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!"