Next week, Randall marched Harry back to the sports club. Full of trepidation, Harry awaited meeting his new opponent for this second bout.
John Burson, the coach, had greeted them with a wide grin. "Welcome back, boy," he said. "We have someone I want you to meet." He turned and called out, "Antonio, come on over here!"
A few moments later a stocky boy of about 12 ambled up. He was wearing trunks and boxing gloves. Harry stared at his naked torso, awed at the well-muscled chest and shoulders. His skin was brown and he looked Mexican. His black hair was cut short. When he smiled at Harry, his white teeth contrasted sharply with his dark face.
"Antonio," Burson said, "this is Harry. You will do a few rounds today. "He is still a novice but has had a few lessons, so dont hold back. Theres a dollar for you each time you land a good punch."
Harry didnt like this one bit. The boy was just slightly taller than him but solid. A good punch from this boy would probably floor him. Perhaps knock him out. Maybe that would be the best. A quick K. O. and he would be taken back home. And be caned, presumably. Harry started to shake.
"Well, Harry," Randall said, giving the boy a rough push, "off with you and get into your trunks. I want to see a good fight this time. For every dollar Antonio earns, you will earn 2 strokes. Remember that."
Harry fled to the locker room and returned shortly wearing only his skimpy little trunks, socks and shoes. The coach handed him a pair of gloves and helped him lace them up. The 2 boys stepped in the ring, the coach gave the usual instructions and the bell rang.
During the first round, Harry managed to fend off many of the jabs that Antonio flung at him, but two good wallops reached their goal, one in the face that made Harry see stars and another right in the solar plexus. Harry doubled up, winded, but the bell rang just in time.
"Harry, you are not trying," Randall snapped at him as he wiped the boys flushed and sweaty face. A bit of blood trickled from the boys nose. "I dont want to warn you again. There are two more rounds and I want to see you land at least a few or Ill give you a thrashing you wont soon forget."
Round two was worse. Harry was out of breath and getting tired. Antonio gained confidence and rained blows to Harrys head and body. In desperation, Harry flung himself at his opponent, flailing his arms wildly and succeeded in connecting with Antonios eye. When the round was over, the panting boy sat in his corner as Randall washed the blood off Harrys face.
"Well, congratulations, boy," Randall mocked. "You actually connected one. Excellent, now you are getting one stroke less tonight. Dont think Ill let you off the rest. I think you will not be able to sit down comfortably for a week. You had better make a better show of yourself in the last round."
The two minutes of the last round were quite comical to watch. Antonio, as fresh as when he started, although one eye looked a bit swollen, weaved and bobbed, administering blow after blow while Harry stood there desperately trying to repel these attacks – with little success. The coach and Randall watched with amusement; somehow the bell was delayed by several seconds. Harry staggered into the wrong corner and Randall had to shout at him.
"Go and take a shower," Randall snapped at the sorry-looking boy and he and the coach watched as Harry trudged off, still dazed and unsteady on his feet.
Antonio came out of the ring whistling. "You owe me, coach," he laughed and followed Harry into the showers.
When they were alone, Randall turned to the coach. "During the week, until the next bout, please show the boy how to defend himself. He still hasnt learned this properly. I will give him more exercise and see if I cant make him a bit stronger and teach him stamina."
"I hope you will use the cane," the coach laughed. "I saw those stripes on his bottom and thighs. I am sure fear of punishment will encourage the boy to take his lessons more seriously. Punishment both inside the ring and outside. Just keep after him and he will improve soon enough. He just needs a strong incentive."
"I will do that. He has lost some weight already since I have him. He will lose more, I can assure you. He will be in much better shape in a month or two. What sort of exercises do you recommend?"
"The usual. Sit-ups, leg raises, knee bends, jumping rope, running. Yes, a lot of running to get better breath control. Have him do an hour or 90 minutes every morning and afternoon. Nutritious food but in measured quantities. No sweets or such. Nothing between meals. I am sure you know all that."
"Yes, the usual regimen for boys his age."
Harry emerged from the locker room and stood, waiting, while the adults discussed his training program. His face was puffy and he stood slightly bent. One hand pulled at his tight shorts.
"Well, thanks, coach," Randall finally said. "I appreciate your help with the boy. I will keep your recommendations in mind. Come along, Harry. We have some matters to settle at home."
The coach laughed and watched them leave. Randall had a firm grip on the boys ear and dragged him roughly down the road. "I wouldnt want to be in that boys shoes today," he said to himself with a chuckle, thinking of the welts he had seen on Harrys behind. He took out his wallet and went to find Antonio.
Randall sat in his easy chair with Harry firmly between his knees. His hands held him by the narrow hips. He looked for a moment into the twitching face, the slightly swollen nose that had just stopped bleeding.
"Stop squirming," he said.
"My ribs are still hurting," Harry whined annoyingly. "And my nose."
"I checked, boy. Nothing is broken, so stop this nonsense. Mr. Burson told me he had to pay Antonio 30 dollars. That means you owe me 60 strokes of the cane."
"But, Uncle -" Harry started, but Randall interrupted.
"Be quiet. I will give you a dozen now and a dozen before you go to your next bout at the club. During the six days interval, I will give you 6 strokes each morning before your swim. How many is that, boy?"
Harry squirmed. "I - er - I d-dont know," he muttered miserably, thus earning himself a few healthy slaps on his bare thighs.
"That makes the 60, stupid boy. Now take your shorts down and bend over the desk. You will now receive the first installment."
Harry whined again and Randall took his tawse from the desk drawer and gave the boy three solid whacks across each thigh. "Stop that whining and get those shorts down," he ordered.
Harry had no choice but to obey. He exposed his bare buttocks and bent fearfully over the desks edge.
"All the way over, boy," Randall said, his eyes on the welts across the boys bottom. When the small bottom was in place, at a nice, elevated angle, he went to the cupboard and brought out a cane. A long, thin and whippy one which any schoolboy could admire for its sharp sting. Placing himself strategically behind the boy, he raised the cane.
He had just administered the first three blistering cuts when Geraldine entered the study.
"Brian," she said, glancing at the bent boy with indifference, "Martha and Ralph are coming over for in about ten minutes. Will you be finished with the boy by then?"
Randall slashed the cane across the boys upper thighs and Harry yelped.
"Not, if this boy doesnt learn to take his whippings in silence," he said. "Lets give this last one over again, shall we?"
"I will tell Martha to make it 30 minutes. That should be sufficient." She watched for a moment as Randall continued the caning, slowly and deliberately whipping the cane across the boys lower backside. Harry twisted and turned, struggling not to cry out. His bottom was a bed of red-hot coals and he wondered how he would take the promised full dozen.
But take them he did, even though the dozen extended itself to 15 strokes because he cried out again and again.
When it was over, Randall left the boy across the desk until he heard the front door open and Geraldine greeted Ralph and Martha. Then he said, "All right, boy, pull up your shorts and come along. You will say hello to our guests and help your Aunt serving lunch. Any mishaps, my boy, and your bottom will pay dearly."
Ralph and Martha looked up when Randall marched the boy into the living room. Harrys face was still tear-streaked and he walked slightly bent over. That blow to his stomach had left its painful mark.
He walked up to each guest, extended his hand and said, "Hello," softly.
"My goodness," Martha exclaimed, still holding Harrys small, moist hand, "look at that face! What happened? Run into a door?"
"Answer the lady," Geraldine snapped at the boy. "Tell her how clumsy you were today in the boxing ring."
"Er - I was fighting a big boy - and - and he beat me," Harry stammered, his face turning a bright red.
"The boy doesnt try," Randall explained. "He doesnt seem to understand that he has to protect himself and fight back. But he will learn, with a lot of practice."
"Boys are so lazy," Martha acknowledged, looking down at the humiliated boy. "Was he punished? He seems to walk rather oddly."
"Well, a few strokes with the cane, of course. He had those coming. But mostly its the effect of the beating he took in the ring."
"Serves him right," Ralph added. "Boys should be strong and tough. Harry here seems to be a little cry baby."
"True, but the cane can do wonders to toughen little boys up properly if applied systematically to their lazy rumps. Now, let us move to the dining room. Harry, go and bring out the dishes. But be careful. I dont want to see anything spilled."
Harry joined Geraldine in the kitchen, fetched and carried plates, dishes, bottles and glasses. Each step hurt, in his bottom and his ribs. His nose felt gigantic. The luncheon never seemed to end. The boy was kept on his toes for over 2 hours before the guests retired to the living room.
"Come into the kitchen," Geraldine called after the guests had made themselves comfortable. "Clear the table and wash the dishes. After you dry them, place them back into the cabinets exactly as I showed you. Not a plate out of place, do you hear? Then you will wash the floor. When you are finished, come into the living room. You have 30 minutes. Dont be late. You dont want your uncle to bring the cane, do you?
"N-no, Auntie," the boy muttered and went to work. His hand went absently to his burning buttocks, tightly encased in the small shorts, and massaged them gingerly.