“Gentlemen,” announced Referee Packard, “this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands.  Rounds, two minutes each.  Time between rounds one minute.  There will be no preliminary handshaking.  Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Ready!” quivered Dodge.

“Ready,” softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips.

“Time!”

Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed.  Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance.  Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days.  Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence.

It was Dodge who led off.  He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat.  Dodge’s first two or three blows were neatly parried.  Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick’s body.  But Dodge didn’t get back out of it unscathed.  One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him.

Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge’s eye, mockery in Dick’s.

The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to cheer.  There was little of foot work, little of getting away.  It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled both men to draw back.

They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came.

Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded, fanned.  A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting trim from such mauling as had been exchanged.

“Time!”

Biff, bump, pound!

It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had to be met.  Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso.

Just before the close of the second round Prescott thought he saw his chance.  Feinting with his left, he drove in a hook with his right, aimed for Bert’s nose.

It touched, instead, on the lip, not a hard blow, but a tantalizing one.  As the men drew back at the call of time a blotch of red was seen on Bert’s lower lip.  When he came back for the third round, that lip was puffing fast.

“Third round, time!”

Again Bert Dodge started in with his heavy body tactics.  But this time Dick himself changed the style.  With swift, clever foot-work he danced all around his now furious opponent.  Dodge could follow the swift style, too, however, and defended himself, finally coming back with the assault.

Half way through the round Dick received a sharp tap on his nose that brought the red.  Stung, Prescott became only the cooler.  For some time he fought for the opening that he wanted, and got it at last, though Dodge’s guarding left prevented the blow from landing with quite all the force with which it had been driven.