Acton's Feud Part 32

It was obvious from the start that Phil was not as good a man as Acton as far as skill was concerned, but when it came to well-knit strength there was no doubt that Phil had the pull. Acton's eagerness was a disadvantage against one so cool as Bourne. In the very first round, Acton, in his overwhelming desire to knock Phil out in as short a s.p.a.ce as possible, neglected every ordinary precaution, and, after a spirited rally, Phil broke through Acton's slovenly guard, and sent him spinning into Vercoe's arms. We called time together, and to my intense satisfaction the first round resulted in our favour.

After that, thoroughly steadied by Phil's gentle reminder, Acton dropped all looseness, and began to treat Phil with the greatest respect, never taking any risks, but working in a scientific fas.h.i.+on, which poor Phil found hard enough to parry, and when he could not do that, hard enough to bear. But he never faltered; he took all that Acton could give him in imperturbable good temper, working in his dogged fas.h.i.+on as though he were absolutely confident of winning in the long run, and as disregarding present inconveniences because they were expected, and because the ultimate reward would repay all a hundred-fold.

There was also something else I noticed. Acton did not do so much damage as he ought to have done, and I found him constantly "short," but when Phil did score there was the unmistakable ring of a telling blow. I was puzzled in my mind why Acton was so "short," but I think now it was because he had never done anything but with gloves on, and fisticuffs, which were more or less familiar with Phil, were unknown to him. They don't fight, I believe, in France or Germany with Nature's weapons, but occasional turn-ups with the farmers' sons and the ca.n.a.l men had, of course, fallen to Phil's share.

On each occasion that Phil got home, Acton answered with a vicious spurt which did not do much good, but only tired him, and at the end of the seventh round I was astonished to think that Phil had stood the racket so well. Phil's lips were puffy, and one eye was visibly swelling, and he had other minor marks of Acton's attention, but he was in excellent condition still. Acton was damaged above a bit, and Phil's first-round reminder showed plainly on his cheek.

Acton began to think that unless he could make Phil dance to a quicker tune pretty soon, he himself would be limping round the corner of defeat, for he was very tired. When we called them up for the eighth round, he had evidently determined to force the fighting. Much as I disliked Acton, I could not but admire his splendid skill; he bottled up Phil time and again, feinted, ducked, rallied, swung out in the nick of time, planted hard telling blows, and was withal as hard to corner as a sunbeam. As I sponged Phil at the end of the eighth I felt that three more rounds as per last sample would shake even him, so I said, "Try, old man, for one straight drive if he gives you a ghost of a chance.

Don't try tapping."

Acton came up smiling; in a twinkling he had Phil at sea by his trickiness, and was scoring furiously. Then, for the first time, Phil backed, shortly and sharply. Acton sprang forward for victory, and a huge lunge should have given Phil his quietus, but it was dreadfully short, and stung rather than hurt. Phil recovered the next moment, and was on the watch again cool and cautious as ever. Then Acton, following an artless feint which drew Phil as easily as a child, ducked the blow and darted beneath his guard. I gave Phil up for lost. How it happened, though I was watching carefully, I cannot say, but Acton seemed to slither or stumble on the turf as he rushed in, and for one second he was at Phil's mercy.

At that very instant Phil's arm flashed out, and with a blow which would have felled an ox, he caught Acton between the eyes. Acton dropped to the ground like a bludgeoned dog.

Phil, like a gentleman, backed a yard or so away, waiting for Acton to get up again, but he made no sign. Vercoe and I then counted him out with all due formality, and Phil had won at the very moment he was about to be beaten. We did our best for Acton, who was unconscious, and, just when we began to despair of bringing him round, he opened his eyes with the usual vacant stare. In a minute he recovered his thoughts, and said eagerly, "Then I've won."

"Not quite," said Vercoe, grimly. "You've jolly well lost."

Acton tottered to his feet blind with rage--diabolic rage--but hate and fury couldn't give him strength to stand. Vercoe gently caught him, and laid him quietly on his back, and sponged his face where the awful force of Phil's blow was becoming plainer every moment.

He compressed his lips with rage and pain, and looked at Phil with such a look of deadly hatred that Vercoe was disgusted.

"Now come, Acton. You've fought well, and, by Jove! you ought to lose well. Bourne fought like a gentleman, and you've been beaten fairly.

What is the good of bearing any malice?"

"Look here, Acton," said Phil, "I'm jolly glad I've thrashed you, but all is over now. Here's my hand, and we'll let bygones be bygones."

"Never!" said Acton. "I'll get even with you yet."

"So be it," said Bourne; and he turned away, and got into his coat, leaving Vercoe and Acton on the field of battle. "Don't care to mention it, old man," he said to me as we got to his room, "all the same, I thought I was a gone c.o.o.n just when I knocked the fellow out."

I went for my holidays that morning, and Acton, escorted by Vercoe, got into the same train. He was white and almost scared looking at his defeat, but there was on his face still that unfading expression of unsatisfied hate and l.u.s.t for revenge. I buried my face in my paper in utter disgust.

So you see Acton departed from St. Amory's at the beginning of the Easter holidays in a slightly different mood from that which he enjoyed at Christmas, when the young Biffenites had cheered him till they were hoa.r.s.e and he was out of hearing.

Toby was almost beside himself with consternation when Bourne and Vercoe turned up at the Courts in the afternoon.

"Your 'ands, Mr. Bourne, and your eye! What have you been a-doing of?"

"I have had the painful necessity to thrash a cad, Toby."

"But you did thrash him, sir?"

"I fancy so," said Bourne, grimly.

Jack went home in the evening a sadder and wiser boy. When he saw his brother's closed eye and swollen lip, and the angry patches on his cheeks, he was cut to the heart; he took his thras.h.i.+ng like a man, and, when all was over, felt he loved and respected his brother more than ever. "What a beastly little pig I've been," he said to himself.

Vercoe and Bourne were the victorious finalists at Kensington in the rackets. It was, as the papers aptly remarked, "Quite a coincidence that Bourne's right eye was beautifully and variously decorated in honour of the occasion."

I don't expect many finalists, at rackets anyhow, turn up with black eyes.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM

Grim and Wilson had come back to St. Amory's firmly convinced that Biffen's was the most glorious house that had ever existed, and that it would do--thanks to Acton, Worcester, and the dervishes--great things when the cricket housers came round.

"Grimmy," said Wilson, "you'll have to try to get into the team this year. You would last, if your batting hadn't been so rotten."

"All right, old man; don't rub that in too often."

"You put in a lot of extra practice at one of those bottom nets, Grimmy, and you'll find Worcester'll shove you in first choice, almost, this go."

"Serene. Shall we try to raise a bottle of cherries now," said Grim, lazily, lounging from net to net. "It's heaps too soon to think of housers yet."

"You conceited a.s.s, Grimmy! Not for you. Your batting is too awful."

"Don't worry now. Oceans of time, I tell you. We'll try some cherries, eh?"

The pair strolled lazily off the field, and made several purchases in the preserved fruit line, and then adjourned to their common room for refreshment.

But, as time went on, Grim did not fall in with Wilson's arrangements quite as enthusiastically as that single-hearted Biffenite would have liked him to. A fortnight pa.s.sed, and Grim had only put in the regulation practice at the nets to Wilson's intense disgust, and the time that should have been devoted to extra cricket was "wasted,"

according to that ardent Biffenite, in doing, of all things, needlessly elaborate translations for Merishall.

"Whatever is the good of getting the very word the beak wants, Grimmy. I always translate _Carmen_--a song. Does it matter a cherry-stone that it sometimes means a charm? What good does it do you, you idiot? It only means that Merishall is harder on us. Think of your friends, Grimmy, do.

If I didn't know you were a bit cracked, I'd say your performance was undiluted 'smugging.'"

"Cork that frivol, do," said Grim, who was stretched full length on the gra.s.s and gazing skywards with a rapt expression in his eyes, "and look over there. How beautiful it is!"

"How beautiful what is?" asked Wilson, astonished.

"The sunset, you a.s.s!"

"I don't see anything special about it," said Wilson. "An ordinary affair!"

"Ordinary affair! Ugh, you idiot. Look at those lovely colours mingling one with another, those light fleecy clouds floating in a purple sea, that beautiful tint in the woods yonder, that--that--"

"Steady, Grim. Take time," said Wilson, squirming away from his chum.

"Wilson, you haven't any soul for beauty. A sunset is the loveliest sight on earth, you duffer."

"Didn't know a sunset ever was on earth," said Wilson, sarcastically.

"Is that funny?"