Fred growled something under his breath.

“Are you coming back to the ring?” demanded the referee.

Ripley hesitated.  The yellow streak was strong in him, but he dreaded letting the others see it.

“I’d rather finish this up some other day,” he proposed.

“You know you can’t do that,” retorted Thompson, disgustedly.  “You either have to come up to the scratch, or admit yourself beaten.”

“Admit myself beaten—–­by that mucker?” gasped Ripley, turning livid.

“Then come up at the call of time,” directed Thompson, and strode back to the battle ground.

The timekeeper called.  Dick Prescott returned to his ground.  Ripley stood back, leaning against a tree.  He tried hard to look dignified, but one glance at his nose and eyes was enough to spoil the effect.

“Coming, Ripley?” demanded Thompson.

“Brace up, man, unless you want to admit your thrashing,” urged Ted Butler.

“I’ll attend to that mucker when I feel like it,” growled Fred Ripley.

The form of the remark was unfortunate for the one who made it, for it caused one of the freshman class to call out exultantly: 

“He sure doesn’t feel like it just now.  Look at him!”

“Come, if you don’t hurry in you’ve get to admit the beating,” muttered Ted Butler.

Ripley’s reply being only a snort, Butler suddenly drew forth his handkerchief, rolling it rapidly into a ball.

“In default of a sponge,” called Butler, “I throw this up for my man—–­I mean principal.”

“Ripley being unable to come to the scratch, the fight is awarded to Prescott,” announced Frank Thompson.

“Whoop!  Hoo-oo-ray!” The freshmen clustered about were wild with excitement.

“You’ll have a fine time squaring this with the sophomore class,” uttered Ted Butler, disgustedly.  “Your class, Ripley, will be sore enough, anyway, over losing the paper chase for the first time that any of us can remember.  Now, for a soph to be thrashed, in three rounds, by a little freshman-----”

Butler didn’t finish, but, turning on his heel, walked over to join the rest.

There were two sophomores there who had come over at the end of the paper chase, but neither went to the assistance of his defeated classman.  Ripley, alone, got his sweater back over his head.  The crowd was around Dick Prescott, who felt almost ashamed of the fight, unavoidable as he knew it to have been.

When he had finished getting his clothes on, Ripley stalked moodily past the main group.

“You mucker,” he hissed, “I suppose you feel swelled up over having
had a chance to fight gentleman.   You-----”

“Oh, Ripley, dry up—–­do!” interjected Ted Butler.  “You call yourself a gentleman, but you talk and act more like well, more like a pup with the mange!”

“A pup with the mange!  Great!” came the gleeful chorus from a half score of freshmen.