“This isn’t a sprint!” yelled Farley, in high disgust.  “Come back here!” Dave did come back.

Wheeling suddenly, he struck his right arm up under Farley’s now loose guard.

In the same fraction of a second Dave let fly with his left.

Smack!

It wasn’t such a very hard blow ­but it landed on the tip of
Farley’s nose.

With a yell of rage Farley made a dive at his lighter opponent.

“Time!”

In his rage Farley tried to strike after that call, but Dave bounded to one side.

Then, turning his back, Darrin walked away to where Dan and Midshipman Rollins awaited him.

“Be careful, Mister Farley,” warned Second Class Man Tyson, striding over to him.  “You struck out after the call of time.  Had the blow landed I would have been compelled under the rules to award Darrin the fight on a foul.”

“First blood for our side!” cheered Dan, as he sprang at Dave with a towel.

In a few moments the young man had been well rubbed down, and now Dan and Rollins, on opposite sides, were kneading his muscles.

From over in Farley’s corner came a growl: 

“I came here to fight, not to go in for track work.  That fellow can’t fight.”

“Queer!” remarked Dan cheerfully.  “We hold all the honors so far.”

Quickly enough the call of time came.

Farley, the flow of blood from his nose stanched, came back as full of steam as before.

Dave’s footwork was as nimble as ever.  Speed and skill in dodging were features of Darrin’s fighting style.

Yet Farley caught him, with a blow on the chest that sent him to his knees.

Like a flash, however, Darrin was upon his feet, and Farley lunged at him swiftly and heavily.

In the very act of reaching his feet, however, Dave Darrin leaped lightly to the left.

With an exclamation of disgust Farley turned and swung again.

But Dave dropped down, then shot up under his opponent’s guard once more.

Biff!

This time an exclamation of real pain came from Farley, for the blow had landed solidly on his left eye, just about closing it.

A second time Darrin might have landed, but he was taking no chances under a steam-roller like Farley.

As Dave danced away, however, followed up by his opponent, bellowing from the sudden jolt his eye had received, he saw that Farley was fighting almost blindly.

Dan Dalzell now jumped in as close as he had any right to be.  He wanted to see what would happen next.

Nor was he kept long guessing, for Dave had slipped around on the blind side of his opponent.

“Confound you!  Can’t you stand up and fight square?” demanded Farley harshly.

Dave flushed, this time.  Dodging two of Farley’s blows he next moved as though about to retreat.

Instead, however, Darrin leaped up and forward.

Pound!  Dave’s hard left fist landed crushingly near the point of Farley’s jaw.

Down went the larger man, while his seconds rushed to him.

Midshipman Trotter, watch in hand, began calling off the seconds.

Steadily he counted them, until he came to “ ­eight, nine, ten!”

Still Farley lay on the ground, his good eye, as well as his damaged one, closed.

If he was breathing it was so slightly that his seconds, not permitted under the rules to go close, could not detect the movements of respiration.

“He loses the count,” announced Second Class Man Tyson, in businesslike tones.  “I award the fight to Mister Darrin.”

Always the ceremonious “mister” with which upper class men refer to new fourth class men.  It is not until the plebe becomes a “youngster” that the “mister” is dropped for the more friendly social address.

Farley’s seconds were kneeling at his side now.

“Can you bring him out easily?” asked Midshipman Tyson, going over to the defeated man’s seconds.

“He’s pretty soundly asleep, just now,” put in Midshipman Trotter.  “My, but that was a fearful crack you gave your man, mister!”

“I’m sorry if I have had to hurt him much,” replied Dave coolly.  “I am not keen for fighting.”

Dan and Rollins offered their services in helping to bring Farley to, only to met by a curt refusal from Midshipman Henkel.

So Dave and his seconds stood mutely by, at a distance, while the two officials in the late fight added their efforts to those of the seconds of the knocked-out man.

At last they brought a sigh from Farley’s lips.

Soon after the defeated midshipman opened his eyes.

“Is ­Darrin ­dead?” he asked slowly, with a bewildered look.

Midshipman Trotter chuckled.

“Not so you could notice it, mister.  But you surely had a close call.  Do you want to try to sit up?”

This Farley soon concluded to do.  Then his seconds dressed him.

“Now, see if you can stand on your feet,” urged Midshipman Tyson.

By this time Farley’s wits had returned sufficiently for him to have a very fair idea of what had passed.

Aided by Henkel and Page Midshipman Farley got to his feet.  There he stood, dizzily, until his late seconds gave him stronger support.  “You can’t go back to Bancroft while you are in this condition, mister,” hinted Tyson decidedly.  “You’ll have to pass in review before one of our medical gentlemen, and do whatever he deems best.”

“Dan,” murmured Dave, “go over and ask Farley whether he cares to shake hands.”

Dan crossed in quest of the information.

“Never!” growled Farley, with a hissing intake of breath.

“It’s a shame to have bad blood after the fight is over,” muttered Tyson rebukingly.

“I don’t want anything to do with that fellow until we meet again,” growled Farley.

“Great Scott, mister!  You don’t think of calling Mister Darrin out again, do you?” demanded Tyson, with a gasp.

“Yes; if he can be made to fight fair!” snarled Farley.

“He fought fairly this time, mister,” replied Second Class Man Tyson, almost with heat.  “You’re a fast, heavy and hard scrapper for your age, mister, but the other man simply out-pointed you all through the game.  If you call him out again, and he meets you, he can kill you if he sees fit.”

“Misters,” directed Midshipman Trotter, addressing Henkel and Page, “you’d better hurry to get your man over to a surgeon if you want to be in your rooms at lights-out time.”

As Page and Henkel started away with their unfortunate comrade, Dave approached Tyson.

“Sir, do you believe that I fought with entire fairness?” asked Darrin of the referee.

“Fair?  Of course you did, mister,” replied Tyson.  “Come along, Trotter.”

Dave, who had dressed some time before, now turned with Dan and Rollins and started back.  They took pains not to be seen close to the upper class men.

“Who won?” demanded a fourth class man, curiously, as they neared Bancroft Hall.

“Farley will tell you tomorrow if he’s able,” grinned Dan.

When taps sounded on the bugle, that evening, all of the midshipmen, save Farley, were in their rooms.

Promptly as the last note of taps broke on the air the last of the midshipmen was in bed, and the electric light was turned off from a master switch.  The inspection of rooms was on.