Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point, H. Irving Hancock [nice books to read .txt] 📗

the class for a backer. "Now, break up, please, gentlemen," begged Furlong. "We don't want and wind of this to blow to official quarters. Dennison, I invite you to come to my room."

Like soldiers dismissed from ranks, the sudden gathering in the sally-port dispersed. Dick went on to his own quarters.

"Now, that's what I call huge!" chuckled Greg Holmes, as soon as he heard the news. "But see here, old ramrod, I'm to be your other second?"

"Of course," nodded Dick.

"Then I'm off for Furlong's room at once. And again—-hooray!"

There being nothing to prevent a prompt meeting, it was arranged to take place that evening at 8.30. In the subdivision where Furlong lived there was an empty room up on the plebe floor.

Sharp to the minute of 8.30 the men were at hand. Packard, of the first class, had agreed to act as referee. Maitland, second class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners, stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's other second.

Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm, though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active.

"Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking. Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"Ready!" quivered Dodge.

"Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips.

"Time!"

Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence.

It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him.

Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge's eye, mockery in
Dick's.

The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to cheer. There was little of foot work, little of getting away. It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled both men to draw back.

They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came.

Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded, fanned. A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting trim from such mauling as had been exchanged.

"Time!"

Biff, bump, pound!

It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had to be met. Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso.

Just before the close of the second round Prescott thought he saw his chance. Feinting with his left, he drove in a hook with his right, aimed for Bert's nose.

It touched, instead, on the lip, not a hard blow, but a tantalizing one. As the men drew back at the call of time a blotch of red was seen on Bert's lower lip. When he came back for the third round, that lip was puffing fast.

"Third round, time!"

Again Bert Dodge started in with his heavy body tactics. But this time Dick himself changed the style. With swift, clever foot-work he danced all around his now furious opponent. Dodge could follow the swift style, too, however, and defended himself, finally coming back with the assault.

Half way through the round Dick received a sharp tap on his nose that brought the red. Stung, Prescott became only the cooler. For some time he fought for the opening that he wanted, and got it at last, though Dodge's guarding left prevented the blow from landing with quite all the force with which it had been driven.

Dick's middle knuckles raked that already swollen lip, but the lower knuckles landed against the tip of Dodge's jaw with a force which, while not complete, nevertheless sent Bert to the floor, where he lay on his side.

"One, two, three, four——-" began Maitland, his gaze on the slipping second hand of his watch.

"Take the full count, Bert!" warned Dennison.

"Nine, ten!" finished Maitland.

In that instant Dodge was on his feet again, head down and working with great caution.

"Time!"

The third round ended ere Prescott could put in any finishing touches. Yet, under the skillful hands of his seconds, Dodge came up rather smilingly at the call for the opening of the fourth.

There was almost murder in Dodge's eyes now. He felt that he was the better man, and yet he had been getting slightly the worst of it so far. But he would show them!

Yet, after forty seconds of this work, when Dodge had just let fly a blow intended to land over Prescott's heart, his fist touched only air and he lurched forward. In the same instant Dick swung a smashing blow on Bert's left ear. Bert went down, lying there like a log.

In the silence that followed the finish of the count, and the referee's awarding words, Dick Prescott's voice broke in, as soft and cool as ever:

"In fifteen minutes, Mr. Dennison, I'll be ready for you!"

CHAPTER XIX MR. DENNISON'S TURN IS SERVED

Furlong sprang forward to protest.

"See here, old ramrod, don't be foolish."

"I can handle it as well tonight as at any time," Dick laughed as coolly as ever.

"But you've taken a lot of punishment."

"Fifteen minutes is all I need, with seconds like you and Greg."

"Will it be fair to yourself, Prescott?" demanded Packard.

"Wholly," replied Dick unconcernedly.

"Let him alone," urged Greg. "Old ramrod always knows what he's doing."

"I'm not sure that we can get Dodge out of here and attended to, and be already for the start in fifteen minutes," replied Packard.

"Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five," insisted Dick. "Whatever time is necessary, so that we start in time to be through before taps."

"What do you say, Dennison?" asked Packard.

"I? Oh, I'll be ready," grinned the athlete.

"Will you serve Dennison?" asked Packard, turning to Nelson

"Yes; of course."

"Then, Nelson, confer with Dennison and see whom he wants to serve with you. The rest of us will work over Dodge. Whew! Look that ear puff up while you watch it!"

"Beauty, isn't it?" asked Greg grimly. "It will be a cauliflower decoration, all right."

Nelson went scurrying, soon returning with Anderson. Any yearling would gladly have served tonight, in order to see what doughty Dick Prescott would do against his second man in the same evening. With Nelson and Anderson came two other yearlings who had agreed to see Dodge safely to the door of cadet hospital.

Bert Dodge had been brought around at last. He was a bit dazed, but he grinned, as he went out, when Dennison murmured in his ear:

"Never you mind, old man. I'll take care of Prescott. I'll twist the ramrod into a figure 8."

"We must proceed as promptly as possible, gentlemen," rapped out
Mr. Packard. "We must be finished before taps."

"Dennison will be finished, by that time," muttered Greg in a cheerful undertone.

Holmes had never provoked a senseless fight. He was good-natured almost to a fault. Yet, when a fight became inevitable, Greg could act as principal or second with equal cheeriness.

Nelson had brought back with him togs for Dennison, and that athlete was quickly ready.

Every minute of the time had been utilized well in getting, Dick Prescott in condition for his second scrap of the evening. His nose-bleed had been stopped, but it was wind and lung power that he wanted most. He had taken some heavy body thumping, but rest and rubbing had worked out most of the soreness.

"Get up and kick a bit. See what you can do," advised Furlong.

Dick went through a few irregular gymnastics.

"There's one good thing about old ramrod," declared Greg, in a grinning undertone. "He's always ready, every minute of the time!"

Sharply, quickly, now, the combatants were brought face to face.

At the call of time, Dennison sailed in; Dick leaped forward. Dennison was amused, more than half contemptuous over the easiness of the work that he thought had come to him. But he felt in honor bound to make the thing short. In the first place, he had to avenge Dodge. In the second place, it would reflect upon himself if Dennison allowed Prescott to string the battle out.

Some sharp cracks were given and taken, and many more dodged or struck aside, when, up close to the end of the first round, Prescott landed one between the big fellow's eyes that made him see stars.

Right in close Prescott followed, before his opponent could recover.

But the time-keeper's call prevented further doings.

"He's a mosquito, that's all," growled Denison to Nelson, in the corner.

"Go in and swat him, then," grinned Nelson.

"Watch me!"

"Remember, then, that skeeters are dodgers."

"I'll saw him off, this time," grumbled the big fellow.

The call of time brought both men forward.

But Dick, the same quiet smile on his face, had planned new tactics with Furlong during that minute's rest.

Now, Dick struck Dennison, not very heavily, on the right shoulder.
The next time it was a tap on the right chest.

Dennison strove to resent these indignities, but Prescott had a definite plan of sustained assault, and the big fellow could not read it in advance.

Twice Dick got caught by swings, though he was not sadly troubled. He was lanching in, lightly, all over the less vital parts on his man now. It did Dennison no harm, but the impudence of it stung the big fellow.

"Time!"

"That's the b.j.-est skeeter I ever saw," grinned Nelson, as he sprayed water over Dennison's biceps.

"You quit, Nelse!"

"All right. Don't get mad at me. Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!"

Again the men were called to the center of the room. They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business.

On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there. Dennison's effort was to swing in one hard, sufficient blow.

Just thirty-five seconds from the start of the round Dick found his opportunity, and took it. His right smashed in fearfully on the end of the big fellow's jaw bone, just under the ear.

Bump! Dennison's big, muscular body hit the floor like the falling of a tree. Maitland counted, for he knew the big fellow couldn't rise in ten seconds after a blow like that.

"Nine, ten," finished the time-keeper, and dropped his watch into his pocket.

"I award the fight to Mr. Prescott," announced Packard. "Now, what are we going to do with this big hulk?"

That was a problem. It would hardly do to take another cadet to hospital that night. Anyway Dennison would need a stretcher, and four cadets to carry him, for he still lay on the floor in a stupor, from which the usual methods of reviving a man after a knockout failed to bring him.

It was just ten minutes before taps when Dennison was finally brought around and helped to his feet.

"Where's Prescott?" asked Dennison, after he had gulped down a glass of water.

"Here," answered Dick, stepping forward.

"Prescott, I don't suppose I'm very clear headed yet," rambled on Dennison. "But I want to apologize for my words this afternoon. And—-I'm glad you whacked me right tonight.