Sam Vaknin - "Terrorists and Freedom Fighters"

William Shakespeare - "Twelfth Night; or What You Will"

Thomas H. Huxley - "The Perpetuation of Living Beings"

Vingie E. Roe - "The Maid of the Whispering Hills"

The White Feather

P >> P. G. Wodehouse >> The White Feather




"I want you, if you will, to give him a trial in the dinner-hour. Just
see if he's any good at all. If he isn't, of course, don't hit him
about a great deal. But if he shows signs of being a useful man, extend
him. See what he can do."

"Very well, sir," said O'Hara.

"And you might look in at my house at tea-time, if you have nothing
better to do, and tell me what you think of him."

At five o'clock, when he entered Mr Spence's study, O'Hara's face wore
the awe-struck look of one who had seen visions.

"Well?" said Mr Spence. "Did you find him any good?"

"Good?" said O'Hara. "He'll beat them all. He's a champion. There's
no stopping him."

"What an extraordinary thing!" said Mr Spence.




XX

SHEEN GOES TO ALDERSHOT


At Sheen's request Mr Spence made no announcement of the fact that
Wrykyn would be represented in the Light-Weights. It would be time
enough, Sheen felt, for the School to know that he was a boxer when he
had been down and shown what he could do. His appearance in his new
role would be the most surprising thing that had happened in the place
for years, and it would be a painful anti-climax if, after all the
excitement which would be caused by the discovery that he could use his
hands, he were to be defeated in his first bout. Whereas, if he
happened to win, the announcement of his victory would be all the more
impressive, coming unexpectedly. To himself he did not admit the
possibility of defeat. He had braced himself up for the ordeal, and he
refused to acknowledge to himself that he might not come out of it
well. Besides, Joe Bevan continued to express hopeful opinions.

"Just you keep your head, sir." he said, "and you'll win. Lots of these
gentlemen, they're champions when they're practising, and you'd think
nothing wouldn't stop them when they get into the ring. But they get
wild directly they begin, and forget everything they've been taught,
and where are they then? Why, on the floor, waiting for the referee to
count them out."

This picture might have encouraged Sheen more if he had not reflected
that he was just as likely to fall into this error as were his
opponents.

"What you want to remember is to keep that guard up. Nothing can beat
that. And push out your left straight. The straight left rules the
boxing world. And be earnest about it. Be as friendly as you like
afterwards, but while you're in the ring say to yourself, 'Well, it's
you or me', and don't be too kind."

"I wish you could come down to second me, Joe," said Sheen.

"I'll have a jolly good try, sir," said Joe Bevan. "Let me see. You'll
be going down the night before--I can't come down then, but I'll try
and manage it by an early train on the day."

"How about Francis?"

"Oh, Francis can look after himself for one day. He's not the sort of
boy to run wild if he's left alone for a few hours."

"Then you think you can manage it?"

"Yes, sir. If I'm not there for your first fight, I shall come in time
to second you in the final."

"If I get there," said Sheen.

"Good seconding's half the battle. These soldiers they give you at
Aldershot--well, they don't know the business, as the saying is. They
don't look after their man, not like I could. I saw young
what's-his-name, of Rugby--Stevens: he was beaten in the final by a
gentleman from Harrow--I saw him fight there a couple of years ago.
After the first round he was leading--not by much, but still, he was a
point or two ahead. Well! He went to his corner and his seconds sent
him up for the next round in the same state he'd got there in. They
hadn't done a thing to him. Why, if I'd been in his corner I'd have
taken him and sponged him and sent him up again as fresh as he could
be. You must have a good second if you're to win. When you're all on
top of your man, I don't say. But you get a young gentleman of your own
class, just about as quick and strong as you are, and then you'll know
where the seconding comes in."

"Then, for goodness' sake, don't make any mistake about coming down,"
said Sheen.

"I'll be there, sir," said Joe Bevan.

* * * * *

The Queen's Avenue Gymnasium at Aldershot is a roomy place, but it is
always crowded on the Public Schools' Day. Sisters and cousins and
aunts of competitors flock there to see Tommy or Bobby perform, under
the impression, it is to be supposed, that he is about to take part in
a pleasant frolic, a sort of merry parlour game. What their opinion is
after he emerges from a warm three rounds is not known. Then there are
soldiers in scores. Their views on boxing as a sport are crisp and
easily defined. What they want is Gore. Others of the spectators are
Old Boys, come to see how the school can behave in an emergency, and to
find out whether there are still experts like Jones, who won the
Middles in '96 or Robinson, who was runner-up in the Feathers in the
same year; or whether, as they have darkly suspected for some time, the
school has Gone To The Dogs Since They Left.

The usual crowd was gathered in the seats round the ring when Sheen
came out of the dressing-room and sat down in an obscure corner at the
end of the barrier which divides the gymnasium into two parts on these
occasions. He felt very lonely. Mr Spence and the school instructor
were watching the gymnastics, which had just started upon their lengthy
course. The Wrykyn pair were not expected to figure high on the list
this year. He could have joined Mr Spence, but, at the moment, he felt
disinclined for conversation. If he had been a more enthusiastic
cricketer, he would have recognised the feeling as that which attacks a
batsman before he goes to the wicket. It is not precisely funk. It is
rather a desire to accelerate the flight of Time, and get to business
quickly. All things come to him who waits, and among them is that
unpleasant sensation of a cold hand upon the portion of the body which
lies behind the third waistcoat button.

The boxing had begun with a bout between two feather-weights, both
obviously suffering from stage-fright. They were fighting in a
scrambling and unscientific manner, which bore out Mr Bevan's
statements on the subject of losing one's head. Sheen felt that both
were capable of better things. In the second and third rounds this
proved to be the case and the contest came to an end amidst applause.

The next pair were light-weights, and Sheen settled himself to watch
more attentively. From these he would gather some indication of what he
might expect to find when he entered the ring. He would not have to
fight for some time yet. In the drawing for numbers, which had taken
place in the dressing-room, he had picked a three. There would be
another light-weight battle before he was called upon. His opponent was
a Tonbridgian, who, from the glimpse Sheen caught of him, seemed
muscular. But he (Sheen) had the advantage in reach, and built on that.

After opening tamely, the light-weight bout had become vigorous in the
second round, and both men had apparently forgotten that their right
arms had been given them by Nature for the purpose of guarding. They
were going at it in hurricane fashion all over the ring. Sheen was
horrified to feel symptoms of a return of that old sensation of panic
which had caused him, on that dark day early in the term, to flee
Albert and his wicked works. He set his teeth, and fought it down. And
after a bad minute he was able to argue himself into a proper frame of
mind again. After all, that sort of thing looked much worse than it
really was. Half those blows, which seemed as if they must do
tremendous damage, were probably hardly felt by their recipient. He
told himself that Francis, and even the knife-and-boot boy, hit fully
as hard, or harder, and he had never minded them. At the end of the
contest he was once more looking forward to his entrance to the ring
with proper fortitude.

The fighting was going briskly forward now, sometimes good, sometimes
moderate, but always earnest, and he found himself contemplating,
without undue excitement, the fact that at the end of the bout which
had just begun, between middle-weights from St Paul's and Wellington,
it would be his turn to perform. As luck would have it, he had not so
long to wait as he had expected, for the Pauline, taking the lead after
the first few exchanges, out-fought his man so completely that the
referee stopped the contest in the second round. Sheen got up from his
corner and went to the dressing-room. The Tonbridgian was already
there. He took off his coat. Somebody crammed his hands into the gloves
and from that moment the last trace of nervousness left him. He
trembled with the excitement of the thing, and hoped sincerely that no
one would notice it, and think that he was afraid.

Then, amidst a clapping of hands which sounded faint and far-off, he
followed his opponent to the ring, and ducked under the ropes.

The referee consulted a paper which he held, and announced the names.

"R. D. Sheen, Wrykyn College."

Sheen wriggled his fingers right into the gloves, and thought of Joe
Bevan. What had Joe said? Keep that guard up. The straight left. Keep
that guard--the straight left. Keep that--

"A. W. Bird, Tonbridge School."

There was a fresh outburst of applause. The Tonbridgian had shown up
well in the competition of the previous year, and the crowd welcomed
him as an old friend.

Keep that guard up--straight left. Straight left--guard up.

"Seconds out of the ring."

Guard up. Not too high. Straight left. It beats the world. What an age
that man was calling Time. Guard up. Straight--

"Time," said the referee.

Sheen, filled with a great calm, walked out of his corner and shook
hands with his opponent.




XXI

A GOOD START


It was all over in half a minute.

The Tonbridgian was a two-handed fighter of the rushing type almost
immediately after he had shaken hands. Sheen found himself against the
ropes, blinking from a heavy hit between the eyes. Through the mist he
saw his opponent sparring up to him, and as he hit he side-stepped. The
next moment he was out in the middle again, with his man pressing him
hard. There was a quick rally, and then Sheen swung his right at a
venture. The blow had no conscious aim. It was purely speculative. But
it succeeded. The Tonbridgian fell with a thud.

Sheen drew back. The thing seemed pathetic. He had braced himself up
for a long fight, and it had ended in half a minute. His sensations
were mixed. The fighting half of him was praying that his man would get
up and start again. The prudent half realised that it was best that he
should stay down. He had other fights before him before he could call
that silver medal his own, and this would give him an invaluable start
in the race. His rivals had all had to battle hard in their opening
bouts.

The Tonbridgian's rigidity had given place to spasmodic efforts to
rise. He got on one knee, and his gloved hand roamed feebly about in
search of a hold. It was plain that he had shot his bolt. The referee
signed to his seconds, who ducked into the ring and carried him to his
corner. Sheen walked back to his own corner, and sat down. Presently
the referee called out his name as the winner, and he went across the
ring and shook hands with his opponent, who was now himself again.

He overheard snatches of conversation as he made his way through the
crowd to the dressing-room.

"Useful boxer, that Wrykyn boy."

"Shortest fight I've seen here since Hopley won the Heavy-Weights."

"Fluke, do you think?"

"Don't know. Came to the same thing in the end, anyhow. Caught him
fair."

"Hard luck on that Tonbridge man. He's a good boxer, really. Did well
here last year."

Then an outburst of hand-claps drowned the speakers' voices. A swarthy
youth with the Ripton pink and green on his vest had pushed past him
and was entering the ring. As he entered the dressing-room he heard the
referee announcing the names. So that was the famous Peteiro! Sheen
admitted to himself that he looked tough, and hurried into his coat and
out of the dressing-room again so as to be in time to see how the
Ripton terror shaped.

It was plainly not a one-sided encounter. Peteiro's opponent hailed
from St Paul's, a school that has a habit of turning out boxers. At the
end of the first round it seemed that honours were even. The great
Peteiro had taken as much as he had given, and once had been
uncompromisingly floored by the Pauline's left. But in the second round
he began to gain points. For a boy of his weight he had a terrific hit
with the right, and three applications of this to the ribs early in the
round took much of the sting out of the Pauline's blows. He fought on
with undiminished pluck, but the Riptonian was too strong for him, and
the third round was a rout. To quote the _Sportsman_ of the
following day, "Peteiro crowded in a lot of work with both hands, and
scored a popular victory".

Sheen looked thoughtful at the conclusion of the fight. There was no
doubt that Drummond's antagonist of the previous year was formidable.
Yet Sheen believed himself to be the cleverer of the two. At any rate,
Peteiro had given no signs of possessing much cunning. To all
appearances he was a tough, go-ahead fighter, with a right which would
drill a hole in a steel plate. Had he sufficient skill to baffle his
(Sheen's) strong tactics? If only Joe Bevan would come! With Joe in his
corner to direct him, he would feel safe.

But of Joe up to the present there were no signs.

Mr Spence came and sat down beside him.

"Well, Sheen," he said, "so you won your first fight. Keep it up."

"I'll try, sir," said Sheen.

"What do you think of Peteiro?"

"I was just wondering, sir. He hits very hard."

"Very hard indeed."

"But he doesn't look as if he was very clever."

"Not a bit. Just a plain slogger. That's all. That's why Drummond beat
him last year in the Feather-Weights. In strength there was no
comparison, but Drummond was just too clever for him. You will be the
same, Sheen."

"I hope so, sir," said Sheen.

* * * * *

After lunch the second act of the performance began. Sheen had to meet
a boxer from Harrow who had drawn a bye in the first round of the
competition. This proved a harder fight than his first encounter, but
by virtue of a stout heart and a straight left he came through it
successfully, and there was no doubt as to what the decision would be.
Both judges voted for him.

Peteiro demolished a Radleian in his next fight.

By the middle of the afternoon there were three light-weights in the
running--Sheen, Peteiro, and a boy from Clifton. Sheen drew the bye,
and sparred in an outer room with a soldier, who was inclined to take
the thing easily. Sheen, with the thought of the final in his mind, was
only too ready to oblige him. They sparred an innocuous three rounds,
and the man of war was kind enough to whisper in his ear as they left
the room that he hoped he would win the final, and that he himself had
a matter of one-and-sixpence with Old Spud Smith on his success.

"For I'm a man," said the amiable warrior confidentially, "as knows
Class when he sees it. You're Class, sir, that's what you are."

This, taken in conjunction with the fact that if the worst came to the
worst he had, at any rate, won a medal by having got into the final,
cheered Sheen. If only Joe Bevan had appeared he would have been
perfectly contented.

But there were no signs of Joe.




XXII

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 the
preliminary bouts had won him favour with the spectators.

"J. Peteiro, Ripton School."

"Go it, Ripton!" cried a voice from near the door. The referee frowned
in the direction of this audacious partisan, and expressed a hope that
the audience would kindly refrain from comment during the rounds.

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

"Sheen--Peteiro."

The Ripton man was sitting with a hand on each knee, listening to the
advice of his school instructor, who had thrust head and shoulders
through the ropes, and was busy impressing some point upon him. Sheen
found himself noticing the most trivial things with extraordinary
clearness. In the front row of the spectators sat a man with a
parti-coloured tie. He wondered idly what tie it was. It was rather like
one worn by members of Templar's house at Wrykyn. Why were the ropes of
the ring red? He rather liked the colour. There was a man lighting a
pipe. Would he blow out the match or extinguish it with a wave of the
hand? What a beast Peteiro looked. He really was a nigger. He must look
out for that right of his. The straight left. Push it out. Straight
left ruled the boxing world. Where was Joe? He must have missed the
train. Or perhaps he hadn't been able to get away. Why did he want to
yawn, he wondered.

"Time!"

The Ripton man became suddenly active. He almost ran across the ring. A
brief handshake, and he had penned Sheen up in his corner before he had
time to leave it. It was evident what advice his instructor had been
giving him. He meant to force the pace from the start.

The suddenness of it threw Sheen momentarily off his balance. He seemed
to be in a whirl of blows. A sharp shock from behind. He had run up
against the post. Despite everything, he remembered to keep his guard
up, and stopped a lashing hit from his antagonist's left. But he was
too late to keep out his right. In it came, full on the weakest spot on
his 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 approached
this. 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 himself
forward.

"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 his
opponent, and, in reply to the signals, Peteiro came on again with
another fierce rush.

But Sheen in the open was a different person from Sheen cooped up in a
corner. Francis Hunt had taught him to use his feet. He side-stepped,
and, turning quickly, found his man staggering past him, over-balanced
by the force of his wasted blow. And now it was Sheen who attacked, and
Peteiro who tried to escape. Two swift hits he got in before his
opponent could face round, and another as he turned and rushed. Then
for a while the battle raged without science all over the ring.
Gradually, with a cold feeling of dismay, Sheen realised that his
strength was going. The pace was too hot. He could not keep it up. His
left counters were losing their force. Now he was merely pushing his
glove into the Ripton man's face. It was not enough. The other was
getting to close quarters, and that right of his seemed stronger than
ever.

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

It was his last effort. He could do no more. Everything seemed black to
him. 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 opposed
may beware of thee. Don't forget the guard. And the straight left beats
the world."

It was Joe--at the eleventh hour.

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

As the moments of the half-minute's rest slid away he discovered the
truth of Joe's remarks on the value of a good second. In his other
fights the napping of the towel had hardly stirred the hair on his
forehead. Joe's energetic arms set a perfect gale blowing. The cool air
revived him. He opened his mouth and drank it in. A spongeful of cold
water completed the cure. Long before the call of Time he was ready for
the next round.

"Keep away from him, sir," said Joe, "and score with that left of
yours. Don't try the right yet. Keep it for guarding. Box clever. Don't
let 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 find
he don't like that. Hullo, says he, I can't touch him. Then, when he's
tired, 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 Sheen
if he could have heard it. Mr Spence and the school instructor were
watching the final from the seats under the side windows.

"It's extraordinary," said Mr Spence. "The boy's wonderfully good for
the short time he has been learning. You ought to be proud of your
pupil."

"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 the
sort of pupil I could wish for."

Mr Spence bent forward and scanned the features of the man who was
attending the Wrykinian.

"Why," he said, "surely that's Bevan--Joe Bevan! I knew him at
Cambridge."

"Yes, sir, that's Bevan," replied the instructor. "He teaches boxing at
Wrykyn now, sir."

"At Wrykyn--where?"

"Up the river--at the 'Blue Boar', sir," said the instructor, quite
innocently--for it did not occur to him that this simple little bit of
information was just so much incriminating evidence against Sheen.

Mr Spence said nothing, but he opened his eyes very wide. Recalling his
recent conversation with Sheen, he remembered that the boy had told him
he had been taking lessons, and also that Joe Bevan, the ex-pugilist,
had expressed a high opinion of his work. Mr Spence had imagined that
Bevan had been a chance spectator of the boy's skill; but it would now
seem that Bevan himself had taught Sheen. This matter, decided Mr
Spence, must be looked into, for it was palpable that Sheen had broken
bounds 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 was
clear, and his breath no longer came in gasps. There was to be no
rallying this time. He had had the worst of the first round, and meant
to make up his lost points.

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

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

Sheen nearly chuckled. It was all so beautifully simple. What a fool he
had been to mix it up in the first round. If he only kept his head and
stuck to out-fighting he could win with ease. The man couldn't box. He
was nothing more than a slogger. Here he came, as usual, with the old
familiar rush. Out went his left. But it missed its billet. Peteiro had
checked his rush after the first movement, and now he came in with both
hands. It was the first time during the round that he had got to close
quarters, 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 once
again the call of Time extricated Sheen from an awkward position. As
far as points were concerned he had had the best of the round, but he
was very sore and bruised. His left side was one dull ache.

"Keep away from him, sir," said Joe Bevan. "You were ahead on that
round. Keep away all the time unless he gets tired. But if you see me
signalling, then go in all you can and have a fight."

There was a suspicion of weariness about the look of the Ripton
champion as he shook hands for the last round. He was beginning to feel
the effects of his hurricane fighting in the opening rounds. He began
quietly, sparring for an opening. Sheen led with his left. Peteiro was
too late with his guard. Sheen tried again--a double lead. His opponent
guarded 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 the
Riptonian'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 glorious
certainty that the game was his.

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