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.