"Oh, Darrin is all right at his own weight," admitted Midshipman Conners. "But he has no business with you, Tread. You're quick enough, too, when you exert yourself. So jump right in and finish it before this round is over."
"I'll try it, then," nodded Treadwell.
Though he had not the slightest notion that he was to be defeated, this big top classman was learning a new respect for Darrin's prowess. He could thrash Dave, of course, but Treadwell did not expect to do it easily.
For the first twenty seconds of the third round the two men sparred cautiously. Dave had no relish for standing the full force of those sledge-hammer blows, while Treadwell knew that he must look out for the unexpected from his still nimble opponent.
"Lie down when you've had enough," jeered Treadwell, as he landed a jolt on one of the youngster's shoulders and sent him reeling slightly.
Dave, however, used his feet well enough to get away from the follow-up.
"Are you getting tired?" Darrin shot back at his opponent.
"Silence, both of you," commanded Referee Edgerton. "Do all your talking with your fists!"
Just then Treadwell saw an opening, and followed the referee's advice by aiming a blow at Dave's left jaw. It landed just back of the ear, instead, yet with such force that Dave sank dizzily to the ground, while Treadwell drew back from the intended follow-up.
Farley and Page looked on anxiously from their corner. Midshipman Wheeler, scanning his watch, was counting off the seconds.