Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and
that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face--he can't
feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne,
so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try
to ward him off--he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive
home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've
seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look
when you hit--on the very peak. Understand?"

"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.

"Time!"

The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew
that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne
ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the
last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a
hair.

"_Habet!_" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down
if you can."

Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick
and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack
scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he
dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling,
his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.

[Illustration: ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP.]