"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir
out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and
pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little
apart.

"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the
snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a
big handful."

"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep
cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."

Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much
better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically,
but had scored a little on his own account.

"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let
him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him
out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time
after he's missed."

But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by
following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face
was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly
tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he
would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.

After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or