s a second
time.

"Sheen--Peteiro."

The Ripton man was sitting with a hand on each knee, listening to the
advice of his school instructor, who had thrust head and shoulders
through the ropes, and was busy impressing some point upon him. Sheen
found himself noticing the most trivial things with extraordinary
clearness. In the front row of the spectators sat a man with a
parti-coloured tie. He wondered idly what tie it was. It was rather like
one worn by members of Templar's house at Wrykyn. Why were the ropes of
the ring red? He rather liked the colour. There was a man lighting a
pipe. Would he blow out the match or extinguish it with a wave of the
hand? What a beast Peteiro looked. He really was a nigger. He must look
out for that right of his. The straight left. Push it out. Straight
left ruled the boxing world. Where was Joe? He must have missed the
train. Or perhaps he hadn't been able to get away. Why did he want to
yawn, he wondered.

"Time!"

The Ripton man became suddenly active. He almost ran across the ring. A
brief handshake, and he had penned Sheen up in his corner before he had
time to leave it. It was evident what advice his instructor had been
giving him. He meant to force the pace from the start.

The suddenness of it threw Sheen momentarily off his balance. He seemed
to be in a whirl of blows. A sharp shock from behind. He had run up
against the post. Despite everything, he remembered to keep his guard
up, and stopped a lashing hit from his antagonist's left. But he was
too late to keep out his right. In it came, full on the weakest spot on
his 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 approached
this. 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 himself
forward.

"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 his
opponent, and, in reply to the signals, Peteiro came on again with
another fierce rush.

But Sheen in the open was a different person from Sheen cooped up in a
corner. Francis Hunt