“Now, fellows,” called Hepburn, “the first bout will start at once. Let the man who has number one come forward and call out his opponent. The ring will be this circle and the bunch the referee. Step lively now.”
A slight youth with a very scared expression stepped timidly forward and called in a very faint voice for Pudge Manning, the biggest man in the junior class. There was a great shout of laughter at the ill-matched pair. Hepburn put the gloves on Manning and Johnson, who had appointed himself the second for all the new members, equipped the frightened little freshman, and tried to brace him up with good advice.
“Kick his shins, son; you can’t reach his face. You have the advantage of him already, you can’t miss him and he will have to be a pretty good shot to land on you. Now go for him.”
Johnson’s advice was in itself as good as a circus. It was hard to tell which was the most ridiculous figure; the huge Manning sheepishly trying to keep from hurting his little adversary, or the trembling little freshman fighting wildly with the fury of desperation. The crowd howled their delight, and when time was called gleefully awarded the decision to the freshman.
Bout followed fast upon bout and the interest never flagged, for the combinations were such that they furnished a plentiful variety. Some were so unevenly matched as to be altogether ridiculous, others were evenly enough matched but so ignorant of the game that the slugging match was wildly exciting, in still other cases science showed its superiority to brute force, but really scientific sparring on both sides was rarely seen.
Johnson drove the crowd almost into hysterics by an exhibition of wildcat fighting against a man almost twice his size. With the agility of a cat he bounded around his big opponent, doing very little damage himself, but continuously maddening the big fellow with ceaseless taunts, and successfully wriggling out of reach of all punishment.
Scott looked on doubled up with laughter. He had not seen any very good boxing, but viewed as a farce it certainly was a howling success. He was well pleased that he had drawn Morgan, the best boxer in the College, for he had not had any practice in a long time, and was eager to measure himself against one of these Westerners who were inclined to look upon the East with some contempt.
Finally his turn came and he called cheerfully for Morgan as he walked over to Johnson to be gloved and given his facetious instructions.
Johnson was more serious with him than with most of the others. “You’re up against the real thing now, Scotty. He can box like a fiend, and has the strength of a moose. Keep your chin in,” he cautioned in a low voice as Scott walked into the ring, “and remember your sporting views,” he chuckled.
The match differed from any that had gone before. Both men were expert with the gloves, and they were fairly matched physically. Morgan was a trifle taller, giving him the advantage in the reach, Scott was a little heavier in the shoulders. They shook hands, stepped back quickly and the fight was on. Morgan had his reputation to sustain, Scott had his to make. The crowd rose in a body to give better vent to its excitement. The two circled rapidly, passing, parrying, sidestepping, dodging; now almost in each other’s arms, now at arm’s length, and occasionally a lightning pass, followed by a sharp spat told of a good blow gone home. Scott found Morgan his equal in out-fighting, but his training with the old prizefighter gave him much the best of the mix-ups.