The Pothunters - P. G. Wodehouse (free ebook novel .txt) 📗

This was in the days before the Headmasters’ Conference had abolished the knockout 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 middleweights 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 lightweights are going to start. What number did you draw, sir?”

“One.”

“Then you’ll be in the first middleweight pair. That’ll be after these two gentlemen.”

“These two gentlemen,” the first of the lightweights, 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 lightweights is always quicker at the duck than what heavier men are. You get the best boxing in the lightweights, 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, middleweights,” 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 heavyweight encounter was followed by the first bout of the feathers and the second of the lightweights, 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 heavyweights shed their blood in gallons for name and fame. The featherweights gave excellent exhibitions of science, and the lightweight pairs were fought off until there remained only the final to be decided, Robinson, of St. Paul’s, against a Charterhouse boxer.

In the middleweights there were