man, and you will pull it off yet."

Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much
better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically,
but had scored a little on his own account.

"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let
him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him
out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time
after he's missed."

But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by
following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face
was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly
tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he
would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.

After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or
Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and
that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face--he can't
feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne,
so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try
to ward him off--he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive
home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've
seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look
when you hit--on the very peak. Understand?"

"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.

"Time!"

The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew
that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne
ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the
last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a
hair.

"_Habet!_" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down
if you can."

Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick
and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack
scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he
dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling,
his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.

[Illustration: ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP.]

"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's
too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"

The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bour