LOSING THE TIME-KEEPER'S COUNT
Conners and Brayton were Treadwell's seconds.
Since it is not considered fair to have the referee or time-keeper from
either class represented in a fight, Edgerton and Wheeler, of the second
class, were referee and time-keeper respectively.
All of the young men were early at the usual fighting ground. The fall
air was cool and crisp, but it was not yet considered cold enough to
justify the extra risk of holding a fight in-doors.
Dave was quickly stripped and made ready by his seconds. His
well-developed chest bespoke fine powers in the way of "wind" and
endurance. His smooth, hard, trim muscles stood out distinctly.
Treadwell took more time in getting himself ready for the ring. When at
last, however, the first classman stood bared to the waist, he looked
like a giant beside Dave Darrin.
"It looks like a shame to take the money, Tread," murmured referee
Edgerton.
"I don't want to pound the youngster hard," explained Midshipman
Treadwell, in an undertone. "Yet I've got to teach him both to respect
my class and myself."
On this point, as an official of the fight, Referee Edgerton did not
feel called upon to express an opinion.
Farley, at his first glimpse of the waiting first classman, felt a chill
of coming disaster.
"Page," he growled, "that huge top-classman makes our Darry look like a
creeping infant."
"Darry will take care of himself," retorted Midshipman Page in an
undertone.
"Do you believe it?"
"I surely do."
"But Treadwell looks a whole lot more vast now that he's stripped."
"Darry is much smaller, I know; But Darrin is one of those rare fellows
who don't know what it means to be whipped. He can't be put out of
business by anything smaller than a twelve-inch gun!"
"I hope you're right," sighed Farley.
Dave, in the meantime, to keep himself from being chilled by the frosty
air, was running lightly about, swinging his arms.
"Are you both ready, gentlemen?" inquired Midshipman Edgerton, while
Time-keeper Wheeler drew out his stop watch.
Both stepped to toe the scratch.
"Yes." nodded Dave.
"Ready!" rumbled Treadwell.
The referee briefly made the usual announcement about it being a fight
to the finish, with two-minute rounds and two minutes between rounds.
"Time!"
As Treadwell leaped forward, both fists in battery, Dave took a swift,
nimble sidestep. He felt that he had to study this big fellow carefully
before doing more than keep on the defensive.
Now footwork was one of the fighting tricks for which Darry was famous.
Yet he had too much courage to rely wholly upon it.
Five times Treadwell swung at his smaller opponent, but each time Dave
was somewhere else.
Despite his greater size, Treadwell was himself nimble and an adept at
footwork.
Finding it hard, however, to get about as quickly as his smaller
opponent, the first classman soon went in for close, in-body fighting,
following Dave, half-cornering him, and forcing him to stand and take
it.
Two or three body blows Dave succeeded in parrying so that they glanced,
doing him little harm.
Then there came an almost crunching sound. Treadwell's right fist had
landed, almost dazing the youngster with its weight against his nose.
There was a swift, free rush of the red. Darrin had yielded up "first
blood" in the fight.
"I've got to dodge more, and not let myself be cornered," Darrin told
himself, keeping his fists busy in warding off blows.
Then, of a sudden, Dave turned on the aggressive. He struck fast and
furiously, but Treadwell, with a grin, beat down his attack, then soon
landed a swinging hook on Dave's neck that sent him spinning briefly.
"He expects to finish this fight for his own amusement," flashed angrily
through Darrin's mind. "I'll get in something that hurts before I toss
the sponge."
"Time!"
Two minutes were up. To Dave it seemed more like half an hour.
"Steady, now!" murmured Page, in his principal's ear, as the two seconds
leaped at the task of rubbing down their men. "Unless you let yourself
get rattled, Darry, that big fellow isn't going to get you. Whenever
you're on the defensive, and being crowded hard, change like lightning
and drive in for the top classer's solar plexus."
"I tried that three times in this last round," murmured Dave. "But the
fellow is too big and powerful for me. He simply pounds me down when I
go for him."
"Work for more strategy," whispered Page, as he held a sponge to Dave's
battered nose, while Farley rubbed the muscles of his right arm.
"I haven't given up the fight," muttered Dave, "But, of course, I've
known from the start that Treadwell is a pretty big fighter for one of
my weight."
"Oh, you'll get him yet," spoke Page confidently.
The fighters were being called for the second round.
In this Dave received considerable punishment, though he landed three or
four times on Treadwell's body.
Then twice in succession the champion of the third class was knocked
down.
Neither, however, was a knockout blow.
Dave took plenty of time, within his rights, about leaping to his feet,
and in each instance got away from Treadwell's leaping assault.
Just after the second knock-down, time was called for the end of the
round.
"You'll get him yet, Darry," was Page's prediction, but he did not speak
as hopefully as before.
Farley, too, was full of loyalty for his friend and fellow-classman, but
he did not allow this to blind his judgment. Farley's opinion was that
Dave was done for, unless he could land some lucky fluke in a knockout
blow.
"Go right in and land that youngster," Treadwell's own seconds were
advising him. "Don't let him have the satisfaction of standing up to you
for three whole rounds or more."
"Do you think that little teaser is as easy as he looks?" growled
Treadwell.
"Oh, Darrin is all right at his own weight," admitted Midshipman
Conners. "But he has no business with you, Tread. You're quick enough,
too, when you exert yourself. So jump right in and finish it before this
round is over."
"I'll try it, then," nodded Treadwell.
Though he had not the slightest notion that he was to be defeated, this
big top classman was learning a new respect for Darrin's prowess. He
could thrash Dave, of course, but Treadwell did not expect to do it
easily.
For the first twenty seconds of the third round the two men sparred
cautiously. Dave had no relish for standing the full force of those
sledge-hammer blows, while Treadwell knew that he must look out for the
unexpected from his still nimble opponent.
"Lie down when you've had enough," jeered Treadwell, as he landed a jolt
on one of the youngster's shoulders and sent him reeling slightly.
Dave, however, used his feet well enough to get away from the follow-up.
"Are you getting tired?" Darrin shot back at his opponent.
"Silence, both of you," commanded Referee Edgerton. "Do all your talking
with your fists!"
Just then Treadwell saw an opening, and followed the referee's advice by
aiming a blow at Dave's left jaw. It landed just back of the ear,
instead, yet with such force that Dave sank dizzily to the ground, while
Treadwell drew back from the intended follow-up.
Farley and Page looked on anxiously from their corner. Midshipman
Wheeler, scanning his watch, was counting off the seconds.
"--five, six, seven, eight, nine--ten!"
At the sound of eight Dave Darrin had made a strenuous effort to rise.
Yet he had swayed, fallen back slightly, then forced himself with a rush
to his feet.
But Midshipman Treadwell drew back, both fists hanging at his sides, for
the "ten" had been spoken, and Dave Darrin had lost the count.
While Dave stood there, looking half-dizzily at his opponent, Referee
Edgerton's voice broke in crisply:
"Mr. Darrin required more than the full count to come back. The fight is
therefore awarded to Mr. Treadwell."