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Updated: May 7, 2025
"You got a bad attack of Peteiro. That was what was the matter with you." "You think that every one's a funk like yourself," said Stanning. "Pity they aren't," said Linton; "we should do rather well down at Aldershot. And he wasn't such a terror after all, Sheen, was he? You beat him in two and a half rounds, didn't you?
He side-stepped, and, turning quickly, found his man staggering past him, over-balanced by the force of his wasted blow. And now it was Sheen who attacked, and Peteiro who tried to escape. Two swift hits he got in before his opponent could face round, and another as he turned and rushed. Then for a while the battle raged without science all over the ring.
Peteiro swung his right viciously, but without effect. Another swift counter added one more point to Sheen's score. Sheen nearly chuckled. It was all so beautifully simple. What a fool he had been to mix it up in the first round. If he only kept his head and stuck to out-fighting he could win with ease. The man couldn't box. He was nothing more than a slogger.
It wouldn't do for me to let you go down if you are not up to the proper form. You would be half killed." "I should like to have a shot, sir," said Sheen. "Then this year, as you probably know, Ripton are sending down Peteiro for the Light-Weights. He was the fellow whom Drummond only just beat last year. And you saw the state in which Drummond came back.
He fought on with undiminished pluck, but the Riptonian was too strong for him, and the third round was a rout. To quote the Sportsman of the following day, "Peteiro crowded in a lot of work with both hands, and scored a popular victory". Sheen looked thoughtful at the conclusion of the fight. There was no doubt that Drummond's antagonist of the previous year was formidable.
Sheen broke away, but now he was out of the corner with the whole good, open ring to manoeuvre in. He could just see the Ripton instructor signalling violently to his opponent, and, in reply to the signals, Peteiro came on again with another fierce rush. But Sheen in the open was a different person from Sheen cooped up in a corner. Francis Hunt had taught him to use his feet.
Sheen got his full measure of applause this time. His victories in the preliminary bouts had won him favour with the spectators. "J. Peteiro, Ripton School." "Go it, Ripton!" cried a voice from near the door. The referee frowned in the direction of this audacious partisan, and expressed a hope that the audience would kindly refrain from comment during the rounds.
He had folded the paper, and the last words on the half uppermost were, "Final. Sheen beat Peteiro". Linton had often read novels in which some important document "swam before the eyes" of the hero or the heroine; but he had never understood the full meaning of the phrase until he read those words, "Sheen beat Peteiro". There was no mistake about it. There the thing was.
Yet Sheen believed himself to be the cleverer of the two. At any rate, Peteiro had given no signs of possessing much cunning. To all appearances he was a tough, go-ahead fighter, with a right which would drill a hole in a steel plate. If only Joe Bevan would come! With Joe in his corner to direct him, he would feel safe. But of Joe up to the present there were no signs.
Then he turned to the ring again, and announced the names a second time. "Sheen Peteiro." The Ripton man was sitting with a hand on each knee, listening to the advice of his school instructor, who had thrust head and shoulders through the ropes, and was busy impressing some point upon him. Sheen found himself noticing the most trivial things with extraordinary clearness.
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