Chapter 22 A Good Finish

"Final, Light-Weights," shouted the referee.

　　A murmur of interest from the ring-side chairs.

　　"R. D. Sheen, Wrykyn College."Sheen got his full measure of applause this time. His victories in thepreliminary bouts had won him favour with the spectators.

　　"J. Peteiro, Ripton School.""Go it, Ripton!" cried a voice from near the door. The referee frownedin the direction of this audacious partisan, and expressed a hope thatthe audience would kindly refrain from comment during the rounds.

　　Then he turned to the ring again, and announced the names a secondtime.

　　"Sheen--Peteiro."The Ripton man was sitting with a hand on each knee, listening to theadvice of his school instructor, who had thrust head and shouldersthrough the ropes, and was busy impressing some point upon him. Sheenfound himself noticing the most trivial things with extraordinaryclearness. In the front row of the spectators sat a man with aparti-coloured tie. He wondered idly what tie it was. It was rather likeone worn by members of Templar's house at Wrykyn. Why were the ropes ofthe ring red? He rather liked the colour. There was a man lighting apipe. Would he blow out the match or extinguish it with a wave of thehand? What a beast Peteiro looked. He really was a nigger. He must lookout for that right of his. The straight left. Push it out. Straightleft ruled the boxing world. Where was Joe? He must have missed thetrain. Or perhaps he hadn't been able to get away. Why did he want toyawn, he wondered.

　　"Time!"The Ripton man became suddenly active. He almost ran across the ring. Abrief handshake, and he had penned Sheen up in his corner before he hadtime to leave it. It was evident what advice his instructor had beengiving him. He meant to force the pace from the start.

　　The suddenness of it threw Sheen momentarily off his balance. He seemedto be in a whirl of blows. A sharp shock from behind. He had run upagainst the post. Despite everything, he remembered to keep his guardup, and stopped a lashing hit from his antagonist's left. But he wastoo late to keep out his right. In it came, full on the weakest spot onhis left side. The pain of it caused him to double up for an instant,and as he did so his opponent upper-cut him. There was no rest for him.

　　Nothing that he had ever experienced with the gloves on approachedthis. If only he could get out of this corner.

　　Then, almost unconsciously, he recalled Joe Bevan's advice.

　　"If a man's got you in a corner," Joe had said, "fall on him."Peteiro made another savage swing. Sheen dodged it and hurled himselfforward.

　　"Break away," said a dispassionate official voice.

　　Sheen broke away, but now he was out of the corner with the whole good,open ring to manoeuvre in.

　　He could just see the Ripton instructor signalling violently to hisopponent, and, in reply to the signals, Peteiro came on again withanother fierce rush.

　　But Sheen in the open was a different person from Sheen cooped up in acorner. Francis Hunt had taught him to use his feet. He side-stepped,and, turning quickly, found his man staggering past him, over-balancedby the force of his wasted blow. And now it was Sheen who attacked, andPeteiro who tried to escape. Two swift hits he got in before hisopponent could face round, and another as he turned and rushed. Thenfor a while the battle raged without science all over the ring.

　　Gradually, with a cold feeling of dismay, Sheen realised that hisstrength was going. The pace was too hot. He could not keep it up. Hisleft counters were losing their force. Now he was merely pushing hisglove into the Ripton man's face. It was not enough. The other wasgetting to close quarters, and that right of his seemed stronger thanever.

　　He was against the ropes now, gasping for breath, and Peteiro's rightwas thudding against his ribs. It could not last. He gathered all hisstrength and put it into a straight left. It took the Ripton man in thethroat, and drove him back a step. He came on again. Again Sheenstopped him.

　　It was his last effort. He could do no more. Everything seemed black tohim. He leaned against the ropes and drank in the air in great gulps.

　　"Time!" said the referee.

　　The word was lost in the shouts that rose from the packed seats.

　　Sheen tottered to his corner and sat down.

　　"Keep it up, sir, keep it up," said a voice. "Bear't that the opposedmay beware of thee. Don't forget the guard. And the straight left beatsthe world."It was Joe--at the eleventh hour.

　　With a delicious feeling of content Sheen leaned back in his chair. Itwould be all right now. He felt that the matter had been taken out ofhis hands. A more experienced brain than his would look after thegeneralship of the fight.

　　As the moments of the half-minute's rest slid away he discovered thetruth of Joe's remarks on the value of a good second. In his otherfights the napping of the towel had hardly stirred the hair on hisforehead. Joe's energetic arms set a perfect gale blowing. The cool airrevived him. He opened his mouth and drank it in. A spongeful of coldwater completed the cure. Long before the call of Time he was ready forthe next round.

　　"Keep away from him, sir," said Joe, "and score with that left ofyours. Don't try the right yet. Keep it for guarding. Box clever. Don'tlet him corner you. Slip him when he rushes. Cool and steady does it.

　　Don't aim at his face too much. Go down below. That's the_de_-partment. And use your feet. Get about quick, and you'll findhe don't like that. Hullo, says he, I can't touch him. Then, when he'stired, go in."The pupil nodded with closed eyes.

　　While these words of wisdom were proceeding from the mouth of Mr Bevan,another conversation was taking place which would have interested Sheenif he could have heard it. Mr Spence and the school instructor werewatching the final from the seats under the side windows.

　　"It's extraordinary," said Mr Spence. "The boy's wonderfully good forthe short time he has been learning. You ought to be proud of yourpupil.""Sir?""I was saying that Sheen does you credit.""Not me, sir.""What! He told me he had been taking lessons. Didn't you teach him?""Never set eyes on him, till this moment. Wish I had, sir. He's thesort of pupil I could wish for."Mr Spence bent forward and scanned the features of the man who wasattending the Wrykinian.

　　"Why," he said, "surely that's Bevan--Joe Bevan! I knew him atCambridge.""Yes, sir, that's Bevan," replied the instructor. "He teaches boxing atWrykyn now, sir.""At Wrykyn--where?""Up the river--at the 'Blue Boar', sir," said the instructor, quiteinnocently--for it did not occur to him that this simple little bit ofinformation was just so much incriminating evidence against Sheen.

　　Mr Spence said nothing, but he opened his eyes very wide. Recalling hisrecent conversation with Sheen, he remembered that the boy had told himhe had been taking lessons, and also that Joe Bevan, the ex-pugilist,had expressed a high opinion of his work. Mr Spence had imagined thatBevan had been a chance spectator of the boy's skill; but it would nowseem that Bevan himself had taught Sheen. This matter, decided MrSpence, must be looked into, for it was palpable that Sheen had brokenbounds in order to attend Bevan's boxing-saloon up the river.

　　For the present, however, Mr Spence was content to say nothing.

　　* * * * *Sheen came up for the second round fresh and confident. His head wasclear, and his breath no longer came in gasps. There was to be norallying this time. He had had the worst of the first round, and meantto make up his lost points.

　　Peteiro, losing no time, dashed in. Sheen met him with a left in theface, and gave way a foot. Again Peteiro rushed, and again he wasstopped. As he bored in for the third time Sheen slipped him. TheRipton man paused, and dropped his guard for a moment.

　　Sheen's left shot out once more, and found its mark. Peteiro swung hisright viciously, but without effect. Another swift counter added onemore point to Sheen's score.

　　Sheen nearly chuckled. It was all so beautifully simple. What a fool hehad been to mix it up in the first round. If he only kept his head andstuck to out-fighting he could win with ease. The man couldn't box. Hewas nothing more than a slogger. Here he came, as usual, with the oldfamiliar rush. Out went his left. But it missed its billet. Peteiro hadchecked his rush after the first movement, and now he came in with bothhands. It was the first time during the round that he had got to closequarters, and he made the most of it. Sheen's blows were as frequent,but his were harder. He drove at the body, right and left; and onceagain the call of Time extricated Sheen from an awkward position. Asfar as points were concerned he had had the best of the round, but hewas very sore and bruised. His left side was one dull ache.

　　"Keep away from him, sir," said Joe Bevan. "You were ahead on thatround. Keep away all the time unless he gets tired. But if you see mesignalling, then go in all you can and have a fight."There was a suspicion of weariness about the look of the Riptonchampion as he shook hands for the last round. He was beginning to feelthe effects of his hurricane fighting in the opening rounds. He beganquietly, sparring for an opening. Sheen led with his left. Peteiro wastoo late with his guard. Sheen tried again--a double lead. His opponentguarded the first blow, but the second went home heavily on the body,and he gave way a step.

　　Then from the corner of his eye Sheen saw Bevan gesticulating wildly,so, taking his life in his hands, he abandoned his waiting game,dropped his guard, and dashed in to fight. Peteiro met him doggedly.

　　For a few moments the exchanges were even. Then suddenly theRiptonian's blows began to weaken. He got home his right on the head,and Sheen hardly felt it. And in a flash there came to him the gloriouscertainty that the game was his.

　　He was winning--winning--winning.

　　* * * * *"That's enough," said the referee.

　　The Ripton man was leaning against the ropes, utterly spent, at almostthe same spot where Sheen had leaned at the end of the first round. Thelast attack had finished him. His seconds helped him to his corner.

　　The referee waved his hand.

　　"Sheen wins," he said.

　　And that was the greatest moment of his life.