"Do your best for him, gentlemen," begged Referee Edgerton, turning to the first classman's seconds. "Mr. Darrin wins the second fight."
Dave, a satisfied look on his face, stepped back to his seconds.
This time he did not require as much attention. Within five minutes he was dressed.
By this time Mr. Treadwell, under the ministrations of his seconds and of the late officials, was just coming back to consciousness.
"Something happened, eh?" asked the top classman drowsily.
"Rather!" murmured Mr. Edgerton dryly.
"Did I—did I—lose the fight?"
"You did," Edgerton assented. "But don't let that disturb you. You went down before the best man in the Naval Academy."
Treadwell sighed gloomily. It was a hard blow to his pride—much harder than any that Dave had landed on his head.
"Mr. Treadwell," inquired Dave, stepping over, "we are comrades, even if we had a slight disagreement. Do you care to shake hands?"