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es wanted. He ducked, feinted, and slammed in just above Mr. Butler's belt with such force that the big yearling staggered. Yet Butler was a wary fighter; he blocked Greg's follow-up scheme, then fought for time. Towards the end of the round, however, Butler again tried for the plebe's nose. This time he failed again, but Greg's counter-blow landed on the point of a shoulder. Butler would have been away in another instant, but Greg's right came out of a hook and tapped the yearling emphatically on the end of his nose. As the yearling fought back furiously the blood spurted from his nose. Then, just before time was called, Greg got his left eye too much in line with the yearling's right fist. Dazed, Cadet Holmes was saved only by the word from the time-keeper. Had the round lasted fifteen seconds more Mr. Butler would have had the plebe out. Erect, and as jauntily went back to his corner. [Transcriber's note: missing text?] "I reckon you've got as a bad looking window here," murmured Anstey sympathetically, as he swabbed at the damaged surface around the eye. "Make it short, Holmesy, or you're going to meet with more damage, I reckon." "This is the last serious smash that Greg is going to take," put in Dick coolly. "In the third he's going to remember the old Gridley fighting principle: Greg, you simply can't be whipped. Now, wade in and seize hold of Mr. Butler's scalp-lock." Soon the fighters were at it again. Two or three body blows Greg took, and they stung, coming from such steam-driven fists as the yearling's. But Mr. Holmes's damaged left eye was closing rapidly. He was forced to squint through that eye, getting most of his sight through the right. Of course, the yearling, who now realized he had something more than a dummy to fight, manoeuvred at Greg's left side after that. The third round was drawing to a close. Butler landed one on the side of young Holmes's head that sent the plebe spinning. Yet, as he swung, Greg dropped a hard blow on Mr. Butler's already damaged nose. There was a gasp of pain from the yearling. "Time!" called Mr. Connors. Greg went back to his seconds, a good deal jarred, his wind troubled, and his left eye rapidly assuming a most ugly look. One more really good one from the larger fighter would put the plebe out of the affair. "Be cool, now, old chap," admonished Dick in an undertone, as he and Anstey worked over their comrade. "The next round probably decides it.
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