The fight was very nearly over. One man was covering up with evident caution; his legs were almost giving way beneath him. The other was Johnny Winter, and Johnny was standing away and waiting for his opening.

They had said that he was too old. They had even thought it pathetically sad that a man who, in his prime, had been unbeaten champion at his weight, should be lured back to the ring after three years away from it to fight again. Some had supposed it was the bombast of the man who was at the top of the tree, and who claimed that not even Johnny Winter could have defeated him, that had tempted the master boxer of his day out of retirement. Others argued that the size of the purse that was up for competition had had the most to do with it. And they had all agreed that Johnny was foolish to have yielded to temptation. There was never a boxer in all the world who, when his day was passed, came back to the ring and fought again just as he had used to fight in his own hey-day.

So they had said. But all his life Johnny had known himself better than any of his friends had ever been allowed to know him, and he had believed that he was not yet too completely old to win one last fight. Now he had proved it. It was the fourteenth round and his man was done. Already Johnny was sparring for his final opening. It came suddenly. The other man uncovered and struck out with his right. In the twinkling of an eye Johnny had slipped in and swung up his uppercut with deadly accuracy. It landed with resounding force. The man reeled and fell. There came ten seconds of excited wonder. Then he was out; and the air was thunderous with a long crash of cheering for that quiet-mannered little man with the wispy hair and the patient, deep-set eyes who had undertaken to defend his name against a young man in the prime of life, and had won.

His seconds darted to Johnny’s side and lifted him up joyously in their arms. From every seat near by men had risen on to their toes and were reaching for his hand. Friends were elbowing their way towards him. In a moment they had closed round and he was hidden from sight. They crowded about him as he made for the gangway and went quickly through the cheering crowd that was blocking the way. And all the while those who were nearest to him could see that his expression never really altered. From the first round to the last he had fought with a clean and modest gallantry that was a natural part of him. Now that he had won he wanted only to escape from all the inevitable lionising that so troubled him. For a while he suffered them patiently, but he was longing to be allowed to go to his bath in peace. He had done merely what he had set out to do. Their praise was kindly meant, but he would be far happier alone.

So at last they let him by and he went gratefully into the dressing-room, said just a few quiet words to those old-timers who were waiting there to tend him, and passed into privacy.

When, therefore, a little boy came to the door of the dressing-room and asked for him, they shook their heads.

“Better go away, sonny. He won’t want to give no autograph. He just don’t want to be fussed. He’s fought his fight. You let him have his quiet sit-down. That’s worth more to Johnny than his picture rights.”

The little boy looked round them gravely.

“Would you just give him this?” he said at length. “I know he’ll see me. He’ll be angry if you don’t tell him I’m here.”

He waited a moment anxiously, holding the proffered envelope in his hand with an air of appeal. At last a man with a square head, closely shaven, and a perfect imitation of a cauliflower clinging to the side of it, reached out his hand.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What’s your name?”

“If you’ll just give him that,” said the little boy, “he’ll know.”

The man went slowly away, and when he came back his countenance wore an expression of complete astonishment.

“You’re to go in and see him,” he said resignedly. “And I’d like to know who you be. It’s the first time he’s ever said ‘Yes.’”

The little boy went quickly across the room and into the little cabin at the farthermost end. Johnny Winter was sitting down, and as the little boy came in, the man who had been tubbing his legs moved out of the way and disappeared. Then Johnny swathed a dressing-gown about him and stood up. He was frowning, and he spoke vexedly.

“Bobbie,” he said, “if I had thought you would have done a thing like this I would have made you promise. But I trusted you.”

Bobbie Carr stood proudly and faced him.

“I’ve never seen you fight in all my life,” said he. “I’ve never been allowed. And this is the last chance I should ever have. You taught me how to box, but you never let me see you fight in earnest. Now I have and I’m satisfied.”

His father was looking at him with extraordinary sorrow.

“You were always ashamed that I should see you fight. You said that I should get wrong ideas. I’m not ashamed. I’m proud.”

His father made a quick movement with his hand.

“You’ve never understood. I’ve had to think for you. All my life I meant you to go to a Public School and mix with the sons of gentlemen. I meant you to have the chance to become what I have never been. I’ve saved and worked for your education. I meant you to be a gentleman, and if the boys at your school or the masters there ever knew that you were the son of a bruiser—they’d call it a smudge on your name. That’s why I made you promise. It had to be our secret. And so that no one that you mix with should ever see you with me at the ringside, I’ve never let you come to see me fight. I retired before you ever went to Harley to make quite sure. But lately I’ve been afraid. I began to wonder if I had saved enough, after all, to give you a fair chance. And then they offered this purse, bigger than any I’d ever fought for in my life, if I’d come back. I never imagined for a moment that you would come here to see me. I thought you were safe at school. But you’ve come. You haven’t played the game. The secret will be out. Somebody is bound to have seen you. You would be very conspicuous in a Harley cap. When you go back to school they’ll know. It’s what I’ve always been afraid of. They——”

“I’m not going back,” said Bobbie quietly.

His father stared at him with glassy eyes.

“Not going back? Why? What’s happened? You haven’t been expelled?”

“No. But I’m not going back to a place where I have to be ashamed of my father.”

Johnny took hold of his arm.

“Who did you ask if you could come?” he demanded. “What reason did you give? Does your Headmaster know that you came to see your father fight for money?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Bobbie. “I ran away.”

There was a moment’s heavy silence.

“You ran away?” his father said at last. “How? Who paid your fare?”

“I did. You gave me much too much money. You thought I needed far more than I did. I never spent half of it. I saved it up; and it brought me here and paid for my seat.”

His father was staring at him dully, but now his eyes lit up again with sudden light.

“Nobody knows?” he said. “Are you sure? If that’s true we can get you back there to-night, perhaps, and they’ll never know you came. If nobody has seen you here, perhaps——”

“I’m not going back,” said Bobbie.

His father’s eyes met his evenly.

“You mean,” said he at last, “that you never want to be a gentleman? Is it that the dearest wish I have means nothing to you at all?”

“I’ll go to another school if you like,” said Bobbie in a small voice, “but I can’t go back to Harley. There’s somebody there who knows. He holds it over my head and makes me do things. It’s awful. I—I can’t go back.”

“Somebody knows?” His father was looking at him keenly. “Why have you never told me? Who knows?”

“Coles is there.”

For a moment his father was silent. He stood perfectly still, as a man will who is suddenly stricken with ill news. And at last his hands moved to his dressing-gown.

“I’ll get dressed. We’ll get away from here. Sit down for a moment. Tell me while I dress. What has he made you do?”

Bobbie began to talk. The secrets came out one by one.

“This afternoon,” said Bobbie, “I had to get him another bottle. And when I’d got it I came away by the train at seven o’clock. I was seen coming out. I can’t go back. If they’ve found out that I came up here I shall be expelled. And if they haven’t found out, and I managed to get in, then I shall have to go on doing whatever Coles tells me to.” He paused. “Next term,” he said presently, “Coles expects to be captain of boxing. How could I enjoy boxing with him as captain? Let me go to another school, father. Somewhere where nobody need know at all if you don’t want them to, but not to a place where I have to keep the secret by being contemptible.”

His father was dressed and he did not look at him at all. He just took his arm and began to lead him out through the crowded room. Everywhere men were calling to him. Johnny took no notice. He just made a gesture of farewell and went out into the street with Bobbie.

“There may be a means,” he said at last. “Perhaps I can think it out. It’s a terrible thing to run away. You’ll have to go back. If none of the masters know you came there may be a way to get you back. Who was it saw you leave?”

“It’s a boy who wouldn’t tell,” said Bobbie. “But I——”

He stopped abruptly. A man had come upon them from behind, and now his hand reached out and was resting upon Bobbie’s shoulder.

Bobbie turned with a start, and as he looked up he knew the sudden shock of a man ducked suddenly in cold water. For the first time since he had left the school he felt the touch of guilt, not for his father, but because by a freak of Fate it was Mr Nicholson who had found him out. Toby it was who stood looking down at him. He knew as well as any boy that it was through Toby’s influence that the fellows at Harley had been persuaded to stick it out without making a cock-shy of the school. And finding him unexpectedly at liberty in London, Toby would not understand the truth. He would think that he, Bobbie Carr, had been the only boy in Harley who had given in.

There was a short dramatic silence. Then, as Bobbie looked up once again, wondering whether he ought to speak or whether to leave this to his father, he noticed a most remarkable fact—i.e. Toby was smiling. What made this more remarkable was that he was smiling not at him but, funnily enough, at that quiet-mannered little man, his father. And as Bobbie watched he slowly held out his hand.

“You won’t remember me properly,” he said, “but I haven’t forgotten you, Johnny Winter.”

Johnny had been looking from one to the other in acute distress, but now a memory was suddenly awakened within him, and he took Toby’s hand and looked and gently nodded his head.

“Why, yes,” said he. “Yes, certainly I remember you. It’s Mr Nicholson. You used to come in and box with us when we were training at Harrow, and again at Brighton.”

Toby tapped the little man upon the shoulder with an emphatic forefinger.

“I used to come in and box with you and those other fellows wherever and whenever I could. You taught me more about boxing than any man of my size I ever came up against. Do you remember——” He broke off. “My word, that was a great show to-night, Johnny. I wouldn’t have missed that fight for worlds. I want to congratulate you.”

He stopped. Johnny was looking at him with quaint solemnity. Then the thought of Bobbie seemed to recur to him, and as he turned to fix him with a reproachful eye Johnny said:

“This is my son.”

Toby gave not the least sign of surprise. The closest observer could not have told whether he had already guessed. His whole bearing was guided by an affectionate appreciation of the reasons which had prompted Johnny to speak so shyly. So he looked at Bobbie with a slow smile, and then back again at the straight-backed little man whom they had thought too old to fight. Johnny stood with his soft hat set squarely upon his head in a way that spoke of quiet respectability. His solemn countenance was a little anxious and one eye decidedly discoloured.

“Then I am very, very glad,” said Toby, “more glad than I can say, that you sent him to Harley.”

“It was because I knew that it was your old school,” said Johnny, with a little nod of the head, “that I did send him there. And is it that you are a master there yourself now?”

“Until a few weeks ago I was games master there.”

“Then you have left?”

“I am on a little holiday.”

A new light of hope came into the little man’s eyes. He was clearly seeking for words.

“I wonder,” he began, “if you could possibly help. My boy has come away from school without permission. He came against my wishes and without my knowledge to see me fight.”

Bobbie looked up at Toby straightly.

“It’s the last time he’ll ever fight, sir. I should never have had another chance. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him in the ring. And I had to come.”

Toby began to nod his head absently.

“Yes, of course,” he confessed, “you had to come. So should I have had to if he had been my father. Only why didn’t you ask permission?”

Johnny broke in quickly.

“You don’t quite understand, of course,” said he, “but the Headmaster of Harley knows me only as John Carr. It would be impossible to let it be known that a boy at Harley was the son of a professional boxer. I—I wanted to give him every possible chance in life. My one ambition is to see him a gentleman. What chance would he have if he were held down always by the shame of my trade?”

“What shame?” demanded Toby.

Johnny made a deprecating gesture.

“You understand,” said he, “one does not meet professional pugilists in the homes of gentlemen, except as curiosities.”

Toby looked at him inscrutably.

“My son has run away. Unless I can get him back there will, of course, be an inquiry, and I shall need to come forward. The papers will sooner or later get wind of it and the facts will come out. When once it is known that a bruiser sent his son to a Public School and that he ran away, I shall never be able to get him into another school in England, except as a notoriety. Is there any means at all by which you could help me to get him back?”

“I’m not going back,” interrupted Bobbie, with sudden emphasis.

They turned to look at him.

“Why not?” said Toby, in astonishment.

The boy was silent, but Johnny spoke up.

“You must tell him, Bobbie,” said he. “If we want help from Mr Nicholson we must tell him everything. There’s a young fellow at the school, Mr Nicholson, who happens to know the secret that we’ve tried to keep, and by threatening to tell it he has made Bobbie do things that he shouldn’t have. No doubt this fellow will guess that the boy came up to see me fight, and even if we should get him safely back to-night perhaps he will say now that unless Bobbie does this or that for him he will report his absence to the Headmaster.”

Toby was looking from one to the other thoughtfully.

“How did this boy come to know you at all then, Johnny?”

For a moment the little man hesitated. At last he began to explain.

“His father had money. There was a time when he acted as my backer, and as I won my fights he made a very good profit. Then he came to me one day and proposed a put-up job. He wanted me to fight a man and lose. It was to sway the betting to his advantage. But I told him what I thought of him and he never backed me again. I didn’t care for him to. This son, from what I know, will be much the same as the father, and he knows well enough my history.”

“His name would be Coles,” said Toby.

The little man looked at him in surprise.

“You know him?”

“Very well indeed,” said Toby. “Strangely well.”

There came an interval of silence. Toby appeared to be considering. At last he looked up.

“You are the father of a boy at Harley, Mr Carr,” said he. “Do you know all that has been happening there this term?”

“Bobbie has told me,” said the little man. “I am very sorry.”

Toby nodded his head.

“The storm is nearly over, and now there is next term to consider. I am not sure how much Harley’s reputation as a sporting school will have suffered by the events of the present term, but the probability is that an impression will spread that we shall take some little time to find our feet again. Not much will be expected of us at Aldershot, for example. It will be known that our professional was sent away. Yet it will be at Aldershot that we shall have to retrieve our good name. To recommence football and try to catch up next term would be unwise. We never do play football in the Easter term, nor do many of the other schools we play, and in any case we should be a term behind everybody else in combination. It will be better to let this stand as a lean year at football, and instead we must send such a team to Aldershot as has never been turned out by any Public School before. All the enthusiasm that has been stored up this term must be called out. We must go boxing mad and sweep the board. If any critics think that a term’s ill fortune can hold us down we shall show them that they are mistaken. This will be possible because the Headmaster who ruined our football season is not coming back.”

He paused. The father and the son were peering at him intently. A look had come over Toby’s countenance which would have told those who knew him best that he was following a particular train of thought and that he had led up to the crucial point.

“Do you want your boy to go back to Harley to-night, and box for the school in the biggest year in their history next term, Mr Carr?”

Johnny turned slowly and looked at Bobbie, then back at Toby.

“For the last five years I have been counting the days to the time when my boy would box for a Public School at Aldershot,” said he.

Toby smiled. He took a step forward and laid his hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

“Coles is expecting to be captain of boxing next term,” said he. “What do you say to that?”

For a moment Johnny said nothing. At last he looked up.

“I can hardly imagine a worse boy in the school to be a captain than Mr Coles’ son,” said he, “and if there is anybody else——”

“There has got to be somebody else,” said Toby. “If we let Coles be captain we might as well chuck up the sponge. And there is somebody else.”

“Then,” asked Johnny reasonably enough, “why will they not elect him captain?”

“Because he cannot box.”

There was a brief silence. At last Toby drew a deep breath.

“I am going to get a car and take your boy back to Harley,” said he.

“Will you be able to get him in?”

“If he has not been reported absent by the time I get back,” said Toby, “I will get him in. It is a service for Harley. We need him to box in the feathers for the school next term. And here is the bargain. If I get him in, will you in return do something yourself for Harley, a secret service of your own?”

“What is it?” asked Johnny.

“If I introduce you to a boy in the holidays, Johnny Winter, will you teach him to box, and to box well enough to justify the school in electing him captain of boxing next term?”

Johnny looked dubious.

“In three weeks?”

“You are a man who could do it,” said Toby. “And you see what it means. If Coles is elected captain Harley is doomed. If this fellow can keep him out the whole school will follow him, and there will be such a wave of enthusiasm for boxing that we shall knock all the other schools sideways at Aldershot.”

The little man slowly shook his head.

“He would want to pay me,” said he. “He wouldn’t understand. The whole school would know that Bobbie’s father was a pug.”

Toby made an almost angry gesture.

“When Rouse understands that you are the father of a boy at Harley,” said he, “he will understand the honour that you will be doing him.”

The little man stood looking into the distance. Toby spoke again.

“The time’s getting short. I’m going to take Bobbie back. You get along home to bed. You must be tired. Will you meet me in town to-morrow, and I shall be able to give you news of your boy?”

Bobbie looked from one to the other quizzically. The question of his return to Harley seemed to have been decided for him. There was little to be gained by saying again that he would not go back. Besides, it would be different now. The Old Boy who had been on secret service for Harley would be watching over his interests. That inconvenient secret was not now entirely his own. He would not need to worry about his father’s name. If all went well, his father would save Harley from Coles, and Harley would understand when Coles told the secret what great work his father had done.

He looked up. Toby and his father were shaking hands in the ponderous manner of two men making a solemn compact, and the troubled doubting on his father’s face was passing into a sober, trusting smile as Toby spoke to him.