Treadwell, however, took his full time in responding.  At the last moment he took another dab with the wet sponge against his swollen left eye.

“Time!”

With a suppressed yell Treadwell rushed at his opponent.  Dave had to sidestep to his own right, out of range of Treadwell, to save himself.

Then at it they went, all around the ring.  Darrin had determined to keep himself out of the way of those sledge-hammer fists until he saw his own clear opening.

Four or five times Treadwell landed heavily on Darrin’s ribs.  The younger, smaller midshipman was getting seriously winded, but all the time he fought to save himself and to get that one opening.

It came.

Pound!

Darrin’s hard-clenched left fist dropped in on Treadwell’s right eye.

This time there was no exclamation from the bruised one.

Alert Dave was careful to give him no chance.  Within a second after that eye-closer landed Darrin struck with his right, landing on the jaw bone under Treadwell’s ear.

Down in a heap sank the top classman.  He was unconscious before his body struck the ground.

Wheeler counted off the seconds.

“—­ten!”

Still Mr. Treadwell lay motionless.

“Do your best for him, gentlemen,” begged Referee Edgerton, turning to the first classman’s seconds.  “Mr. Darrin wins the second fight.”

Dave, a satisfied look on his face, stepped back to his seconds.

This time he did not require as much attention.  Within five minutes he was dressed.

By this time Mr. Treadwell, under the ministrations of his seconds and of the late officials, was just coming back to consciousness.

“Something happened, eh?” asked the top classman drowsily.

“Rather!” murmured Mr. Edgerton dryly.

“Did I—­did I—­lose the fight?”

“You did,” Edgerton assented.  “But don’t let that disturb you.  You went down before the best man in the Naval Academy.”

Treadwell sighed gloomily.  It was a hard blow to his pride—­much harder than any that Dave had landed on his head.

“Mr. Treadwell,” inquired Dave, stepping over, “we are comrades, even if we had a slight disagreement.  Do you care to shake hands?”

“Help me to my feet,” urged the first classman, who was sitting up.

His seconds complied.  Then Midshipman Treadwell held out his hand.

“Here’s my hand,” he said rather thickly.  “And I apologize, too, Mr. Darrin.”

“Then say no more about it, please,” begged Dave, as their hands met in a strong clasp.

None of the others present had the least idea of the provocation of this strange, spirited double fight.  All, however, were glad to see the difficulty mended.

Then Dave and his seconds, leaving the field first, made their way back to Bancroft Hall.  Farley and Page went straight to their own room.