"Tear him up!"
"You're the stuff!"
"Good head, freshman!"
"Good brain-work!"
Several upper classmen came hurriedly over to his corner, slapping him on the back, volunteering advice.
"Clear out," said his mentor proudly. "This rooster can take care of himself."
Fisher came up for the third round, visibly groggy and shaken by the force of the tackles he had received, but game. Twice Stover, watching his chance, dove under the groping hands and flung him savagely to the ground. Once Fisher caught him, as they lay on the ground, in a hold that might have been decisive earlier in the match. As it was, Stover felt with a swift horror the arm slipping under his arm, half gripping his neck. The wet heat of the antagonistic body over his inflamed all the brute in him. The strength was now his. He tore himself free, scrambled to his feet, and hurled Fisher a last time clean through into the scattering crowd, where he lay stunned, too weak to resist the viselike hands that forced his shoulders to the ground.
Dana hauled Stover to his feet, a little groggy.
"Some tackling, freshman! Bout's yours! Call out the heavyweights!"
Scarcely realizing that it was his captain who had spoken, Dink stood staring down at Fisher, white and conquered, struggling to his feet in the grip of friends.