If only Joe Bevan had appeared he would have beenperfectly contented.
But there were no signs of Joe.
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