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CHAPTER 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.
He was winning--winning--winning.
* * * * *
"That's enough," said the referee.
The Ripton man was leaning against the ropes, utterly spent, at almost
the same spot where Sheen had leaned at the end of the first round. The
last attack had finished him. His seconds helped him to his corner.
The referee waved his hand.
"Sheen wins," he said.
And that was the greatest moment of his life.
Content of CHAPTER XXII - A GOOD FINISH [P G Wodehouse's novel: White Feather]
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