PLEBE PRESCOTT'S FIRST FIGHT
"We'd better get on hand early," advised Greg. "You want to take
plenty of time about stripping for the fight. It would be throwing
some of your chances away, Dick, for you to strip and prepare
hurriedly, and step into the ring all flustered."
"You think I'm going to lose, don't you, Greg?" demanded Prescott
grimly.
"Oh, I hope not," protested Cadet Holmes staunchly.
"But you think so, just the same," smiled Dick. "Now, Greg, do
you remember the old Gridley High School spirit? Do you
remember that our coaches told us to enter every battle on gridiron
or diamond with the firm conviction that we couldn't be beaten?
That's the old Grid. spirit that has been stealing over me the last
few hours."
"It's a mighty good spirit to take into a fight," nodded Anstey.
Yet he, too, felt grave doubts that Prescott could come out of the
approaching fight anything but a mass of pounded pulp. Mr.
Spurlock was one of the highly accredited fighters of the yearling
class.
"Well, we'd better be moving," nodded Greg. When they reached
the unused room on the top floor of the next subdivision of plebes,
they found Cadet Lieutenant Edwards and Mr. Jennison, both of
the first class, already on hand. Mr. Devine, of the yearling class,
who was to be one of Spurlock's seconds, was also in the room.
There were two buckets of water, with sponges, and a supply of
rough towels.
Almost immediately after Mr. Spurlock and Mr. Kramer came in.
Both of the principals now began to strip. Each had chosen the
same fighting costume, consisting of old gray flannel trousers, belt,
rubber soled shoes and sleeveless sweater.
As Spurlock stood forth, arrayed for the battle, it was seen that he
was a man of magnificent build for one of his years. His chest
expansion was splendid. Over his chest and between his shoulders
formidable muscles stood well out. His arms were not fat, but
rather bulky with muscles. He made one think of a blacksmith.
Dick Prescott, being much lighter, did not make such an imposing
appearance. Yet he did not strip to look like a weakling. His chest
was fine, the muscles between his shoulder blades stood up well,
while his arms, far smaller than Spurlock's, displayed the long,
well-knit muscles of the Indian.
Two first class men had volunteered to act as the officials of the
fight, since, in a cadet fight, none of the officials can ever be of the
class represented by either combatant.
"Are you ready, gentlemen?" inquired Mr. Edwards, while Mr.
Jennison drew out a watch that had served at many a cadet fight.
"Ready, sir," replied Spurlock. "Ready, sir," added Prescott. "This
fight," announced the referee, "is to be to a finish. The rounds will
last two minutes each, with a minute's rest between. Queensbury
rules will be followed as far as they can be made to apply. This
being a bare-knuckle fight for a matter of principle, the
combatants will not shake hands."
There was an impressive pause, the referee turning to look at each
fighter in turn.
Spurlock stood at ease, his arms folded over his chest, a grin on his
face.
Plebe Prescott looked less confident. He stood with his fists
clenched at his sides.
"Time!" called Mr. Edwards.
Spurlock unfolded his arms, throwing them in an attitude of
semi-defense, as he coolly looked his opponent over.
Dick Prescott, on the other hand, threw his left foot forward,
planting it firmly though lightly. His left arm raked outward, while
his right fist came to a guard over his heart region.
"I suppose I've got to start this, as well as end it," jeered Mr.
Spurlock. He made a sudden leap forward, throwing his offense
low. Dick's left shot out to counter. Then Spurlock drove in, but
Prescott got away by nimble dodging. Each man had now turned;
the seconds jumped nimbly around, the referee following, while
Jennison, his gaze mostly on the watch, jumped nimbly into a
corner that he judged would not be used by the fighters.
"This isn't a sprint," sneered Spurlock, as he followed nimble Plebe
Prescott around, Dick doing some saving dodging, ducking and
sidestepping.
Nearly a dozen of Spurlock's blows Prescott succeeded in
escaping, though the plebe was kept so busily on the defensive that
he could not get back with anything to count.
"Stand up, you jumping-jack!" hissed Spurlock.
He did get in a short-arm jab on Dick's right lower ribs that made
the plebe gasp audibly.
Spurlock now started in to take advantage of this by getting the
plebe going. Dick, however, dodged less and countered better. He
took two nasty blows, then Mr. Jennison called.
"Time!"
"You're standing him off a heap better than I thought you could,"
whispered Anstey, as he and Greg sponged the plebe fighter off
quickly and then began to knead his muscles. While this was still
going on the referee again summoned the fighters forward.
The second round started. As before, Prescott kept mainly on the
defensive, though always watching his chance to come back at his
more powerful opponent. Spurlock began to press his man hard,
when, of a sudden, Prescott got in low under the other's guard,
came up and landed a blow on the Spurlock nose that brought the
first blood of the fight.
With an angry growl Spurlock leaped in now, to chase and wind up
his younger opponent.
But Dick did some nimble dodging, devoting his attention largely
to defending his eyes from assault.
Then, in turning, suddenly, Dick let one leg drag an instant behind
him. Spurlock, following like lightning, aimed a blow, but it fell
short, for he tripped over Dick's leg and fell sprawling.
Referee, time-keeper and plebe principals laughed. Spurlock's
seconds scowled.
But Dick generously drew back five or six feet, standing on the
defensive until Mr. Spurlock leaped to his feet, ready to renew the
combat.
Spurlock, however, had hurt one of his knees, in going down, just
enough to interfere with his nimbleness of pursuit during the rest
of the round. Time-keep Jennison soon ended that round.
"Mister," growled Yearling Kramer, turning around while Dick sat
between his seconds being sponged and kneaded, "don't be so
much of a coward! Don't run away and delay the finish. Stand up
as if you had some manhood!"
"Thank you, sir," replied Dick coldly. "I'm managing my end of
this fight."
"You b.j. little poltroon," snarled Kramer. "I'll call you out myself
if you have the nerve to talk back!" hissed Kramer.
"Is licking cowards your specialty?" demanded Prescott coolly.
But that settled it, making a coming fight with Kramer an absolute
necessity, now.
"Mr. Kramer," interrupted Mr. Edwards sternly, "this has gone far
enough. You must stop hectoring that plebe, sir. He has all he can
attend to as it is."
Kramer stopped, with a snap of the jaws. He didn't want to. But a
hint, on a matter of etiquette, or the code, from the first class man,
was as valid as a command. And Mr. Edwards had spoken in a
tone that was authoritative enough.
"You run all you want," whispered Greg indignantly. "You have a
right to. This room is smaller than a Queensbury ring."
"I shan't stop my footwork unless the referee orders it," replied
Prescott, in an under-tone.
"You're doing just right," nodded Anstey. "If you weren't Mr. Edwards
would stop it. He's running this fight on the fair-and-square. If I
have a fight I hope it will be my luck to have Mr. Edwards running the
job."
"How do you feel?" asked Anstey, in an undertone.
"All right," returned Dick. "But I had to trust to footwork to save
myself. Mr. Spurlock got nearly all my wind in that other round."
"Is your wind in again?" asked Greg anxiously.
"Yes; I think I feel as fine as my man does," replied Dick, stepping
up from the care of his handlers to await the command.
"Isn't Mr. Kramer the brute?" whispered Anstey indignantly.
"I'm not going to think of him, now," answered Plebe Prescott over
his shoulder. "I have all I can attend to at present."
"I'll get him now, Kramer," muttered Spurlock, as he rose. "Watch
me reduce that b.j. plebe to powder! I hope they have a spare cot
for him over at hospital."
Again the referee set them at it.
Mr. Spurlock encountered a mild surprise, for now Dick seemed
less inclined to trust to his nimble feet. He put up a stand-up front,
though several of Spurlock's sledge-hammer blows passed over
Dick's falling head.
Then the yearling began to fight lower.
The plebe put up a good series of counters, though he took another
bit of punishment in the short ribs, and began to back away.
Across the room, Mr. Spurlock began driving his victim, slowly
but systematically.
Dick retreated, putting up the best guard he could, dodging when
he had to.
But the yearling, full of the grim spirit of the thing, pursued
without undue haste, driving the plebe, a foot at a time, clean
across the room toward the opposite wall.
At last Spurlock had his victim all but leaning against the wall,
sorely pressed. Then, with a sudden tensing of his muscles, the
yearling let his left drive to "paste" the plebe's head against the
hard wall.