P G Wodehouse

The Pothunters P G Wodehouse

'Where have I seen that face before?' said a voice. Tony Graham looked up from his bag. 'Hullo, Allen, ' he said, 'what the dickens are you up here for?' 'I was rather thinking of doing a little boxing. If you've no objection, of course.' 'But you ought to be on a bed of sickness, and that sort of thing. I heard you'd crocked yourself.' 'So I did. Nothing much, though. Trod on myself during a game of fives, and twisted my ankle a bit.' 'In for the middles, of course?' 'Yes.' 'So am I.' 'Yes, so I saw in the Sportsman. It says you weigh eleven-three.' 'Bit more, really, I believe. Shan't be able to have any lunch, or I shall have to go in for the heavies. What are you?' 'Just eleven. Well, let's hope we meet in the final.' 'Rather, ' said Tony. It was at Aldershot-to be more exact, in the dressing-room of the Queen's Avenue Gymnasium at Aldershot-that the conversation took place. From east and west, and north and south, from Dan even unto Beersheba, the representatives of the public schools had assembled to box, fence, and perform gymnastic prodigies for fame and silver medals. The room was full of all sorts and sizes of them, heavy-weights looking ponderous and muscular, feather-weights diminutive but wiry, light-weights, middle-weights, fencers, and gymnasts in scores, some wearing the unmistakable air of the veteran, for whom Aldershot has no mysteries, others nervous, and wishing themselves back again at school.