When one has been working hard with a single end in view, the arrivaland departure of the supreme moment is apt to leave a feeling ofemptiness, as if life had been drained of all its interest, and leftnothing sufficiently exciting to make it worth doing. Horatius, as hefollowed his plough on a warm day over the corn land which hisgratified country bestowed on him for his masterly handling of thetraffic on the bridge, must sometimes have felt it was a little tame.
The feeling is far more acute when one has been unexpectedly baulked inone's desire for action. Sheen, for the first few days after hereceived Drummond's brief note, felt that it was useless for him to tryto do anything. The Fates were against him. In stories, as Mr Ansteyhas pointed out, the hero is never long without his chance ofretrieving his reputation. A mad bull comes into the school grounds,and he alone (the hero, not the bull) is calm. Or there is a fire, andwhose is that pale and gesticulating form at the upper window? Thebully's, of course. And who is that climbing nimbly up the Virginiacreeper? Why, the hero. Who else? Three hearty cheers for the pluckyhero.
But in real life opportunities of distinguishing oneself are lessfrequent.
Sheen continued his visits to the "Blue Boar", but more because heshrank from telling Joe Bevan that all his trouble had been fornothing, than because he had any definite object in view. It was bitterto listen to the eulogies of the pugilist, when all the while he knewthat, as far as any immediate results were concerned, it did not reallymatter whether he boxed well or feebly. Some day, perhaps, as Mr Bevanwas fond of pointing out when he approached the subject ofdisadvantages of boxing, he might meet a hooligan when he was crossinga field with his sister; but he found that but small consolation. Hewas in the position of one who wants a small sum of ready money, and istold that, in a few years, he may come into a fortune. By the time hegot a chance of proving himself a man with his hands, he would be anOld Wrykinian. He was leaving at the end of the summer term.
Jack Bruce was sympathetic, and talked more freely than was his wont.
"I can't understand it," he said. "Drummond always seemed a good sort.
I should have thought he would have sent you in for the house like ashot. Are you sure you put it plainly in your letter? What did yousay?"Sheen repeated the main points of his letter.
"Did you tell him who had been teaching you?""No. I just said I'd been boxing lately.""Pity," said Jack Bruce. "If you'd mentioned that it was Joe who'd beentraining you, he would probably have been much more for it. You see, hecouldn't know whether you were any good or not from your letter. But ifyou'd told him that Joe Bevan and Hunt both thought you good, he'd haveseen there was something in it.""It never occurred to me. Like a fool, I was counting on the thing somuch that it didn't strike me there would be any real difficulty ingetting him to see my point. Especially when he got mumps and couldn'tgo in himself. Well, it can't be helped now."And the conversation turned to the prospects of Jack Bruce's father inthe forthcoming election, the polling for which had just begun.
"I'm busy now," said Bruce. "I'm not sure that I shall be able to domuch sparring with you for a bit.""My dear chap, don't let me--""Oh, it's all right, really. Taking you to the 'Blue Boar' doesn't landme out of my way at all. Most of the work lies round in this direction.
I call at cottages, and lug oldest inhabitants to the poll. It's raresport.""Does your pater know?""Oh, yes. He rots me about it like anything, but, all the same, Ibelieve he's really rather bucked because I've roped in quite a dozenvoters who wouldn't have stirred a yard if I hadn't turned up. That'swhere we're scoring. Pedder hasn't got a car yet, and these old rottersround here aren't going to move out of their chairs to go for a ride inan ordinary cart. But they chuck away their crutches and hop into amotor like one o'clock.""It must be rather a rag," said Sheen.
The car drew up at the door of the "Blue Boar". Sheen got out and ranupstairs to the gymnasium. Joe Bevan was sparring a round with Francis.
He watched them while he changed, but without the enthusiasm of whichhe had been conscious on previous occasions. The solid cleverness ofJoe Bevan, and the quickness and cunning of the bantam-weight, were asmuch in evidence as before, but somehow the glamour and romance whichhad surrounded them were gone. He no longer watched eagerly to pick upthe slightest hint from these experts. He felt no more interest than hewould have felt in watching a game of lawn tennis. He _had_ beenkeen. Since his disappointment with regard to the House Boxing he hadbecome indifferent.
Joe Bevan noticed this before he had been boxing with him a minute.
"Hullo, sir," he said, "what's this? Tired today? Not feeling well? Youaren't boxing like yourself, not at all you aren't. There's no weightbehind 'em. You're tapping. What's the matter with your feet, too? Youaren't getting about as quickly as I should like to see. What have youbeen doing to yourself?""Nothing that I know of," said Sheen. "I'm sorry I'm so rotten. Let'shave another try."The second try proved as unsatisfactory as the first. He was listless,and his leads and counters lacked conviction.
Joe Bevan, who identified himself with his pupils with thatthoroughness which is the hall-mark of the first-class boxinginstructor, looked so pained at his sudden loss of form, that Sheencould not resist the temptation to confide in him. After all, he musttell him some time.
"The fact is," he said, as they sat on the balcony overlooking theriver, waiting for Jack Bruce to return with his car, "I've had a bitof a sickener.&q............