t once. The seconds carried the still
unconscious Mr. Spurlock below to the waiting stretcher.
Immediately after Kramer dropped in on a classmate, who gladly
came upstairs to aid Mr. Devine in seconding Mr. Kramer.

Not an unnecessary moment did Mr. Kramer lose with his
stripping. He was ready in almost record time, presenting, bared, a
man of about Mr. Spurlock's proportions, weight and general
muscular fitness.

Mr. Edwards quickly recited the conditions, then called for the
start of the affair.

Figuring that Prescott must now be a good deal sore and at least a
bit winded, Mr. Kramer started in at a lively gait, trying to bear the
plebe down with swift, overpowering rushes and showers of blows.

Some of these landed on the plebe's sturdy body, the whacks
resounding. But the blows merely stirred Prescott's fighting blood
within him. Standing up fairly, with little footwork, but displaying
much more speed, Dick Prescott drove in blow after blow in such
bewildering succession as to all but daze the yearling.

Bang! Kramer's right eye was half closed just as Cadet Jennison
called the end of the first round.

"Great Scott, but that little fellow is a canned hurricane!" muttered
Devine, as he wrung out cloths in cold water and applied then to
Kramer's swelling eye. "Old man, you want to swing one blow
down on the top of his head, and crush him, if you want to save
your personal appearance."

"Won't I?" grunted Kramer. "Just watch me. I won't murder the
plebe, but I've stood all the fooling I'm going to."

As the combatants rushed at each other again Kramer struck out
two or three times; then clinched to save himself.

"Break away, there!" admonished Edwards sternly. "Get off!"

Again in that round Kramer clinched, despite the referee's sternest
orders.

"That's no way to meet a plebe, Mr. Kramer," cried Edwards
disgustedly.

After the second get-away Dick fairly danced around his man. A
blow on the nose brought Kramer's blood. Then his left eye went
all but shut. At that the yearling spun dizzily. Dick drove a light
blow in behind his man's ear. Down went Spurlock's "avenger"
sprawling on the floor.

Mr. Jennison began to count while Kramer lay on the floor, stirring
uneasily, yet not seeming to comprehend his seconds' warnings.

"--eight, nine, ten!" finished Mr. Jennison, then put the watch in his
pocket.

"The fight is awarded to Mr. Prescott, and it isn't nine thirty yet,"
announced Mr. Edwards.