CHAPTER II Thieves Break in and Steal
CHAPTER III An Unimportant By-product
CHAPTER IV Certain Revelations
CHAPTER V Concerning the Mutual Friend
CHAPTER VI A Literary Banquet
CHAPTER VII Barrett Explores
CHAPTER VIII Barrett Ceases to Explore
CHAPTER IX Enter the Sleuth-hound
CHAPTER X Mr Thompson Investigates
CHAPTER XI The Sports
CHAPTER XII An Interesting Interview
CHAPTER XIII Sir Alfred Scores
CHAPTER XIV The Long Run
CHAPTER XV Mr Roberts Explains
CHAPTER XVI The Disappearance of J. Thomson
CHAPTER XVII 'We'll Proceed to Search for Thomson if He Be Above the Ground'
CHAPTER XVIII In Which the Affairs of Various Persons Are Wound Up
CHAPTER I
PATIENT PERSEVERANCE PRODUCES PUGILISTIC PRODIGIES
'Where _have_ I seen that face before?' said a voice. Tony Graham
looked up from his bag.
'Hullo, Allen,' he said, 'what the dickens are you up here for?'
'I was rather thinking of doing a little boxing. If you've no
objection, of course.'
'But you ought to be on a bed of sickness, and that sort of thing. I
heard you'd crocked yourself.'
'So I did. Nothing much, though. Trod on myself during a game of fives,
and twisted my ankle a bit.'
'In for the middles, of course?'
'Yes.'
'So am I.'
'Yes, so I saw in the _Sportsman_. It says you weigh eleven-three.'
'Bit more, really, I believe. Shan't be able to have any lunch, or I
shall have to go in for the heavies. What are you?'
'Just eleven. Well, let's hope we meet in the final.'
'Rather,' said Tony.
It was at Aldershot--to be more exact, in the dressing-room of the
Queen's Avenue Gymnasium at Aldershot--that the conversation took
place. From east and west, and north and south, from Dan even unto
Beersheba, the representatives of the public schools had assembled to
box, fence, and perform gymnastic prodigies for fame and silver medals.
The room was full of all sorts and sizes of them, heavy-weights looking
ponderous and muscular, feather-weights diminutive but wiry,
light-weights, middle-weights, fencers, and gymnasts in scores, some
wearing the unmistakable air of the veteran, for whom Aldershot has no
mysteries, others nervous, and wishing themselves back again at school.
Tony Graham had chosen a corner near the door. This was his first
appearance at Aldershot. St Austin's was his School, and he was by far
the best middle-weight there. But his doubts as to his ability to hold
his own against all-comers were extreme, nor were they lessened by the
knowledge that his cousin, Allen Thomson, was to be one of his
opponents. Indeed, if he had not been a man of mettle, he might well
have thought that with Allen's advent his chances were at an end.
Allen was at Rugby. He was the son of a baronet who owned many acres in
Wiltshire, and held fixed opinions on the subject of the whole duty of
man, who, he held, should be before anything else a sportsman. Both the
Thomsons--Allen's brother Jim was at St Austin's in the same House as
Tony--were good at most forms of sport. Jim, however, had never taken
to the art of boxing very kindly, but, by way of compensation, Allen
had skill enough for two. He was a splendid boxer, quick, neat,
scientific. He had been up to Aldershot three times, once as a
feather-weight and twice as a light-weight, and each time he had
returned with the silver medal.
As for Tony, he was more a fighter than a sparrer. When he paid a visit
to his uncle's house he boxed with Allen daily, and invariably got the
worst of it. Allen was too quick for him. But he was clever with his
hands. His supply of pluck was inexhaustible, and physically he was as
hard as nails.
'Is your ankle all right again, now?' he asked.
'Pretty well. It wasn't much of a sprain. Interfered with my training a
good bit, though. I ought by rights to be well under eleven stone.
You're all right, I suppose?'
'Not bad. Boxing takes it out of you more than footer or a race. I was
in good footer training long before I started to get fit for Aldershot.
But I think I ought to get along fairly well. Any idea who's in against
us?'
'Harrow, Felsted, Wellington. That's all, I think.'
'St Paul's?'
'No.'
'Good. Well, I hope your first man mops you up. I've a conscientious
objection to scrapping with you.'
Allen laughed. 'You'd be all right,' he said, 'if you weren't so
beastly slow with your guard. Why don't you wake up? You hit like
blazes.'
'I think I shall start guarding two seconds before you lead. By the
way, don't have any false delicacy about spoiling my aristocratic
features. On the ground of relationship, you know.'
'Rather not. Let auld acquaintance be forgot. I'm not Thomson for the
present. I'm Rugby.'
'Just so, and I'm St Austin's. Personally, I'm going for the knock-out.
You won't feel hurt?'
This was in the days before the Headmasters' Conference had abolished
the knock-out blow, and a boxer might still pay attentions to the point
of his opponent's jaw with an easy conscience.
'I probably shall if it comes off,' said Allen. 'I say, it occurs to me
that we shall be weighing-in in a couple of minutes, and I haven't
started to change yet. Good, I've not brought evening dress or somebody
else's footer clothes, as usually happens on these festive occasions.'
He was just pulling on his last boot when a Gymnasium official appeared
in the doorway.
'Will all those who are entering for the boxing get ready for the
weighing-in, please?' he said, and a general exodus ensued.
The weighing-in at the Public Schools' Boxing Competition is something
in the nature of a religious ceremony, but even religious ceremonies
come to an end, and after a quarter of an hour or so Tony was weighed
in the balance and found correct. He strolled off on a tour of
inspection.
After a time he lighted upon the St Austin's Gym Instructor, whom he
had not seen since they had parted that morning, the one on his way to
the dressing-room, the other to the refreshment-bar for a modest
quencher.
'Well, Mr Graham?'
'Hullo, Dawkins. What time does this show start? Do you know when the
middle-weights come on?'
'Well, you can't say for certain. They may keep 'em back a bit or they
may make a start with 'em first thing. No, the light-weights are going
to start. What number did you draw, sir?'
'One.'
'Then you'll be in the first middle-weight pair. That'll be after these
two gentlemen.'
'These two gentlemen', the first of the light-weights, were by this
time in the middle of a warmish opening round. Tony watched them with
interest and envy. 'How beastly nippy they are,' he said.
'Wish I could duck like that,' he added.
'Well, the 'ole thing there is you 'ave to watch the other man's eyes.
But light-weights is always quicker at the duck than what heavier men
are. You get the best boxing in the light-weights, though the feathers
spar quicker.'
Soon afterwards the contest finished, amidst volleys of applause. It
had been a spirited battle, and an exceedingly close thing. The umpires
disagreed. After a short consultation, the referee gave it as his
opinion that on the whole R. Cloverdale, of Bedford, had had a shade
the worse of the exchanges, and that in consequence J. Robinson, of St
Paul's, was the victor. This was what he meant. What he said was,
'Robinson wins,' in a sharp voice, as if somebody were arguing about
it. The pair then shook hands and retired.
'First bout, middle-weights,' shrilled the M.C. 'W.P. Ross (Wellington)
and A.C.R. Graham (St Austin's).'
Tony and his opponent retired for a moment to the changing-room, and
then made their way amidst applause on to the raised stage on which the
ring was pitched. Mr W.P. Ross proceeded to the farther corner of the
ring, where he sat down and was vigorously massaged by his two seconds.
Tony took the opposite corner and submitted himself to the same
process. It is a very cheering thing at any time to have one's arms and
legs kneaded like bread, and it is especially pleasant if one is at all
nervous. It sends a glow through the entire frame. Like somebody's
something it is both grateful and comforting.
Tony's seconds were curious specimens of humanity. One was a gigantic
soldier, very gruff and taciturn, and with decided leanings towards
pessimism. The other was also a soldier. He was in every way his
colleague's opposite. He was half his size, had red hair, and was
bubbling over with conversation. The other could not interfere with his
hair or his size, but he could with his conversation, and whenever he
attempted a remark, he was promptly silenced, much to his disgust.
'Plenty o' moosle 'ere, Fred,' he began, as he rubbed Tony's left arm.
'Moosle ain't everything,' said the other, gloomily, and there was
silence again.
'Are you ready? Seconds away,' said the referee.
'Time!'
The two stood up to one another.
The Wellington representative was a plucky boxer, but he was not in the
same class as Tony. After a few exchanges, the latter got to work, and
after that there was only one man in the ring. In the middle of the
second round the referee stopped the fight, and gave it to Tony, who
came away as fresh as he had started, and a great deal happier and more
confident.
'Did us proud, Fred,' began the garrulous man.
'Yes, but that 'un ain't nothing. You wait till he meets young Thomson.
I've seen 'im box 'ere three years, and never bin beat yet. Three
bloomin' years. Yus.'
This might have depressed anybody else, but as Tony already knew all
there was to be known about Allen's skill with the gloves, it had no
effect upon him.
A sanguinary heavy-weight encounter was followed by the first bout of
the feathers and the second of the light-weights, and then it was
Allen's turn to fight the Harrow representative.
It was not a very exciting bout. Allen took things very easily. He knew
his training was by no means all it should have been, and it was not
his game to take it out of himself with any firework business in the
trial heats. He would reserve that for the final. So he sparred three
gentle rounds with the Harrow sportsman, just doing sufficient to keep
the lead and obtain the verdict after the last round. He finished
without having turned a hair. He had only received one really hard
blow, and that had done no damage. After this came a long series of
fights. The heavy-weights shed their blood in gallons for name and
fame. The feather-weights gave excellent exhibitions of science, and
the light-weight pairs were fought off until there remained only the
final to be decided, Robinson, of St Paul's, against a Charterhouse
boxer.
In the middle-weights there were three competitors still in the
running, Allen, Tony, and a Felsted man. They drew lots, and the bye
fell to Tony, who put up an uninteresting three rounds with one of the
soldiers, neither fatiguing himself very much. Henderson, of Felsted,
proved a much tougher nut to crack than Allen's first opponent. He was
a rushing boxer, and in the first round had, if anything, the best of
it. In the last two, however, Allen gradually forged ahead, gaining
many points by his perfect style alone. He was declared the winner, but
he felt much more tired than he had done after his first fight.
By the time he was required again, however, he had had plenty of
breathing space. The final of the light-weights had been decided, and
Robinson, of St Paul's, after the custom of Paulines, had set the crown
upon his afternoon's work by fighting the Carthusian to a standstill in
the first round. There only remained now the finals of the heavies and
middles.
It was decided to take the latter first.
Tony had his former seconds, and Dawkins had come to his corner to see
him through the ordeal.
'The 'ole thing 'ere,' he kept repeating, 'is to keep goin' 'ard all
the time and wear 'im out. He's too quick for you to try any sparrin'
with.'
'Yes,' said Tony.
'The 'ole thing,' continued the expert, 'is to feint with your left and
'it with your right.' This was excellent in theory, no doubt, but Tony
felt that when he came to put it into practice Allen might have other
schemes on hand and bring them off first.
'Are you ready? Seconds out of the ring.... Time!'
'Go in, sir, 'ard,' whispered the red-haired man as Tony rose from his
place.
Allen came up looking pleased with matters in general. He gave Tony a
cousinly grin as they shook hands. Tony did not respond. He was feeling
serious, and wondering if he could bring off his knock-out before the
three rounds were over. He had his doubts.
The fight opened slowly. Both were cautious, for each knew the other's
powers. Suddenly, just as Tony was thinking of leading, Allen came in
like a flash. A straight left between the eyes, a right on the side of
the head, and a second left on the exact tip of the nose, and he was
out again, leaving Tony with a helpless feeling of impotence and
disgust.
Then followed more sparring. Tony could never get in exactly the right
position for a rush. Allen circled round him with an occasional feint.
Then he hit out with the left. Tony ducked. Again he hit, and again
Tony ducked, but this time the left stopped halfway, and his right
caught Tony on the cheek just as he swayed to one side. It staggered
him, and before he could recover himself, in darted Allen again with
another trio of blows, ducked a belated left counter, got in two
stinging hits on the ribs, and finished with a left drive which took
Tony clean off his feet and deposited him on the floor beside the
ropes.
'Silence, _please_,' said the referee, as a burst of applause
greeted this feat.
Tony was up again in a moment. He began to feel savage. He had expected
something like this, but that gave him no consolation. He made up his
mind that he really would rush this time, but just as he was coming in,
Allen came in instead. It seemed to Tony for the next half-minute that
his cousin's fists were never out of his face. He looked on the world
through a brown haze of boxing-glove. Occasionally his hand met
something solid which he took to be Allen, but this was seldom, and,
whenever it happened, it only seemed to bring him back again like a
boomerang. Just at the most exciting point, 'Time' was called.
The pessimist shook his head gloomily as he sponged Tony's face.
'You must lead if you want to 'it 'im,' said the garrulous man. 'You're
too slow. Go in at 'im, sir, wiv both 'ands, an' you'll be all right.
Won't 'e, Fred?'
'I said 'ow it 'ud be,' was the only reply Fred would vouchsafe.
Tony was half afraid the referee would give the fight against him
without another round, but to his joy 'Time' was duly called. He came
up to the scratch as game as ever, though his head was singing. He
meant to go in for all he was worth this round.
And go in he did. Allen had managed, in performing a complicated
manoeuvre, to place himself in a corner, and Tony rushed. He was sent
out again with a flush hit on the face. He rushed again, and again met
Allen's left. Then he got past, and in the confined space had it all
his own way. Science did not tell here. Strength was the thing that
scored, hard half-arm smashes, left and right, at face and body, and
the guard could look after itself.
Allen upper-cut him twice, but after that he was nowhere. Tony went in
with both hands. There was a prolonged rally, and it was not until
'Time' had been called that Allen was able to extricate himself. Tony's
blows had been mostly body blows, and very warm ones at that.
'That's right, sir,' was the comment of the red-headed second. 'Keep
'em both goin' hard, and you'll win yet. You 'ad 'im proper then.
'Adn't 'e, Fred?'
And even the pessimist was obliged to admit that Tony could fight, even
if he was not quick with his guard.
Allen took the ring slowly. His want of training had begun to tell on
him, and some of Tony's blows had landed in very tender spots. He knew
that he could win if his wind held out, but he had misgivings. The
gloves seemed to weigh down his hands. Tony opened the ball with a
tremendous rush. Allen stopped him neatly. There was an interval while
the two sparred for an opening. Then Allen feinted and dashed in. Tony
did not hit him once. It was the first round over again. Left right,
left right, and, finally, as had happened before, a tremendously hot
shot which sent him under the ropes. He got up, and again Allen darted
in. Tony met him with a straight left. A rapid exchange of blows, and
the end came. Allen lashed out with his left. Tony ducked sharply, and
brought his right across with every ounce of his weight behind it,
fairly on to the point of the jaw. The right cross-counter is
distinctly one of those things which it is more blessed to give than to
receive. Allen collapsed.
'... nine ... ten.'
The time-keeper closed his watch.
'Graham wins,' said the referee, 'look after that man there.'