In his most scientific mood he had never had the
remotest notion of how to guard. He was aggressive and nothing else.
Attacked by a quick hitter, he was useless. Three times Kennedy got
through his guard with his left. The third hit staggered him. Before
he could recover, Kennedy had got his right in, and down went Walton
in a heap.
He was up again as soon as he touched the boards, and down again
almost as soon as he was up. Kennedy was always a straight hitter, and
now a combination of good cause and bad temper--for the thought of the
foul in the first round had stirred what was normally a more or less
placid nature into extreme viciousness--lent a vigour to his left arm
to which he had hitherto been a stranger. He did not use his right
again. It was not needed.
Twice more Walton went down. He was still down when Jimmy Silver
called time. When the half-minute interval between the rounds was
over, he stated that he was not going on.
Kennedy looked across at him as he sat on a bed dabbing tenderly at
his face with a handkerchief, and was satisfied with the success of
his object-lesson. From his own face the most observant of headmasters
could have detected no evidence that he had been engaged in a vulgar
fight. Walton, on the other hand, looked as if he had been engaged in
several--all violent.
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