“Lot’s o’ stuff in him yet, young gen’leman. He’s good for another hour.”
There was encounter after encounter, and close after close, during which Syd generally went down first; but to Terry’s astonishment the more he knocked his young antagonist about the fiercer it made him, and at last after delivering a successful blow full in Syd’s chest he cried out—
“Take him away, Roy; I don’t want to hurt him any—”
Terry did not finish his remark, for the second half of that last word was knocked back by a bang right in the mouth, followed up by several others so rapidly delivered that the champion of the midshipmen’s mess went down this time without a struggle.
“What do you think o’ that, young gen’leman?” said Barney.
“Hurray!” whispered Bolton, bending down and squeezing his hands between his knees; “he’ll lick him.”
“Eh? I thought he was your man.”
“A beast! He’s always knocking us about,” whispered Bolton. “Hurray! go it, Belt.”
The adversaries were face to face again, and there was a breathless silence.
“Had enough?” panted Terry.