"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 thepreliminary bouts had won him favour with the spectators.

　　"J. Peteiro, Ripton School.""Go it, Ripton!" cried a voice from near the door. The referee frownedin the direction of this audacious partisan, and expressed a hope thatthe audience would kindly refrain from comment during the rounds.

　　Then he turned to the ring again, and announced the names a secondtime.

　　"Sheen--Peteiro."The Ripton man was sitting with a hand on each knee, listening to theadvice of his school instructor, who had thrust head and shouldersthrough the ropes, and was busy impressing some point upon him. Sheenfound himself noticing the most trivial things with extraordinaryclearness. In the front row of the spectators sat a man with aparti-coloured tie. He wondered idly what tie it was. It was rather likeone worn by members of Templar's house at Wrykyn. Why were the ropes ofthe ring red? He rather liked the colour. There was a man lighting apipe. Would he blow out the match or extinguish it with a wave of thehand? What a beast Peteiro looked. He really was a nigger. He must lookout for that right of his. The straight left. Push it out. Straightleft ruled the boxing world. Where was Joe? He must have missed thetrain. Or perhaps he hadn't been able to get away. Why did he want toyawn, he wondered.

　　"Time!"The Ripton man became suddenly active. He almost ran across the ring. Abrief handshake, and he had penned Sheen up in his corner before he hadtime to leave it. It was evident what advice his instructor had beengiving him. He meant to force the pace from the start.

　　The suddenness of it threw Sheen momentarily off his balance. He seemedto be in a whirl of blows. A sharp shock from behind. He had run upagainst the post. Despite everything, he remembered to keep his guardup, and stopped a lashing hit from his antagonist's left. But he wastoo late to keep out his right. In it came, full on the weakest spot onhis 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 approachedthis. 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 himselfforward.

　　"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 hisopponent, and, in reply to the signals, Peteiro came on again withanother fierce rush.

　　But Sheen in the open was a different person from Sheen cooped up in acorner. Francis Hunt had taught him to use his feet. He side-stepped,and, turning quickly, found his man staggering past him, over-balancedby the force of his wasted blow. And now it was Sheen who attacked, andPeteiro who tried to escape. Two swift hits he got in before hisopponent could face round, and another as he turned and rushed. Thenfor a while the battle raged without science all over the ring.

　　Gradually, with a cold feeling of dismay, Sheen realised that hisstrength was going. The pace was too hot. He could not keep it up. Hisleft counters were losing their force. Now he was merely pushing hisglove into the Ripton man's face. It was not enough. The other wasgetting to close quarters, and that right of his seemed stronger thanever.

　　He was against the ropes now, gasping for breath, and Peteiro's rightwas thudding against his ribs. It could not last. He gathered all hisstrength and put it into a straight left. It took the Ripton man in thethroat, and drove him back a step. He came on again. Again Sheenstopped him.

　　It was his last effort. He could do no more. Everything seemed black tohim. 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 opposedmay beware of thee. Don't forget the guard. And the straight left beatsthe world."It was Joe--at the eleventh hour.

　　With a delicious feeling of content Sheen leaned back in his chair. Itwould be all right now. He felt that the matter had been taken out ofhis hands. A more experienced brain than his would look after thegeneralship of the fight.

　　As the moments of the half-minute's rest slid away he discovered thetruth of Joe's remarks on the value of a good second. In his otherfights the napping of the towel had hardly stirred the hair on hisforehead. Joe's energetic arms set a perfect gale blowing. The cool airrevived him. He opened his mouth and drank it in. A spongeful of coldwater completed the cure. Long before the call of Time he was ready forthe next round.

　　"Keep away fro............