The Heat of the Sun

can do for me. Would you like that?’
    ‘Depends what it is, doesn’t it?’
    ‘One moment,’ he said, and dipped his pen into the inkwell on the escritoire. As he wrote, a furrow appeared between his dark eyebrows; writing, I suspected, had never been easy for
him.
    ‘There.’ He held up his paper and blew on it. ‘I think the bulletin board in McManus Two would be best, don’t you?’
    I took the paper carefully. Trouble’s handwriting was remarkably neat.
    CHALLENGE
    That BASTARD Eddie Scranway has terrified Blaze long enough. He is a COWARD , doing everything through his
     ‘assistants’. On Monday afternoon, Douglas Quibble and Frank Kane jumped me, beat me up, and left me unconscious. THEY ACTED UNDER
     SCRANWAY ’ S ORDERS . For that reason, I, B. F. Pinkerton II, hereby challenge Eddie ( COWARD ) Scranway to fight me OPENLY , with BOXING GLOVES (Queensberry Rules), in the gym at ten o’clock (p.m.) on the last day of term. I will NOT fight
     Douglas Quibble or Frank Kane. I WILL fight Eddie Scranway. May the best man win.
    Sincerely,
    B. F. Pinkerton II
    P.S. If Eddie Scranway does NOT accept this challenge, it is proof that he is a COWARD .
    ‘You like it?’ said Trouble.
    ‘I love it. But think! So it was Quibble and Kane. How can you prove Scranway put them up to it?’
    ‘You don’t think he did?’
    ‘He’ll deny it.’
    ‘To the masters? Let him! But you know and I know and Hunter the dog knows why Quibble and Kane do anything, ever. It’s time to call Scranway’s bluff.’
    ‘Queensberry Rules? Trouble, even I know that boxers are matched according to weight. And you’re tiny.’
    ‘So I’ll train. We’ve got three weeks.’
    ‘We?’ I said.
    ‘It’s a duel. I’ll need a second.’
    I laughed, but Trouble was in earnest. Solemnly then, I looked into his strange eyes, spat into my palm, and gripped his hand. I hated Blaze Academy: I hated all that it stood for. To champion
Trouble would be to strike a blow against it. A blow for freedom. The boy in the next bed twisted, crying out faintly. Fever glistened on his forehead.
    As I left, I asked Trouble: ‘How did you know that song, anyway? The one in class.’
    ‘Oh, Mama took me to the play once. Boring as all hell it was, but I liked the song and learned it. Funny, isn’t it? Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to
dust ... Why must they? Didn’t us golden lads have any other career options in those days?’
    ‘Mr Gregg says it’s not about children going up chimneys. A chimney-sweeper was a name for a dandelion – blow on it, and it’s gone. And it’s as for like . Golden lads, like dandelions, end up as dust.’
    ‘Don’t we all?’ said Trouble. ‘Even Eddie Scranway.’
    ‘It’s a prank, it has to be!’
    ‘Talk about a massacre! Imagine it.’
    ‘Did Trouble even write it? I can’t believe it.’
    ‘Three years younger, six years smaller!’
    ‘He’s in the infirmary. Who put up this notice?’
    That evening, fellows clustered excitedly by the bulletin board in McManus II.
    ‘Say, where’s Scranway? Has he seen this?’
    As if in answer, the door swung open and Scranway entered with Hunter loping behind. The fellows fell silent; nervously, some shuffled away from the bulletin board.
    Scranway, taking in the situation at once, ripped the challenge from the wall. If I thought his face would change as he read it, I was wrong. Around us, voices sounded again, rising into a
clamour:
    ‘You’ll wipe the floor with him, Scranway.’
    ‘Trouble’s crazy. You’ll show him, Scranway.’
    ‘Roll up, roll up for the fight of the century!’
    Scranway held up a hand and silence fell. He crushed the paper into a ball. He tossed it into the air and caught it. He dropped it, kicked it like a football.
    ‘Whoever posted that,’ he said, ‘can tell Trouble I’m calling his bluff. He wants a fight? He’s on.’
    Cheers erupted with volcanic force.
    In my cubicle, I found Le Vol sitting on my cot. He sprang to his feet as I entered.
    ‘What do you think you’re playing at? It was you, wasn’t it? You put up that challenge.’
    ‘Haven’t you always wanted a revolution?’
    ‘I’m warning you, that’s all. Trouble’s trouble.’
    ‘Maybe he’s my kind of trouble.’
    ‘Yes, if you want to get beaten to a pulp! It was bad enough, tagging after him in the dining hall when he put on his little show. People are talking. This is Trouble, remember –
Trouble! Think what