"All right. Don't get mad at me. Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!"
Again the men were called to the center of the room. They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business.
On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there. Dennison's effort was to swing in one hard, sufficient blow.
Just thirty-five seconds from the start of the round Dick found his opportunity, and took it. His right smashed in fearfully on the end of the big fellow's jaw bone, just under the ear.
Bump! Dennison's big, muscular body hit the floor like the falling of a tree. Maitland counted, for he knew the big fellow couldn't rise in ten seconds after a blow like that.
"Nine, ten," finished the time-keeper, and dropped his watch into his pocket.
"I award the fight to Mr. Prescott," announced Packard. "Now, what are we going to do with this big hulk?"
That was a problem. It would hardly do to take another cadet to hospital that night. Anyway Dennison would need a stretcher, and four cadets to carry him, for he still lay on the floor in a stupor, from which the usual methods of reviving a man after a knockout failed to bring him.
It was just ten minutes before taps when Dennison was finally brought around and helped to his feet.
"Where's Prescott?" asked Dennison, after he had gulped down a glass of water.