The next three weeks were full of pleasure for Scott Burton, for they brought him hours of his favorite exercise. Ormand, who had considerable influence with the student powers at the University, had made it his business the morning after the campfire celebration to arrange for Scott to represent the freshman class in the heavyweight class in the boxing match held each year to settle the supremacy between the under classes. It was an honor which the foresters had long coveted, and was granted to them only after Ormand had exhausted all his persuasive powers in his effort to show them how totally inadequate all the other candidates were, and how sure his candidate was to win. In his own mind he was not at all certain of the outcome, for the sophomores had a young giant who had won the event without an effort the year before, and held the supremacy in the whole University ever since.
Scott trained like a prizefighter, leaving no stone unturned to put himself in the pink of condition. He changed his recreation hour from the hour after supper to the hour before, and that hour was invariably spent in the boxing room of the gymnasium. Every day he boxed fast and furious bouts with Morgan, Manning, Edwards, Ormand and any of the other big fellows who cared to try it. He could wear them all out one after the other, and he worked incessantly to increase his endurance, for all agreed that it was his best chance to push the fight at a furious pace from bell to bell. For there were other men who were as good boxers as he, but none of them, they figured, with half his endurance or his ability to stand punishment. He was fast on his feet, could close in on any of them at will, and once at close range none of them could compare with him for a moment.
Johnson fussed over him like a mother. He was at the boxing room as regularly as Scott himself, and never left till he could give his charge a good rubdown, and escort him to supper, where he watched his diet with an eagle eye, and ordered away every dessert that Scott really cared for. He domineered to such an extent that Scott more than once threatened to thrash him instead of the sophomore, but Johnson always had his way and tightened up his orders after every encounter.
“Johnson,” he said one day, as he watched a luscious piece of pumpkin pie going back to the kitchen by Johnson’s orders, “when that scrap is over I am going to eat your dessert and mine, too, for a month.”
“You may have my dessert for all the rest of the winter if you win,” Johnson responded earnestly.
“There it goes again,” Scott complained. “What difference does that make? I may put up the very best fight I ever made in my life and get everlastingly licked. Then you would want to do me out of my right to eat your pie simply because the other fellow was too much for me. But if he happens to be a poor scrapper and I win easily you would cheerfully let me eat your desserts for six months. That’s queer logic.”
“Some more of your Eastern sporting views,” Johnson jeered.
“Well you ought to give a fellow credit for what he does, oughtn’t you? If he puts up a perfectly good scrap, give him credit for that. If the other fellow puts up a better one give him credit for that. I am going to eat your dessert anyway, so there is no use in arguing about it.”
They went to their rooms and straight to work. Johnson had wanted Scott to stop his studies for a while, but on that one point Scott balked and insisted on keeping up all his work, for he felt that his ability to handle it at all depended on his keeping it up-to-date. He was working hard on a problem when Johnson announced that it was ten o’clock and time for all prizefighters to be in bed. He emphasized his orders by blowing out the student’s lamp. Scott fired a book at him, which Johnson dodged cheerfully and proceeded to go to bed.
“That’s something else I am going to do,” Scott cried with some spirit. “After the twenty-fourth of October I am going to sit up as late as I blame please.”