Part 13 (2/2)

”Yes, you ought to do that,” he said softly. ”Poor devil,” he added.

”Am I too selfish?” I asked.

He got up to go. ”No,” he said. ”To my mind, you're ent.i.tled to a breathing s.p.a.ce before you give up all that you love best. But there's a risk.”

”Of what?”

”Of her finding out by some other means than yourself and before your letter comes, that the letter should have been written earlier. Do you sign all your stuff with your own name?”

”Yes.”

”Well, then, she's bound to see how you're getting on. She'll see your name in the magazines, in newspapers and in books. She'll know you don't write for nothing, and she'll make calculations.”

I was staggered.

”You mean--?” I said.

”Why, it will occur to her before long that your statement of your income doesn't square with the rest of the evidence; and she'll wonder why you pose as a pauper when you're really raking in the money with both hands. She'll think it over, and then she'll see it all.”

”I see,” I said, dully. ”Well, you've taken my last holiday from me.

I'll write to her tonight, telling her the truth.”

”I shouldn't, necessarily. Wait a week or two. You may quite possibly hit on some way out of the difficulty. I'm bound to say, though, I can't see one myself at the moment.”

”Nor can I,” I said.

Chapter 10

TOM BLAKE AGAIN _(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_

Hatton's Club boys took kindly to my course of instruction. For a couple of months, indeed, it seemed that another golden age of the n.o.ble art was approaching, and that the rejuvenation of boxing would occur, beginning at Carnation Hall, Lambeth.

Then the thing collapsed like a punctured tyre.

At first, of course, they fought a little shy. But when I had them up in line, and had shown them what a large proportion of an eight-ounce glove is padding, they grew more at ease. To be asked suddenly to fight three rounds with one of your friends before an audience, also of your friends, is embarra.s.sing. One feels hot and uncomfortable. Hatton's boys jibbed nervously. As a preliminary measure, therefore, I drilled them in a cla.s.s at foot-work and the left lead. They found the exercise exhilarating. If this was the idea, they seemed to say, let the thing go on. Then I showed them how to be highly scientific with a punch ball. Finally, I sparred lightly with them myself.

In the rough they were impossible boxers. After their initial distrust had evaporated under my gentle handling of them, they forgot all I had taught them about position and guards. They bored in, heads down and arms going like semicircular pistons. Once or twice I had to stop them.

They were easily steadied. They hastened to adopt a certain snakiness of attack instead of the frontal method which had left them so exposed.

They began to cultivate a kind of negative style. They were tremendously impressed by the superiority of science over strength.

I am not sure that I did not harp rather too much on the scientific note. Perhaps if I had referred to it less, the ultimate disaster would not have been quite so appalling. On the other hand, I had not the slightest suspicion that they would so exaggerate my meaning when I was remarking on the worth of science, how it ”tells,” and how it causes the meagre stripling to play fast and loose with huge, brawny ruffians--no cowards, mark you--and hairy as to their chests.

But the weeds at Hatton's Club were fascinated by my homilies on science. The simplicity of the thing appealed to them irresistibly.

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