The fight was now on, and for a time blows were delivered with such rapidity that the onlookers were in doubt as to who was having the best of it. It was give and take, yet it was not brutal.
For the lads were both healthy and strong, and the soft gloves which the Seniors had insisted that they wear, precluded any serious damage to either. Nor were they scientific enough to do any material harm, for though they had both taken boxing lessons, they were far from being in the class with pugilists.
North half turned, made a feint as though to drive his right into Cap’s face, quickly shifted, and shot out his left.
“Wow!” cried Mersfeld in anticipation of what was about to happen to the youth against whom he bore a grudge.
But it was the unexpected which took place, for North in making the shift had left himself unguarded for one fatal moment.
In shot the ready left of Cap Smith, straight from the shoulder, with all the steam behind it which our hero could muster, and North was neatly bowled over, bleeding slightly from the nose.
“First blood for us!” called Bill shrilly.
“Well, you needn’t shout over it, and bring McNibb here!” grumbled Mersfeld, as he hurried to his fallen champion.
“I—I’m all right!” gasped North. “My—my foot slipped on the grass.”
“Like fun!” retorted Pete. “You’ll have some more of those ‘slips’ before it’s over.”