As the combatants rushed at each other again Kramer struck out two or three times; then clinched to save himself.
"Break away, there!" admonished Edwards sternly. "Get off!"
Again in that round Kramer clinched, despite the referee's sternest orders.
"That's no way to meet a plebe, Mr. Kramer," cried Edwards disgustedly.
After the second get-away Dick fairly danced around his man. A blow on the nose brought Kramer's blood. Then his left eye went all but shut. At that the yearling spun dizzily. Dick drove a light blow in behind his man's ear. Down went Spurlock's "avenger" sprawling on the floor.
Mr. Jennison began to count while Kramer lay on the floor, stirring uneasily, yet not seeming to comprehend his seconds' warnings.
"—eight, nine, ten!" finished Mr. Jennison, then put the watch in his pocket.
"The fight is awarded to Mr. Prescott, and it isn't nine thirty yet," announced Mr. Edwards.
Dick's jubilant seconds sponged him, rubbed him down, kneaded his muscles and joyously assisted him in dressing.
Kramer, coming to presently, but with a face that Anstey said "made him think of the Dismal Swamp," was assisted downstairs by his seconds, and taken to the cadet hospital.