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

three competitors still in the running, Allen, Tony, and a Felsted man. They drew lots, and the bye fell to Tony, who put up an uninteresting three rounds with one of the soldiers, neither fatiguing himself very much. Henderson, of Felsted, proved a much tougher nut to crack than Allen’s first opponent. He was a rushing boxer, and in the first round had, if anything, the best of it. In the last two, however, Allen gradually forged ahead, gaining many points by his perfect style alone. He was declared the winner, but he felt much more tired than he had done after his first fight.

By the time he was required again, however, he had had plenty of breathing space. The final of the lightweights had been decided, and Robinson, of St. Paul’s, after the custom of Paulines, had set the crown upon his afternoon’s work by fighting the Carthusian to a standstill in the first round. There only remained now the finals of the heavies and middles.

It was decided to take the latter first.

Tony had his former seconds, and Dawkins had come to his corner to see him through the ordeal.

“The ’ole thing ’ere,” he kept repeating, “is to keep goin’ ’ard all the time and wear ’im out. He’s too quick for you to try any sparrin’ with.”

“Yes,” said Tony.

“The ’ole thing,” continued the expert, “is to feint with your left and ’it with your right.” This was excellent in theory, no doubt, but Tony felt that when he came to put it into practice Allen might have other schemes on hand and bring them off first.

“Are you ready? Seconds out of the ring.⁠ ⁠… Time!”

“Go in, sir, ’ard,” whispered the red-haired man as Tony rose from his place.

Allen came up looking pleased with matters in general. He gave Tony a cousinly grin as they shook hands. Tony did not respond. He was feeling serious, and wondering if he could bring off his knockout before the three rounds were over. He had his doubts.

The fight opened slowly. Both were cautious, for each knew the other’s powers. Suddenly, just as Tony was thinking of leading, Allen came in like a flash. A straight left between the eyes, a right on the side of the head, and a second left on the exact tip of the nose, and he was out again, leaving Tony with a helpless feeling of impotence and disgust.

Then followed more sparring. Tony could never get in exactly the right position for a rush. Allen circled round him with an occasional feint. Then he hit out with the left. Tony ducked. Again he hit, and again Tony ducked, but this time the left stopped halfway, and his right caught Tony on the cheek just as he swayed to one side. It staggered him, and before he could recover himself, in darted Allen again with another trio of blows, ducked a belated left counter, got in two stinging hits on the ribs, and finished with a left drive which took Tony clean off his feet and deposited him on the floor beside the ropes.

“Silence, please,” said the referee, as a burst of applause greeted this feat.

Tony was up again in a moment. He began to feel savage. He had expected something like this, but that gave him no consolation. He made up his mind that he really would rush this time, but just as he was coming in, Allen came in instead. It seemed to Tony for the next half-minute that his cousin’s fists were never out of his face. He looked on the world through a brown haze of boxing glove. Occasionally his hand met something solid which he took to be Allen, but this was seldom, and, whenever it happened, it only seemed to bring him back again like a boomerang. Just at the most exciting point, “Time” was called.

The pessimist shook his head gloomily as he sponged Tony’s face.

“You must lead if you want to ’it ’im,” said the garrulous man. “You’re too slow. Go in at ’im, sir, wiv both ’ands, an’ you’ll be all right. Won’t ’e, Fred?”

“I said ’ow it ’ud be,” was the only reply Fred would vouchsafe.

Tony was half afraid the referee would give the fight against him without another round, but to his joy “Time” was duly called. He came up to the scratch as game as ever, though his head was singing. He meant to go in for all he was worth this round.

And go in he did. Allen had managed, in performing a complicated manoeuvre, to place himself in a corner, and Tony rushed. He was sent out again with a flush hit on the face. He rushed again, and again met Allen’s left. Then he got past, and in the confined space had it all his own way. Science did not tell here. Strength was the thing that scored, hard half-arm smashes, left and right, at face and body, and the guard could look after itself.

Allen uppercut him twice, but after that he was nowhere. Tony went in with both hands. There was a prolonged rally, and it was not until “Time” had been called that Allen was able to extricate himself. Tony’s blows had been mostly body blows, and very warm ones at that.

“That’s right, sir,” was the comment of the redheaded second. “Keep ’em both goin’ hard, and you’ll win yet. You ’ad ’im proper then. ’Adn’t ’e, Fred?”

And even the pessimist was obliged to admit that Tony could fight, even if he was not quick with his guard.

Allen took the ring slowly. His want of training had begun to tell on him, and some of Tony’s blows had landed in very tender spots. He knew that he could win if his wind held out, but he had misgivings. The gloves seemed to weigh down his hands. Tony opened the ball with a tremendous rush. Allen stopped him neatly. There was an interval while the two sparred for an opening. Then Allen feinted and dashed in. Tony