Manfred, despite his size and physique and good looks, which made him a natural target, was able to bridle his anger and check his tongue. He submitted stoically even to extreme provocation until in the second week of torment a note was pinned on the board in the residence common room: all flatus will report to the university gymnasium at 4 pm on Saturday to try out for the boxing squad.
Signed: Roelf Stander Captain of Boxing Each of the university residences specialized in some particular sport: one was the rugby football house, another was field and track; but Rust en Vrede's sport was boxing. This, together with the fact that it was Uncle Tromp's old house, was the reason why Manfred had applied for admission in the first place.
It was also the reason why the interest in the freshmen try-out was far beyond anything that Manfred had expected.
At least three hundred spectators were assembled, and the seats around the ring were all filled by the time that Manfred and his fellow flatus arrived at the gymnasium. Marshalled by one of the senior men into a crocodile column, they were marched to the changing-rooms and given five minutes to change into tennis shoes, shorts and vests, then lined up against the lockers in order of height.
Roelf Stander strolled down the rank, glancing at the fist in his hand and making the matchings. It was obvious that he had been studying them during the preceding weeks and grading their potential. Manfred, the tallest and sturdiest of all the freshmen, was at the end of the line, and Roelf Stander stopped in front of him last.
There is no other fart as loud and smelly as this one, he announced, and then was silent for a moment as he studied Manfred. 'What do you weigh, Flatus? This flatus is light heavyweight, sir, and Roelf's eyes narrowed slightly. He had already singled Manfred out as the best prospect and now the technical jargon heartened him.
Have you boxed before, Flatus? he demanded, and then pulled a wry face at the disappointing reply.
This flatus has never boxed a match, sir, but this flatus has had some practice.
A Oh, all right, then! I am heavyweight. But as there is no
one else to give you a match, I'll go a few rounds with you, if you promise to treat me lightly, Flatus. Roeff Stander was captain of the university squad, amateur provincial champion and one of South Africa's better prospects for the team which would go to Berlin for the Olympic Games in 1936. It was a rich joke cracked by a senior student and everybody laughed slavishly. Even Roelf could not hide a grin at his own preposterous plea for mercy.
All right, we'll begin with the fly-weights, he continued, and led them out into the gymnasium.
The freshmen were seated on a long bench at the back of the hall with an imperfect view of the ring over the heads of the more privileged spectators as Roelf and his assistants, all members of the boxing squad, put the gloves on the first trialists and led them down the aisle to the ring.
While this was going on Manfred became aware of somebody in the front row of seats standing and trying to catch his eye. He glanced around at the senior men who were in charge of them, but their attention was on the ring so for the first time he looked directly at the person in the crowd.
He had forgotten how pretty Sarah was, either that or she had blossomed in the weeks since he had last seen her. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed with excitement as she waved a lace handkerchief and mouthed his name happily.
He kept his expression inscrutable, but lowered one eyelid at her in a furtive wink and she blew him a two-handed kiss and dropped back into her seat beside the mountainous bulk of Uncle Tromp.
They have both come! The knowledge cheered him enormously; until that moment he had not realized how lonely these last weeks had been. Uncle Tromp turned his head and grinned at him, his teeth very white in the frosted black bush of his beard; then he turned back to face the ring.
The first bout began: two game little flyweights going at each other in a flurry of blows, but one was outclassed and soon there was blood sprinkling the canvas. Roelf Stander stopped it in the second round and patted the loser on the back.
Well done! No shame in losing. The other bouts followed, all of them spirited, the fighters obviously doing their very best, but apart from a promising middleweight, it was all very rough and unskilled. At last Manfred was the only one on the bench.
All right, FlatusF The senior laced his gloves and told him: 'Let's see what you can do. Manfred slipped the towel off his shoulders and stood up just as Roelf Stander climbed back into the ring from the changing-room end. He now wore the maroon vest and trunks piped with gold that were Varsity colours, and on his feet were expensive boots of glove leather laced high over the ankles. He held up both gloved hands to quieten the whistles and good-natured cheers.
Ladies and Gentlemen. We do not have a match for our last trialist; no other freshman in his weight division. So if you will be kind enough to bear with me, I'm going to take him through his paces. The cheers broke out again, but now there were shouts of Go easy on him, Roelf, and Don't kill the poor beggar! Roelf waved his assurance of mercy at them, concentrating on the section of seats filled with girls from the women's residences, and there were muted squeals and giggles an a tossing of permanently waved coiffures, for Roelf stood six feet, with a square jaw, white teeth and flashing dark eyes.
His hair was thick and wavy and gleaming with Brylcreem, his sideburns dense and curling and his mustache dashing as a cavalier's.
As Manfred reached the front row of seats he could not restrain himself from glancing sideways at Sarah and Uncle Tromp. Sarah was hopping her bottom up and down on her seat, and she pressed her clenched fists to cheeks that were rosy with excitement.
Get him, Manie, she cried. Vat hoM! and beside her Uncle Tromp nodded at him. Fast as a mamba, jong! Brave as a ratel he rumbled so that only Manfred could hear; and Manfred lifted his chin and there was a new lightness in his feet as he ducked through the ropes into the ring.
One of the other seniors had taken over the duty of referee: In this corner at one hundred and eighty-five pounds the captain of Varsity and amateur heavyweight champion of the Cape of Good Hope, Roelf Stander! And in this corner at one hundred and seventy-three pounds a freshman, in deference to the delicate company, he did not use the full honorific, Manfred De La Rey. The timekeeper struck his gong and Roelf came out of his corner dancing lightly, ducking and weaving, smiling thinly over his red leather gloves as they circled each other. just out of striking distance, around they went, and then back the other way, and the smile left Roelf's lips and they tightened into a straight thin line. His light manner evaporated; he had not expected this.
There was no weak place in the guard of the man who faced him; his cropped golden head was lowered on muscled shoulders, and he moved on his feet like a cloud.
He's a fighter! Roelf's anger flared. He lied, he knows what he's doing. He tried once more to command the centre of the ring, but was forced to turn out again as his adversary moved threateningly into his left.
As yet neither of them had thrown a punch, but the cheers of the crowd subsided. They sensed that they were watching something extraordinary; they saw Roelf's casual attitude change, saw deadly intent come into the way he was moving now; and those who knew him well saw the little lines of worry and perturbation at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
Roelf flicked out his left, a testing shot, and the other man did not even deign to duck; he turned it off his glove contemptuously, and Roelf's skin prickled with shock as he sensed the power in that fleeting contact and looked deeply into Manfred's eyes. It was a trick of his, establishing domination by eye contact.