“Now, then, mister, keep your eyes on my humorous face!”

It was the next evening, over behind the old government hospital.

Midshipman Quimby had just stepped forward, from the hands of his seconds, two men of the third class.

“I can’t keep my eyes away from that face, and my hands are aching to follow the same route, sir,” grimaced Dalzell.

He, too, had just stepped forward from the preliminary care of Dave and of Rollins, for that latter fourth class man was as anxious to see this fight as he had been the other one.

“Stop your talk, mister,” commanded Midshipman Ferris, of the second class, who was present to officiate as referee.  “On the field you talk with your hands.  Don’t be touge all the time, or you’ll soon have a long fight calendar.”

“Very good, sir,” nodded Dan, his manner suddenly most respectful ­as far as appearance went.

Dave Darrin did not by any means approve his chum’s conduct of the night before, but Dave was on hand as second, just the same, and earnestly hoping that Dan might get at least his share of the honors in the event that was now to be “pulled off.”

“Gentlemen,” began Mr. Ferris, in the monotonous way of referees, “this fight is to be to a finish, without gloves.  Hand-shaking will be dispensed with.  Are you ready?”

“Ready!” assented both.

“Time!”

Both men advanced warily.

Quimby knew well enough that he could whip the plebe, but he didn’t intend to let Dalzell get in any blows that could be guarded against.

Both men danced about until Mr. Ferris broke in, rather impatiently: 

“Stop eating chocolates and mix it up!”

“Like this, sir?” questioned Dan.  Darting in, on a feint, he followed Quimby’s block with a blow that jolted the youngster’s chin.

Then Dan slipped away again, grinning gleefully, well aware that nothing would anger Quimby more easily than would that same grin.  “I’ll wipe that disgrace off your face myself,” growled Quimby, closing in briskly.

“Come over here and get it,” taunted Dan, showing some of his neatest footwork.

Quimby sent in three blows fast; two of them Dalzell blocked, but one hit him on the chest, staggering him slightly.  Midshipman Quimby started to follow up his advantage.  In another moment, however, he was backing away with a cut lip.

“There’s something to wipe off your own face,” suggested Dan, grinning harder than ever.

Stung, Mr. Quimby made strenuous efforts to pay back with worse coin.  He was still trying when the call of time sounded.

“You didn’t half go in after him, Dan,” murmured Dave, as the latter and Rollins quickly toweled their man in the corner.

“If I had, I might have gotten more of him than I wanted,” muttered Dalzell.

“Why don’t you mix it up faster?” queried Rollins.

“Because,” proclaimed Midshipman Dan, “I don’t want to fight or get hurt.  I’m doing this sort of thing just for exercise, you understand.”

Then they were called into the second round.  Quimby, in the meantime, had been counseled to crowd the plebe hard, and to hammer him when he got close.

So, now, Quimby started in to do broadside work.  At last he scored fairly, hitting Dalzell on the nose and starting the flow.

But, within ten seconds, Dalzell had return the blow with interest.  After that things went slowly for a few more seconds, when time was again called.

“That plebe isn’t exactly easy,” Quimby confided to his seconds.  “I’ve got to watch him, and be cautious.  I haven’t seen a plebe as cool and ready in many a day.”

In the third round Quimby was perhaps too cautious.  He did not rush enough.  Dan, on the other hand, bore down a bit.  Just before the call of time he closed Quimby’s right eye.

Both Quimby and his seconds were now dubious, though the youngster’s fighting pluck and determination ran as high as ever.

“I’ve got to wipe him off the field in this fourth round, or go to the grass myself,” murmured Quimby, while his seconds did the best they could with him.

“I’m warming up finely,” confided Dan to Dave and Rollins.

“You’re coming through all right,” nodded Dave confidently.  “At present you have twice as much vision as the other fellow, and only a fraction as much of soreness.  But keep on the watch to the end.”

For the first twenty seconds of the new round it was Quimby who was on the defensive.  Dan followed him up just warmly enough to be annoying.

At last, however, Dan straightened, stiffened, and there was a quick flash in his eyes.

He saw his chance, and now he jumped in at it.  His feint reached for Quimby’s solar plexus, but the real blow, from Dalzell’s right hand, hammered in, all but closing Quimby’s other eye.

Smack!  Right on top of that staggerer came a hook that landed on the youngster’s forehead with such force that Quimby fell over backward.  He tried to catch himself, but failed, and lurched to the ground.

“ ­six, seven, eight ­” counted the timekeeper.

Quimby staggered bravely to his feet, but stood there, his knees wobbling, his arms all but hanging at his side.

Dan did not try to hit.  He backed off slightly keeping only at half-guard and watching his opponent.

“What’s the matter, Quimby” called Mr. Ferris.  “Can’t you go on?”

“Yes; I’m going on, to the knock-out!” replied the youngster doggedly.

He tried to close in, but was none too steady on his feet.  Dan, watching him, readily footed it, merely watching for the youngster to lead out.

“Time!”

Quimby’s two seconds rushed to his side.  Midshipman Ferris and the time-keeper also gathered around.

“Quimby,” spoke the referee, “you’re in no shape to go on.”

“I can stand up and be hit,” muttered the youngster gamely.

“Mr. Dalzell, do you care to go further?” asked Mr. Ferris.

“I shan’t attempt to hit Mr. Quimby, sir, unless he develops a good deal more steam.”

Ferris looked at Quimby’s seconds.  They shook their head.

“I award the fight to Mister Dalzell,” declared Midshipman Ferris.

“Oh, give it to Mr. Quimby, if you don’t mind, sir,” begged Dan.  “He got the game, and might as well have the name along with it.”

“Mister, don’t be touge all the time,” cried Mr. Ferris sharply.

“I don’t mean to be, sir,” replied Dan quite meekly.  “What I meant to convey, sir, is that I don’t care anything about winning fights.  The decision, sir, is of very little importance to me.  I don’t fight because I like it, but merely because I need the exercise.  A fight about once a week will be very much to my liking, sir.”

“You’ll get it, undoubtedly,” replied Midshipman Ferris dryly.

“Whee, won’t it be great!” chuckled Dan, in an undertone, as he stepped over to his seconds.  “Give me that towel, Dave.  I can rub myself off.”

While Dan was dressing, and Quimby was doing the same, one of the seconds of the youngster class came over, accompanied by the timekeeper.

“Mister, you really do fight as though you enjoyed it,” remarked the latter.

“But I don’t,” denied Dan.  “I’m willing to do it, though, to keep myself in condition.  Say once a week, except in really hot weather.  A little game like this tones up the liver so that I can almost feel it dancing inside of me.”

As he spoke, Dalzell clapped both hands to his lower left side and jumped up and down.

“You heathen, your liver isn’t there,” laughed the time-keeper.

“Isn’t it?” demanded Dan.  “Now, I’m ready to maintain, at all times, that I know more about my liver and its hanging-out place than anyone else possibly can.”

There was a note of half challenge in this, but the time-keeper merely laughed and turned away.  Members of the second class usually feel too grave and dignified to “take it out of” plebes.  That work is left to the “youngsters” of the third class.

A little later Mr. Quimby presented himself for medical attendance.  His face certainly showed signs of the need of tender ministration.  “Dan, why in the world are you so fresh?” remonstrated Dave, when the two chums were back in their room.  “You talk as though you wanted to fight every man in the upper classes.  You’ll get your wish, if you don’t look out.”

“Old fellow,” replied Dalzell quizzically, “I expect to get into two or three more fights.  I don’t mean to be touge, but I do intend to let it be seen that I look upon it as a lark to be called out.  Then, if I win the next two or three fights also, I won’t be bothered any after that.  This is my own scheme for joining the peace society before long.”

Nor is it wholly doubtful that Dan’s was the best plan, in the long run, for a peaceful life among a lot of spirited young men.