often?"
"Oftener the better, sir. You can't practise too much."
"Then I'll start next week. Thanks very much. By the way, I shall have
to go by boat, I suppose. It isn't far, is it? I've not been up the
river for some time. The School generally goes down stream."
"It's not what you'd call far," said Bevan. "But it would be easier for
you to come by road."
"I haven't a bicycle."
"Wouldn't one of your friends lend you one?"
Sheen flushed.
"No, I'd better come by boat, I think. I'll turn up on Tuesday at about
five. Will that suit you?"
"Yes, sir. That will be a good time. Then I'll say good bye, sir, for
the present."
Sheen went back to his house in a different mood from the one in which
he had left it. He did not care now when the other Seymourites looked
through him.
In the passage he met Linton, and grinned pleasantly at him.
"What the dickens was that man grinning at?" said Linton to himself. "I
must have a smut or something on my face."
But a close inspection in the dormitory looking-glass revealed no
blemish on his handsome features.
VIII
A NAVAL BATTLE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
What a go is life!
Let us examine the case of Jackson, of Dexter's. O'Hara, who had left
Dexter's at the end of the summer term, had once complained to Clowes
of the manner in which his house-master treated him, and Clowes had
remarked in his melancholy way that it was nothing less than a breach
of the law that Dexter should persist in leading a fellow a dog's life
without a dog licence for him.
That was precisely how Jackson felt on the subject.
Things became definitely unbearable on the day after Sheen's interview
with Mr Joe Bevan.
'Twas morn--to begin at the beginning--and Jackson sprang from his
little cot to embark on the labours of the day. Unfortunately, he
sprang ten minutes too late, and came down to breakfast about the time
of the second slice of bread and marmalade. Result, a hundred lines.
Proceeding to school, he had again fallen foul of his house-master--in
whose form he was--over a matter of unprepared Livy. As a matter of
fact, Jackson _had_ prepared the Livy. Or, rather, he had not
absolutely _prepared_ it; but he had meant to. But it was Mr
Templar's preparation, and Mr Templar was short-sighted. Any one will
understand, therefore, that it would have been simply chucking away the
gifts of Providence if he had not gone on with the novel which he had
been reading up till the last moment before prep-time, and had brought
along with him accidentally, as it were. It was a book called _A
Spoiler of Men_, by Richard Marsh, and there was a repulsive crime on
nearly every page. It was Hot Stuff. Much better than Livy....
Lunch Score--Two hundred lines.
During lunch he had the misfortune to upset a glass of water. Pure
accident, of course, but there it was, don't you know, all over the
table.
Mr Dexter had called him--
(a) clumsy;
(b) a pig;
and had given him
(1) Advice--"You had better be careful, Jackson".
(2) A present--"Two hundred lines, Jackson".
On the match being resumed at two o'clock, with four hundred lines on
the score-sheet, he had played a fine, free game during afternoon
school, and Mr Dexter, who objected to fine, free games--or, indeed,
any games--during school hours, had increased the total to six hundred,
when stumps were drawn for the day.
So on a bright sunny Saturday afternoon, when he should have been out
in the field cheering the house-team on to victory against the School
House, Jackson sat in the junior day-room at Dexter's copying out
portions of Virgil, Aeneid Two.
To him, later on in the afternoon, when he had finished half his task,
entered Painter, with the news that Dexter's had taken thirty points
off the School House just after half-time.
"Mopped them up," said the terse and epigrammatic Painter. "Made rings
round them. Haven't you finished yet? Well, chuck it, and come out."
"What's on?" asked Jackson.
"We're going to have a boat race."
"Pile it on."
"We are, really. Fact. Some of these School House kids are awfully sick
about the match, and challenged us. That chap Tomlin thinks he can row.
"He can't row for nuts," said Jackson. "He doesn't know which end of
the oar to shove into the water. I've seen cats that could row better
than Tomlin."
"That's what I told him. At least, I said he couldn't row for toffee,
so he said all right, I bet I can lick you, and I said I betted he
couldn't, and he said all right, then, let's try, and then the other
chaps wanted to join in, so we made an inter-house thing of it. And I
want you to come and stroke us."
Jackson hesitated. Mr Dexter, setting the lines on Friday, had
certainly said that they were to be shown up "tomorrow evening." He had
said it very loud and clear. Still, in a case like this.... After all,
by helping to beat the School House on the river he would be giving
Dexter's a leg-up. And what more could the man want?
"Right ho," said Jackson.
Down at the School boat-house the enemy were already afloat when
Painter and Jackson arrived.
"Buck up," cried the School House crew.
Dexter's embarked, five strong. There was room for two on each seat.
Jackson shared the post of stroke with Painter. Crowle steered.
"Ready?" asked Tomlin from the other boat.
"Half a sec.," said Jackson. "What's the course?"
"Oh, don't you know _that_ yet? Up to the town, round the island
just below the bridge,--the island with the croquet ground on it,
_you_ know--and back again here. Ready?"
"In a jiffy. Look here, Crowle, remember about steering. You pull the
right line if you want to go to the right and the other if you want to
go to the left."
"All right," said the injured Crowle. "As if I didn't know that."
"Thought I'd mention it. It's your fault. Nobody could tell by looking
at you that you knew anything except how to eat. Ready, you chaps?"
"When I say 'Three,'" said Tomlin.
It was a subject of heated discussion between the crews for weeks
afterwards whether Dexter's boat did or did not go off at the word
"Two." Opinions were divided on the topic. But it was certain that
Jackson and his men led from the start. Pulling a good, splashing
stroke which had drenched Crowle to the skin in the first thirty yards,
Dexter's boat crept slowly ahead. By the time the island was reached,
it led by a length. Encouraged by success, the leaders redoubled their
already energetic efforts. Crowle sat in a shower-bath. He was even
moved to speech about it.
"When you've finished," said Crowle.
Jackson, intent upon repartee, caught a crab, and the School House drew
level again. The two boats passed the island abreast.
Just here occurred one of those unfortunate incidents. Both crews had
quickened their stroke until the boats had practically been converted
into submarines, and the rival coxswains were observing bitterly to
space that this was jolly well the last time they ever let themselves
in for this sort of thing, when round the island there hove in sight a
flotilla of boats, directly in the path of the racers.
There were three of them, and not even the spray which played over them
like a fountain could prevent Crowle from seeing that they were manned
by Judies. Even on the river these outcasts wore their mortar-boards.
"Look out!" shrieked Crowle, pulling hard on his right line. "Stop
rowing, you chaps. We shall be into them."
At the same moment the School House oarsmen ceased pulling. The two
boats came to a halt a few yards from the enemy.
"What's up?" panted Jackson, crimson from his exertions. "Hullo, it's
the Judies!"
Tomlin was parleying with the foe.
"Why the dickens can't you keep out of the way? Spoiling our race. Wait
till we get ashore."
But the Judies, it seemed, were not prepared to wait even for that
short space of time. A miscreant, larger than the common run of Judy,
made a brief, but popular, address to his men.
"Splash them!" he said.
Instantly, amid shrieks of approval, oars began to strike the water,
and the water began to fly over the Wrykyn boats, which were now
surrounded. The latter were not slow to join battle with the same
weapons. Homeric laughter came from the bridge above. The town bridge
was a sort of loafers' club, to which the entrance fee was a screw of
tobacco, and the subscription an occasional remark upon the weather.
Here gathered together day by day that section of the populace which
resented it when they "asked for employment, and only got work
instead". From morn till eve they lounged against the balustrades,
surveying nature, and hoping it would be kind enough to give them some
excitement that day. An occasional dog-fight found in them an eager
audience. No runaway horse ever bored them. A broken-down motor-car was
meat and drink to them. They had an appetite for every spectacle.
When, therefore, the water began to fly from boat to boat, kind-hearted
men fetched their friends from neighbouring public houses and craned
with them over the parapet, observing the sport and commenting thereon.
It was these comments that attracted Mr Dexter's attention. When,
cycling across the bridge, he found the south side of it entirely
congested, and heard raucous voices urging certain unseen "little 'uns"
now to "go it" and anon to "vote for Pedder", his curiosity was
aroused. He dismounted and pushed his way through the crowd until he
got a clear view of what was happening below.
He was just in time to see the most stirring incident of the fight. The
biggest of the Judy boats had been propelled by the current nearer and
nearer to the Dexter Argo. No sooner was it within distance than
Jackson, dropping his oar, grasped the side and pulled it towards him.
The two boats crashed together and rocked violently as the crews rose
from their seats and grappled with one another. A hurricane of laughter
and applause went up from the crowd upon the bridge.
The next moment both boats were bottom upwards and drifting sluggishly
down towards the island, while the crews swam like rats for the other
boats.
Every Wrykinian had to learn to swim before he was allowed on the
river; so that the peril of Jackson and his crew was not extreme: and
it was soon speedily evident that swimming was also part of the Judy
curriculum, for the shipwrecked ones were soon climbing drippingly on
board the surviving ships, where they sat and made puddles, and
shrieked defiance at their antagonists.
This was accepted by both sides as the end of the fight, and the
combatants parted without further hostilities, each fleet believing
that the victory was with them.
And Mr Dexter, mounting his bicycle again, rode home to tell the
headmaster.
That evening, after preparation, the headmaster held a reception. Among
distinguished visitors were Jackson, Painter, Tomlin, Crowle, and six
others.
On the Monday morning the headmaster issued a manifesto to the school
after prayers. He had, he said, for some time entertained the idea of
placing the town out of bounds. He would do so now. No boy, unless he
was a prefect, would be allowed till further notice to cross the town
bridge. As regarded the river, for the future boating Wrykinians must
confine their attentions to the lower river. Nobody must take a boat
up-stream. The school boatman would have strict orders to see that this
rule was rigidly enforced. Any breach of these bounds would, he
concluded, be punished with the utmost severity.
The headmaster of Wrykyn was not a hasty man. He thought before he put
his foot down. But when he did, he put it down heavily.
Sheen heard the ultimatum with dismay. He was a law-abiding person, and
here he was, faced with a dilemma that made it necessary for him to
choose between breaking school rules of the most important kind, or
pulling down all the castles he had built in the air before the mortar
had had time to harden between their stones.
He wished he could talk it over with somebody. But he had nobody with
whom he could talk over anything. He must think it out for himself.
He spent the rest of the day thinking it out, and by nightfall he had
come to his decision.
Even at the expense of breaking bounds and the risk of being caught at
it, he must keep his appointment with Joe Bevan. It would mean going to
the town landing-stage for a boat, thereby breaking bounds twice over.
But it would have to be done.
IX
SHEEN BEGINS HIS EDUCATION
The "Blue Boar" was a picturesque inn, standing on the bank of the
river Severn. It was much frequented in the summer by fishermen, who
spent their days in punts and their evenings in the old oak parlour,
where a picture in boxing costume of Mr Joe Bevan, whose brother was
the landlord of the inn, gazed austerely down on them, as if he
disapproved of the lamentable want of truth displayed by the majority
of their number. Artists also congregated there to paint the
ivy-covered porch. At the back of the house were bedrooms, to which the
fishermen would make their way in the small hours of a summer morning,
arguing to the last as they stumbled upstairs. One of these bedrooms,
larger than the others, had been converted into a gymnasium for the use
of mine host's brother. Thither he brought pugilistic aspirants who
wished to be trained for various contests, and it was the boast of the
"Blue Boar" that it had never turned out a loser. A reputation of this
kind is a valuable asset to an inn, and the boxing world thought highly
of it, in spite of the fact that it was off the beaten track. Certainly
the luck of the "Blue Boar" had been surprising.
Sheen pulled steadily up stream on the appointed day, and after half an
hour's work found himself opposite the little landing-stage at the foot
of the inn lawn.
His journey had not been free from adventure. On his way to the town he
had almost run into Mr Templar, and but for the lucky accident of that
gentleman's short sight must have been discovered. He had reached the
landing-stage in safety, but he had not felt comfortable until he was
well out of sight of the town. It was fortunate for him in the present
case that he was being left so severely alone by the school. It was an
advantage that nobody took the least interest in his goings and
comings.
Having moored his boat and proceeded to the inn, he was directed
upstairs by the landlord, who was an enlarged and coloured edition of
his brother. From the other side of the gymnasium door came an
unceasing and mysterious shuffling sound.
He tapped at the door and went in.
He found himself in a large, airy room, lit by two windows and a broad
skylight. The floor was covered with linoleum. But it was the furniture
that first attracted his attention. In a farther corner of the room was
a circular wooden ceiling, supported by four narrow pillars. From the
centre of this hung a ball, about the size of an ordinary football. To
the left, suspended from a beam, was an enormous leather bolster. On
the floor, underneath a table bearing several pairs of boxing-gloves, a
skipping-rope, and some wooden dumb-bells, was something that looked
like a dozen Association footballs rolled into one. All the rest of the
room, a space some few yards square, was bare of furniture. In this
space a small sweater-clad youth, with a head of light hair cropped
very short, was darting about and ducking and hitting out with both
hands at nothing, with such a serious, earnest expression on his face
that Sheen could not help smiling. On a chair by one of the windows Mr
Joe Bevan was sitting, with a watch in his hand.
As Sheen entered the room the earnest young man made a sudden dash at
him. The next moment he seemed to be in a sort of heavy shower of
fists. They whizzed past his ear, flashed up from below within an inch
of his nose, and tapped him caressingly on the waistcoat. Just as the
shower was at its heaviest his assailant darted away again,
side-stepped an imaginary blow, ducked another, and came at him once
more. None of the blows struck him, but it was with more than a little
pleasure that he heard Joe Bevan call "Time!" and saw the active young
gentleman sink panting into a seat.
"You and your games, Francis!" said Joe Bevan, reproachfully. "This is
a young gentleman from the college come for tuition."
"Gentleman--won't mind--little joke--take it in spirit which
is--meant," said Francis, jerkily.
Sheen hastened to assure him that he had not been offended.
"You take your two minutes, Francis," said Mr Bevan, "and then have a
turn with the ball. Come this way, Mr--"
"Sheen."
"Come this way, Mr Sheen, and I'll show you where to put on your
things."
Sheen had brought his football clothes with him. He had not put them on
for a year.
"That's the lad I was speaking of. Getting on prime, he is. Fit to
fight for his life, as the saying is."
"What was he doing when I came in?"
"Oh, he always has three rounds like that every day. It teaches you to
get about quick. You try it when you get back, Mr Sheen. Fancy you're
fighting me."
"Are you sure I'm not interrupting you in the middle of your work?"
asked Sheen.
"Not at all, sir, not at all. I just have to rub him down, and give him
his shower-bath, and then he's finished for the day."
Having donned his football clothes and returned to the gymnasium, Sheen
found Francis in a chair, having his left leg vigorously rubbed by Mr
Bevan.
"You fon' of dargs?" inquired Francis affably, looking up as he came
in.
Sheen replied that he was, and, indeed, was possessed of one. The
admission stimulated Francis, whose right leg was now under treatment,
to a flood of conversation. He, it appeared, had always been one for
dargs. Owned two. Answering to the names of Tim and Tom. Beggars for
rats, yes. And plucked 'uns? Well--he would like to see, would Francis,
a dog that Tim or Tom would not stand up to. Clever, too. Why once--
Joe Bevan cut his soliloquy short at this point by leading him off to
another room for his shower-bath; but before he went he expressed a
desire to talk further with Sheen on the subject of dogs, and, learning
that Sheen would be there every day, said he was glad to hear it. He
added that for a brother dog-lover he did not mind stretching a point,
so that, if ever Sheen wanted a couple of rounds any day, he, Francis,
would see that he got them. This offer, it may be mentioned, Sheen
accepted with gratitude, and the extra practice he acquired thereby was
subsequently of the utmost use to him. Francis, as a boxer, excelled in
what is known in pugilistic circles as shiftiness. That is to say, he
had a number of ingenious ways of escaping out of tight corners; and
these he taught Sheen, much to the latter's profit.
But this was later, when the Wrykinian had passed those preliminary
stages on which he was now to embark.
The art of teaching boxing really well is a gift, and it is given to
but a few. It is largely a matter of personal magnetism, and, above
all, sympathy. A man may be a fine boxer himself, up to every move of
the game, and a champion of champions, but for all that he may not be a
good teacher. If he has not the sympathy necessary for the appreciation
of the difficulties experienced by the beginner, he cannot produce good
results. A boxing instructor needs three qualities--skill, sympathy,
and enthusiasm. Joe Bevan had all three, particularly enthusiasm. His
heart was in his work, and he carried Sheen with him. "Beautiful, sir,
beautiful," he kept saying, as he guarded the blows; and Sheen, though
too clever to be wholly deceived by the praise, for he knew perfectly
well that his efforts up to the present had been anything but
beautiful, was nevertheless encouraged, and put all he knew into his
hits. Occasionally Joe Bevan would push out his left glove. Then, if
Sheen's guard was in the proper place and the push did not reach its
destination, Joe would mutter a word of praise. If Sheen dropped his
right hand, so that he failed to stop the blow, Bevan would observe,
"Keep that guard up, sir!" with almost a pained intonation, as if he
had been disappointed in a friend.
The constant repetition of this maxim gradually drove it into Sheen's
head, so that towards the end of the lesson he no longer lowered his
right hand when he led with his left; and he felt the gentle pressure
of Joe Bevan's glove less frequently. At no stage of a pupil's
education did Joe Bevan hit him really hard, and in the first few
lessons he could scarcely be said to hit him at all. He merely rested
his glove against the pupil's face. On the other hand, he was urgent in
imploring the pupil to hit _him_ as hard as he could.
"Don't be too kind, sir," he would chant, "I don't mind being hit. Let
me have it. Don't flap. Put it in with some weight behind it." He was
also fond of mentioning that extract from Polonius' speech to Laertes,
which he had quoted to Sheen on their first meeting.
Sheen finished his first lesson, feeling hotter than he had ever felt
in his life.
"Hullo, sir, you're out of condition," commented Mr Bevan. "Have a bit
of a rest."
Once more Sheen had learnt the lesson of his weakness. He could hardly
realise that he had only begun to despise himself in the last
fortnight. Before then, he had been, on the whole, satisfied with
himself. He was brilliant at work, and would certainly get a
scholarship at Oxford or Cambridge when the time came; and he had
specialised in work to the exclusion of games. It is bad to specialise
in games to the exclusion of work, but of the two courses the latter is
probably the less injurious. One gains at least health by it.
But Sheen now understood thoroughly, what he ought to have learned from
his study of the Classics, that the happy mean was the thing at which
to strive. And for the future he meant to aim at it. He would get the
Gotford, if he could, but also would he win the house boxing at his
weight.
After he had rested he discovered the use of the big ball beneath the
table. It was soft, but solid and heavy. By throwing this--the
medicine-ball, as they call it in the profession--at Joe Bevan, and
catching it, Sheen made himself very hot again, and did the muscles of
his shoulders a great deal of good.
"That'll do for today, then, sir," said Joe Bevan. "Have a good rub
down tonight, or you'll find yourself very stiff in the morning."
"Well, do you think I shall be any good?" asked Sheen.
"You'll do fine, sir. But remember what Shakespeare says."
"About vaulting ambition?"
"No, sir, no. I meant what Hamlet says to the players. 'Nor do not saw
the air too much, with your hand, thus, but use all gently.' That's
what you've got to remember in boxing, sir. Take it easy. Easy and cool
does it, and the straight left beats the world."
* * * * *
Sheen paddled quietly back to the town with the stream, pondering over
this advice. He felt that he had advanced another step. He was not
foolish enough to believe that he knew anything about boxing as yet,
but he felt that it would not be long before he did.
X
SHEEN'S PROGRESS
Sheen improved. He took to boxing as he had taken to fives. He found
that his fives helped him. He could get about on his feet quickly, and
his eye was trained to rapid work.
His second lesson was not encouraging. He found that he had learned
just enough to make him stiff and awkward, and no more. But he kept on,
and by the end of the first week Joe Bevan declared definitely that he
would do, that he had the root of the matter in him, and now required
only practice.
"I wish you could see like I can how you're improving," he said at the
end of the sixth lesson, as they were resting after five minutes'
exercise with the medicine-ball. "I get four blows in on some of the
gentlemen I teach to one what I get in on you. But it's like riding.
When you can trot, you look forward to when you can gallop. And when
you can gallop, you can't see yourself getting on any further. But
you're improving all the time."
"But I can't gallop yet," said Sheen.
"Well, no, not gallop exactly, but you've only had six lessons. Why, in
another six weeks, if you come regular, you won't know yourself. You'll
be making some of the young gentlemen at the college wish they had
never been born. You'll make babies of them, that's what you'll do."
"I'll bet I couldn't, if I'd learnt with some one else," said Sheen,
sincerely. "I don't believe I should have learnt a thing if I'd gone to
the school instructor."
"Who is your school instructor, sir?"
"A man named Jenkins. He used to be in the army."