incerely that no
one would notice it, and think that he was afraid.

Then, amidst a clapping of hands which sounded faint and far-off, he
followed his opponent to the ring, and ducked under the ropes.

The referee consulted a paper which he held, and announced the names.

"R. D. Sheen, Wrykyn College."

Sheen wriggled his fingers right into the gloves, and thought of Joe
Bevan. What had Joe said? Keep that guard up. The straight left. Keep
that guard--the straight left. Keep that--

"A. W. Bird, Tonbridge School."

There was a fresh outburst of applause. The Tonbridgian had shown up
well in the competition of the previous year, and the crowd welcomed
him as an old friend.

Keep that guard up--straight left. Straight left--guard up.

"Seconds out of the ring."

Guard up. Not too high. Straight left. It beats the world. What an age
that man was calling Time. Guard up. Straight--

"Time," said the referee.

Sheen, filled with a great calm, walked out of his corner and shook
hands with his opponent.

XXI

A GOOD START

It was all over in half a minute.

The Tonbridgian was a two-handed fighter of the rushing type almost
immediately after he had shaken hands. Sheen found himself against the
ropes, blinking from a heavy hit between the eyes. Through the mist he
saw his opponent sparring up to him, and as he hit he side-stepped. The
next moment he was out in the middle again, with his man pressing him
hard. There was a quick rally, and then Sheen swung his right at a
venture. The blow had no conscious aim. It was purely speculative. But
it succeeded. The Tonbridgian fell with a thud.

Sheen drew back. The thing seemed pathetic. He had braced himself up
for a long fight, and it had ended in half a minute. His sensations
were mixed. The fighting half of him was praying that his man would get
up and start again. The prudent half realised that it was best that he
should stay down. He had other fights before him before he could call
that silver medal his own, and this would give him an invaluable start
in the race. His rivals had all had to battle hard in their opening
bouts.

The Tonbridgian's rigidity had given place to spasmodic efforts to
rise. He got on one knee, and his gloved hand roamed feebly about in
search of a hold. It was plain that he had shot his bolt. The referee
signed to his seconds, who ducked into the ring and carried him to his
corner. Sheen walked back to his own corner, and sat