"Hullo, sir," he said, "what's this? Tired today? Not feeling well? You aren't boxing like yourself, not at all you aren't. There's no weight behind 'em. You're tapping. What's the matter with your feet, too? You aren't getting about as quickly as I should like to see. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"Nothing that I know of," said Sheen. "I'm sorry I'm so rotten. Let's have another try."
The second try proved as unsatisfactory as the first. He was listless, and his leads and counters lacked conviction.
Joe Bevan, who identified himself with his pupils with that thoroughness which is the hall-mark of the first-class boxing instructor, looked so pained at his sudden loss of form, that Sheen could not resist the temptation to confide in him. After all, he must tell him some time.
"The fact is," he said, as they sat on the balcony overlooking the river, waiting for Jack Bruce to return with his car, "I've had a bit of a sickener."
"I thought you'd got sick of it," said Mr Bevan. "Well, have a bit of a rest."
"I don't mean that I'm tired of boxing," Sheen hastened to explain. "After all the trouble you've taken with me, it would be a bit thick if I chucked it just as I was beginning to get on. It isn't that. But you know how keen I was on boxing for the house?"
Joe Bevan nodded.
"Did you get beat?"
"They wouldn't let me go in," said Sheen.