THE YOUNG BROTHER
When St. Amory's reassembled after the holidays Acton found himself firmly established in the good graces of the fellows, and, indeed, he was not far from being the most popular fellow in the place, but poor Phil was looked coldly upon by those who had been his chiefest friends, and, by those who knew little of him, he passed for a jealous bounder. Acton played up to his cards in beautiful style, and acted the forgiving innocent splendidly; but Phil, who was only a very honest fellow, did not play anything to speak of. Those who gave him the cold shoulder once never had a second chance of showing it him, for Phil was no end proud; but he had still one or two friends, who condoned his passing of Acton for the "footer" cap on the ground of "insufficient information" thereon. Roberts and Baines and Vercoe were not a bad trio to have for friends either. Acton was now in the Sixth, and a monitor.
His main idea was to keep Bourne in the bad books of the school until such time as he could direct their ill-favour into channels favourable to himself and unfavourable for Phil. A lucky chance seemed to open to him an easy method of striking at Bourne, and Acton almost hugged himself with joy at his windfall.
About a week after the holidays Acton had been skating on the Marsh, and as he was returning he came across Jack Bourne engaged in a desperate fight with a young yokel. There was a small crowd of loafers, who were delighted at this little turn up, and were loud in their advice to the fellow to give "the young swell a good hiding."
This little crowd, as I said, caught Acton's eye, and when he perceived that one of the fighters was a St. Amory fellow, he hurried up to see what was the little game.
Young Bourne was getting the worst of it. The yokel was a year or two older, was taller, and stones heavier. It was an unequal fight. Bourne was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural" style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up. On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"
Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you. Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for the first time Bourne really had fair play.
Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.
"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little apart.
"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a big handful."
"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep cool, 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.
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 Bourne, as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the ground and howled dismally.
"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you others."
Jack came back.
"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."
The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled aimlessly in Acton's grasp.
"Apologize."
"I wown't."
"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.
"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good fight this day, and no mistake. That fellow will have a fit the next and every time he sees the smallest St. Amory's fag's cap."
"I say, Acton, you're an awful brick to back me up like that."
"Don't mention it, Bourne. Come and have some tea with me, and I'll pour oil into your wounds, or at any rate, I'll paint 'em."
So young Bourne had tea with Acton, and his host went out afterwards to Dann's the chemist's and brought back a camel's-hair brush and some lotion. Thanks to this, Jack's scars appeared as very honourable wounds indeed.
From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.
"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his cap? There's something rotten somewhere."
As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."
Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games. Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country running, paper chases, et hoc genus omne, Acton refused to have anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to Dick Worcester, "isn't in the same street with footer."
"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested Worcester.
"There's Hodgson in for it, Dick."
"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than Hodgson."
"There's Bourne, too."
"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along quicker."
"It's an awful fag, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk right through the best man we've ever turned out."
"Oh, that's their usual brag!"
"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey professor—who is up to all the latest dodges—to coach. Our sergeant is a bit old-fashioned—good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his right."
"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."
"Dubito! Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?" "At Aldershot? Oh!—last week in March."
"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."
So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but because, for him, it was all he could do.
But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by themselves, and even to be chaperon to any fags who cared to run with them, and—important proviso—whom the monitors did not object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling sans house-master was in force.
Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country between dinner and roll call.
By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with Acton.
"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."
"He has, anyhow, Phil."
"How?"
Jack explained.
"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish some other fellow had seen you through."
"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.
"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth Form fellow sees in a fag? Above all, a fag of the name of Bourne?"
"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."
"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's footsteps quite so much."
"He's a monitor."
"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."
"We'll see."
"Oh! Certainly we shall."
Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and said hotly—
"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."
"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."
"My opinion is——"
"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."
"It's considered a shame pretty generally."
"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little toes into any scrape—that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a crown for you to buy butterscotch, and while you're sucking it think over what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.
About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the farmer's son, said to Acton—
"The man's been here since twelve, sir."
"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"
"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."
"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama Coon?"
"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"
"The very same."
"Rather!"
"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"
"Rather!"
"Then come along."
Together they went into the stable, and therein found "The Coon," a coal-black negro, busily shovelling sand upon the floor, smoking an enormous cigar the while.
"Making ready the cockpit," said Acton to Jack, who was staring open-eyed at the worker. "Lusty looking animal, eh?"
"My aunt!" said Jack.
"Hallo, Coon, you're about ready!"
"Yaas, sir," said the negro. "I'm almost through."
"Brought the mittens with you, too?"
"Yaas, sir, I have the feather beds."
"Then when you've peeled we'll start."
The Coon put down his spade and slipped behind a stall.
"You see, young 'un, the sergeant at the gym is a good old hand, but he is an old hand, so to speak—hasn't got the polish. Seeing that at Aldershot they tie us down to a very few rounds, if St. Amory's have to make any show at all they must get all the points they can first round or so. That's why I've got the Coon down here. He is the most scientific boxer we have."
"The figure will be pretty stiff, Acton, eh?"
"No matter about that if I can beat Jarvis. By the way, Bourne, you need not say anything about this to any one. I have particular reasons for keeping this quiet."
"All serene. I'm mum, of course."
"Thanks. You watch the Coon, and you'll pick up no end of wrinkles."
The Coon came out from behind the stall dressed in a vest, trousers, and thin boots; his black arms were bare, and he had exchanged his cigar for a straw, which he chewed vigorously. Acton changed his shoes and took off his coat, and the lesson began.
Acton's opinion of the Coon's knowledge was, in Jack's mind, absolutely corroborated by the display. His marvellous parrying of Acton's attentions; his short step inwards, which invariably followed a mis-hit by Acton; his baits to lure his opponent to deliver himself a gift into his hands; his incredible ducking and lightning returns, held Bourne fascinated. Everything was done so easily, so lithely, so lightly, and so surely, that Jack gasped in admiration. Acton in the hands of the nigger was a lamb indeed.
"This is an eye-opener," said Jack. "I'll try that left feint on Rogers, the cocky ass!"
The negro stopped now and then to show Acton where and how to avail himself of opportunities; and Acton, who was in grim earnest, applied himself whole-heartedly to the business in hand, and, in consequence, as Jack afterwards told us, "you could almost hear old Acton travelling on the right road."
After about half an hour of instruction, Acton said—
"That is enough of jawing for the afternoon, Coon. Let us have three rounds to finish up with. Take the time, young 'un."
Jack, with immense pride, took out his watch and prepared to act as timekeeper.
"Better take it easily first two, sir, and put in all you know for the last. A little hurricane in the third round is my advice."
Jack had an ecstatic ten minutes, the final round putting him in the seventh heaven of enjoyment.
"All I could make out was Acton's white arms mixed with Alabama's black ones, and the sand flying in all directions. Stunning isn't the word for it!"
As Acton and young Bourne pedalled leisurely home for roll call, Jack said—
"I think Jarvis' chance of collaring the Heavy for his place is a trifle 'rocky.'"
"I hope so."
"Crumbs! How Alabama does get home!"