"Then I'm off for Furlong's room at once. And again—-hooray!"
There being nothing to prevent a prompt meeting, it was arranged to take place that evening at 8.30. In the subdivision where Furlong lived there was an empty room up on the plebe floor.
Sharp to the minute of 8.30 the men were at hand. Packard, of the first class, had agreed to act as referee. Maitland, second class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners, stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's other second.
Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm, though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active.
"Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking. Are you ready, gentlemen?"
"Ready!" quivered Dodge.
"Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips.
"Time!"
Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence.
It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him.