"You run all you want," whispered Greg indignantly. "You have a right to. This room is smaller than a Queensbury ring."
"I shan't stop my footwork unless the referee orders it," replied
Prescott, in an under-tone.
"You're doing just right," nodded Anstey. "If you weren't Mr. Edwards would stop it. He's running this fight on the fair-and-square. If I have a fight I hope it will be my luck to have Mr. Edwards running the job."
"How do you feel?" asked Anstey, in an undertone.
"All right," returned Dick. "But I had to trust to footwork to save myself. Mr. Spurlock got nearly all my wind in that other round."
"Is your wind in again?" asked Greg anxiously.
"Yes; I think I feel as fine as my man does," replied Dick, stepping up from the care of his handlers to await the command.
"Isn't Mr. Kramer the brute?" whispered Anstey indignantly.
"I'm not going to think of him, now," answered Plebe Prescott over his shoulder. "I have all I can attend to at present."
"I'll get him now, Kramer," muttered Spurlock, as he rose. "Watch me reduce that b.j. plebe to powder! I hope they have a spare cot for him over at hospital."