THE YOUNG BROTHER
When St. Amory's reassembled after the holidays Acton found himself
firmly established in the good graces of the fellows, and, indeed, he was
not far from being the most popular fellow in the place, but poor Phil
was looked coldly upon by those who had been his chiefest friends, and,
by those who knew little of him, he passed for a jealous bounder. Acton
played up to his cards in beautiful style, and acted the forgiving
innocent splendidly; but Phil, who was only a very honest fellow, did not
play anything to speak of. Those who gave him the cold shoulder once
never had a second chance of showing it him, for Phil was no end proud;
but he had still one or two friends, who condoned his passing of Acton
for the "footer" cap on the ground of "insufficient information" thereon.
Roberts and Baines and Vercoe were not a bad trio to have for friends
either. Acton was now in the Sixth, and a monitor.
His main idea was to keep Bourne in the bad books of the school until
such time as he could direct their ill-favour into channels favourable to
himself and unfavourable for Phil. A lucky chance seemed to open to him
an easy method of striking at Bourne, and Acton almost hugged himself
with joy at his windfall.
About a week after the holidays Acton had been skating on the Marsh, and
as he was returning he came across Jack Bourne engaged in a desperate
fight with a young yokel. There was a small crowd of loafers, who were
delighted at this little turn up, and were loud in their advice to the
fellow to give "the young swell a good hiding."
This little crowd, as I said, caught Acton's eye, and when he perceived
that one of the fighters was a St. Amory fellow, he hurried up to see
what was the little game.
Young Bourne was getting the worst of it. The yokel was a year or two
older, was taller, and stones heavier. It was an unequal fight. Bourne
was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural"
style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should
have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was
not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up.
On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and
encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"
Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and
said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you.
Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for
the first time Bourne really had fair play.
Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.
"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir
out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and
pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little
apart.
"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the
snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a
big handful."
"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep
cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."
Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much
better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically,
but had scored a little on his own account.
"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let
him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him
out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time
after he's missed."
But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by
following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face
was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly
tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he
would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.
After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or
Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and
that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face--he can't
feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne,
so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try
to ward him off--he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive
home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've
seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look
when you hit--on the very peak. Understand?"
"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.
"Time!"
The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew
that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne
ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the
last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a
hair.
"_Habet!_" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down
if you can."
Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick
and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack
scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he
dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling,
his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.
[Illustration: ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP.]
"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's
too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"
The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bourne,
as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with
rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the
ground and howled dismally.
"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you
others."
Jack came back.
"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked
him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was
only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and
jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."
The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled
aimlessly in Acton's grasp.
"Apologize."
"I wown't."
"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a
thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the
scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.
"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good
fight this day, and no mistake. That fellow will have a fit the next and
every time he sees the smallest St. Amory's fag's cap."
"I say, Acton, you're an awful brick to back me up like that."
"Don't mention it, Bourne. Come and have some tea with me, and I'll pour
oil into your wounds, or at any rate, I'll paint 'em."
So young Bourne had tea with Acton, and his host went out afterwards to
Dann's the chemist's and brought back a camel's-hair brush and some
lotion. Thanks to this, Jack's scars appeared as very honourable wounds
indeed.
From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.
"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have
the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and
win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his
cap? There's something rotten somewhere."
As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a
treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his
campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young
brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our
unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack
finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry,
but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother
something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of
iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."
Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games.
Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the
fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country
running, paper chases, _et hoc genus omne_, Acton refused to have
anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to Dick Worcester, "isn't
in the same street with footer."
"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested
Worcester.
"There's Hodgson in for it, Dick."
"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the
business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than
Hodgson."
"There's Bourne, too."
"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along
quicker."
"It's an awful fag, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure
this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk
right through the best man we've ever turned out."
"Oh, that's their usual brag!"
"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey
professor--who is up to all the latest dodges--to coach. Our sergeant is
a bit old-fashioned--good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his
right."
"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of
the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."
"_Dubito!_ Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can
make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?"
"At Aldershot? Oh!--last week in March."
"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and
if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But
what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one
might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would
write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."
So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his
fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but
because, for him, it was all he could do.
But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to
the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by
themselves, and even to be _chaperon_ to any fags who cared to run
with them, and--important _proviso_--whom the monitors did not
object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling _sans_ house-master
was in force.
Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or
Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country
between dinner and roll call.
By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with
Acton.
"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."
"He has, anyhow, Phil."
"How?"
Jack explained.
"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish
some other fellow had seen you through."
"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.
"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth
Form fellow sees in a fag? Above all, a fag of the name of Bourne?"
"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."
"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's
footsteps quite so much."
"He's a monitor."
"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."
"We'll see."
"Oh! Certainly we shall."
Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and
said hotly--
"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."
"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."
"My opinion is----"
"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."
"It's considered a shame pretty generally."
"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did
not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little
toes into any scrape--that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a
crown for you to buy butterscotch, and while you're sucking it think over
what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say
good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.
About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the
old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the
farmer's son, said to Acton--
"The man's been here since twelve, sir."
"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"
"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."
"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama
Coon?"
"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"
"The very same."
"Rather!"
"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try
for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"
"Rather!"
"Then come along."
Together they went into the stable, and therein found "The Coon," a
coal-black negro, busily shovelling sand upon the floor, smoking an
enormous cigar the while.
"Making ready the cockpit," said Acton to Jack, who was staring open-eyed
at the worker. "Lusty looking animal, eh?"
"My aunt!" said Jack.
"Hallo, Coon, you're about ready!"
"Yaas, sir," said the negro. "I'm almost through."
"Brought the mittens with you, too?"
"Yaas, sir, I have the feather beds."
"Then when you've peeled we'll start."
The Coon put down his spade and slipped behind a stall.
"You see, young 'un, the sergeant at the gym is a good old hand, but he
is an old hand, so to speak--hasn't got the polish. Seeing that at
Aldershot they tie us down to a very few rounds, if St. Amory's have to
make any show at all they must get all the points they can first round or
so. That's why I've got the Coon down here. He is the most scientific
boxer we have."
"The figure will be pretty stiff, Acton, eh?"
"No matter about that if I can beat Jarvis. By the way, Bourne, you need
not say anything about this to any one. I have particular reasons for
keeping this quiet."
"All serene. I'm mum, of course."
"Thanks. You watch the Coon, and you'll pick up no end of wrinkles."
The Coon came out from behind the stall dressed in a vest, trousers, and
thin boots; his black arms were bare, and he had exchanged his cigar for
a straw, which he chewed vigorously. Acton changed his shoes and took off
his coat, and the lesson began.
Acton's opinion of the Coon's knowledge was, in Jack's mind, absolutely
corroborated by the display. His marvellous parrying of Acton's
attentions; his short step inwards, which invariably followed a mis-hit
by Acton; his baits to lure his opponent to deliver himself a gift into
his hands; his incredible ducking and lightning returns, held Bourne
fascinated. Everything was done so easily, so lithely, so lightly, and so
surely, that Jack gasped in admiration. Acton in the hands of the nigger
was a lamb indeed.
"This is an eye-opener," said Jack. "I'll try that left feint on Rogers,
the cocky ass!"
The negro stopped now and then to show Acton where and how to avail
himself of opportunities; and Acton, who was in grim earnest, applied
himself whole-heartedly to the business in hand, and, in consequence, as
Jack afterwards told us, "you could almost hear old Acton travelling on
the right road."
After about half an hour of instruction, Acton said--
"That is enough of jawing for the afternoon, Coon. Let us have three
rounds to finish up with. Take the time, young 'un."
Jack, with immense pride, took out his watch and prepared to act as
timekeeper.
"Better take it easily first two, sir, and put in all you know for the
last. A little hurricane in the third round is my advice."
Jack had an ecstatic ten minutes, the final round putting him in the
seventh heaven of enjoyment.
"All I could make out was Acton's white arms mixed with Alabama's black
ones, and the sand flying in all directions. Stunning isn't the word for
it!"
As Acton and young Bourne pedalled leisurely home for roll call, Jack
said--
"I think Jarvis' chance of collaring the Heavy for his place is a trifle
'rocky.'"
"I hope so."
"Crumbs! How Alabama does get home!"