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CHAPTER 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.
Content of CHAPTER XXI - A GOOD START [P G Wodehouse's novel: White Feather]
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