Captains of Harley: A School Story

by Hylton Cleaver

Yet even supposing he had spent his holidays learning to box so as to be able to rescue them from the dread results of Coles becoming their boxing captain, could he with a bare month’s practice really hope to defeat the man who had boxed for the school at Aldershot?

Coles was first into the ring. He came with a lofty and contented air, looking significantly round the crowded walls. Then he sat down and Rouse came into sight. The bearing of those whose only part was to look on was very proper. There was no hysterical cheering. Each man received a courteous round of applause. Toby Nicholson came to the ropes and told them briefly the object of the match. Once again clapping was the only evidence of their approval. The moments passed.

At last it was time.

In a breathless silence the two rose to their feet. Justice had turned to them now to hold the scales in a steady hand. They were meeting at last on level terms. No study walls hemmed them in. Their quarrel was to be fought at last fairly to a finish. Staring stolidly one at the other they met, and their right hands touched for a moment in token that the play was fair. Then they slipped suddenly into a ready stance and the fight had begun.

Now Rouse began to realise that the things Johnny Winter had told him must be true. That terrible nervousness that had been upon him for the last two hours had passed. Doubt and mistrust in his power to do this thing that the whole school were expecting of him had precipitately vanished, as Johnny had declared they would when once he was in the ring, and in their place had come, not overflowing confidence, but detachment.

His mind grew concentrated upon the immediate future in a way that entirely obliterated all that tensely watching crowd from the picture. He was isolated from them. He could not see things from their point of view at all. He only knew that he had been appointed by the school to deal punishment to one whom they had condemned, and the task had so tightened every sinew in his body that he was fretting to begin. It had become impossible to conceive defeat. Coles had come to the end of his innings and was faced with the reckoning of his score against the school. And he had to reckon now not with a miserable novice but with one who understood clearly how to use his fists. Rouse had learned no tricks. He had not even acquired the art of easy movement in the ring, but he knew how to stand and how to hit, and the straight left which was almost the only blow that Johnny had allowed him to rely upon was ready for its work. The moment that Coles’ hands were up Rouse slipped in. Coles waited for him, just as he had waited when they had fought in a study, ready to shoot in his counter the instant Rouse exposed himself. But times had changed. Rouse showed him one quick threatening movement with his right, and as Coles slipped to avoid the blow, there came at him like a piston, very straight from the left shoulder, a closed glove, hard and weighted like a loaded stick, and it thudded against his mouth and jolted back his head.

He reeled with astonishment, and jumped in with a vengeful counter, under a somewhat mistaken impression that the blow was a fluke. But he was met by a sure and classic guard that kept out every blow he knew; and the moment that he tired of trying and drew back to think things over, that left came out again and helped him on his way. And suddenly he understood. He had been trapped. His pride in the use of his fists had led him into a mad challenge, and the truth was shining from Rouse’s steely eyes. He read the message as many another bully has read it sooner or later in a bragging career. This man had him cold. Somebody had touched up the fellow’s dogged courage with a little science, and Rouse was no longer asking to be knocked out. For Coles it was going to be the fight of his life. He began to move nimbly about the ring, his feet slipping noiselessly over the boards as he tempted Rouse this way and that in the hopes of drawing him. But Rouse had been coached too well. He understood perfectly what this meant. Coles had not fought him this way before. His straight left had hurt Coles, and he was going to keep away.

Rouse began to move steadily towards him. Coles danced eagerly across his front, but footwork availed him little. Gradually Rouse’s left foot began to work its way in, and at last, when it was against Coles’ toe and he knew that a step would carry him within striking distance, he darted in, and his left went out again and smashed against the other’s face. There was a moment of grim excitement as Coles answered him with a rain of violent drives and uppercuts that displayed his temper, but at last it could be seen that Rouse was safely through the trial none the worse for wear, and that Coles was flushed with heat. For a while he drew back and waited, then as Rouse began to work in again with his guard well up and his chin covered by the point of his shoulder, Coles sprang up against him and bore him back. There was a brief grim tussle for supremacy at close quarters, and then out of the fury of the rally there gradually emerged the undoubted victor. Rouse had thrust his man away by sheer strength and had drawn back for a heavy blow. As Coles bored in again he struck out. The blow took Coles on the side of the chin as he bounded forward, and he just staggered sideways and fell in a heap.

For a moment he lay there. There was no applause. The silence was more telling. He lay puzzling out what to do, and then at last he got up and looked for Rouse with eyes that were ablaze with wrath. Rouse had waited for a sign that he was ready, and now, as Coles put up his hands, he walked in and began the real work that he had to do. So far he had merely steadied his man. The last blow had been the signal that this phase was over. The thrashing that he deserved was to come. Coles could box and it was difficult to work him into a corner, but his fiery temper was a decided help to Rouse, and at length he had Coles against the ropes, standing with legs apart and both gloves held in a threatening attitude of readiness. Rouse looked at him grimly and came in. For a moment there was a whirl of fists. Then just as before the better man emerged. A glove flashed up from his hip and almost lifted Coles off his feet with the force of its landing. Coles tried to answer with his left, but he was off his balance, and Rouse merely dodged back, then swung in again with the whole weight of his body behind his glove. This time Coles fell slowly, like a man struggling against unconsciousness, and at last when he hit the boards he lay still.

Rouse drew back, watching him inscrutably. Still there was no applause. Coles was not yet entirely done for. He had not yet been punished to the full. He got up groggily and stood waiting. Rouse moved in and struck him again. He rocked and tried to collect himself for a final effort.