A RATTLING BOUT
Just then the officer of the day approached. Rabig slunk away from the
window while Frank resumed his pacing, and the episode ended then and
there.
At the end of three days Rabig's term expired and he was sent back
again to his place in the ranks, somewhat subdued in manner though
really unchastened in spirit.
His hatred of Frank was unabated and in fact seemed to have taken on
extra bitterness since the sharp exchange at the guard-house. He
seldom passed Frank without a sneer on his lip or an ugly gleam in his
eye, which betrayed the smoldering fires within.
Frank, on his part, bore no rancor. His nature was too open and
healthy to nurse a grudge, and although he avoided speaking to Rabig,
he seldom thought of him except when the exigencies of military duty
threw them together.
"You're as popular as the smallpox with that gink," said Billy one day,
after Rabig had passed them with his usual malignant stare at Frank.
"You want to keep your eyes open, Frank," added Tom, who, knowing Rabig
better than Billy, distrusted him profoundly. "He's got something up
his sleeve."
"I don't think it would be safe to be alongside him in the trenches,"
put in Bart. "Especially on a dark night. It's an easy thing there to
slip a bullet into a man you don't like, and charge it up against the
Germans."
"Oh, shucks!" laughed Frank, "Rabig's pretty bad but he isn't as bad as
that."
Several weeks went by, weeks of strain and hard work that were rapidly
converting the new army into a first-class fighting machine.
But "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," and the officers saw
to it that there was plenty of entertainment for the men when the hard
day's work was over.
There were improvised vaudeville entertainments and, as there were many
actors in the ranks, including some whose names were famous, the
performances were really good.
Then too, there were boxing matches, which were perhaps the most
popular of all. The boys themselves took part in these and there was a
good deal of rivalry, all of it good-natured, among the representatives
of the various companies and regiments in camp.
The Government had been quick to recognize the value of boxing, not
only as a physical exercise, but because it aided vastly in the bayonet
drill.
The two contests closely resembled each other and excellence in one
meant excellence in both. There was the same sparring for advantage,
feinting, alternate advance and retreat, evading and covering up,
attacking and defending.
And because of this, every camp had its official boxing instructor and
the sport formed part of the regular drill.
Great care was taken to avoid any brutal element. The rounds were
limited to two minutes each and the men were cautioned against letting
go with all their weight.
It was a matter of points secured by skill, and it was closely akin to
a fencing bout with buttons on the foils to avoid any serious injury.
Frank had always had a fondness for the sport even before he joined the
army. He and Bart had often put on the gloves in a friendly bout at
the Camport gymnasium. He was as quick as a cat on his feet, a good
judge of distance, and unerring in picking out the weak points of his
opponent's offense.
Under the skillful training that he received from McGrath, who was a
well-known amateur boxer and had been put in charge of the athletic
sports of the camp where the boys were stationed, he had made
surprising progress and was admitted to be easily the best soldier with
the gloves in his own special battalion.
One night a boxing programme had been staged for Frank's regiment and a
series of interesting bouts was looked for.
"Are you going on to-night, Frank?" asked Bart.
"Yes," Frank replied. "And I feel in dandy shape. I never felt more
full of pep than I do just now."
"Who's McGrath going to put against you?" asked Tom.
"I'm slated to meet Thompson, of company F," replied Frank.
"And he's a crackajack, too," put in Billy. "He cleaned up the champs
of all the other companies when the old Thirty-seventh was down on the
Mexican border. You've got your work cut out for you, Frank."
And Billy's prediction was verified, for on that night Frank found that
Thompson was an opponent to be reckoned with. It was a slashing,
four-round bout with the scales hanging even most of the time, but in
the closing round Frank had a shade the better of it and was announced
the victor.
Amid tumultuous handclapping of company B, whose champion he was, Frank
waved his hand smilingly and was about to go off the platform when
Corporal Wilson, who was acting as master of ceremonies, stopped him
with a gesture.
"Pretty well winded, Sheldon?" he asked.
"Not a bit," laughed Frank. "I'm as fresh as a daisy. Like John Paul
Jones, I've just begun to fight."
"That's good," smiled Wilson, "because I'm short a match. One of the
pair who were to come on after you and Thompson is rather under the
weather and the doctor won't let him take part, though he's game as a
fighting cock and wants to go on anyway. If you felt in shape for it I
thought perhaps you might help out by taking on some other fellow for a
few minutes so that the boys won't be disappointed."
"Sure thing," said Frank. "Bring him along."
"I haven't got anyone picked out, just this minute," said the corporal
a little perplexedly.
"Send out a call for volunteers," Frank suggested. "It will make it
all the more interesting."
"That's the idea," said the corporal. "Any of you fellows want to put
on the gloves with Sheldon?" he called out.
There was a momentary hush and then a figure rose from the throng and
Nick Rabig pushed his way through to the platform.