Instead, however, Darrin leaped up and forward.
Pound! Dave’s hard left fist landed crushingly near the point of Farley’s jaw.
Down went the larger man, while his seconds rushed to him.
Midshipman Trotter, watch in hand, began calling off the seconds.
Steadily he counted them, until he came to “—eight, nine, ten!”
Still Farley lay on the ground, his good eye, as well as his damaged one, closed.
If he was breathing it was so slightly that his seconds, not permitted under the rules to go close, could not detect the movements of respiration.
“He loses the count,” announced Second Class Man Tyson, in businesslike tones. “I award the fight to Mister Darrin.”
Always the ceremonious “mister” with which upper class men refer to new fourth class men. It is not until the plebe becomes a “youngster” that the “mister” is dropped for the more friendly social address.
Farley’s seconds were kneeling at his side now.
“Can you bring him out easily?” asked Midshipman Tyson, going over to the defeated man’s seconds.
“He’s pretty soundly asleep, just now,” put in Midshipman Trotter. “My, but that was a fearful crack you gave your man, mister!”
“I’m sorry if I have had to hurt him much,” replied Dave coolly. “I am not keen for fighting.”
Dan and Rollins offered their services in helping to bring Farley to, only to met by a curt refusal from Midshipman Henkel.
So Dave and his seconds stood mutely by, at a distance, while the two officials in the late fight added their efforts to those of the seconds of the knocked-out man.
At last they brought a sigh from Farley’s lips.
Soon after the defeated midshipman opened his eyes.
“Is—Darrin—dead?” he asked slowly, with a bewildered look.
Midshipman Trotter chuckled.
“Not so you could notice it, mister. But you surely had a close call. Do you want to try to sit up?”
This Farley soon concluded to do. Then his seconds dressed him.
“Now, see if you can stand on your feet,” urged Midshipman Tyson.
By this time Farley’s wits had returned sufficiently for him to have a very fair idea of what had passed.
Aided by Henkel and Page Midshipman Farley got to his feet. There he stood, dizzily, until his late seconds gave him stronger support. “You can’t go back to Bancroft while you are in this condition, mister,” hinted Tyson decidedly. “You’ll have to pass in review before one of our medical gentlemen, and do whatever he deems best.”
“Dan,” murmured Dave, “go over and ask Farley whether he cares to shake hands.”
Dan crossed in quest of the information.
“Never!” growled Farley, with a hissing intake of breath.
“It’s a shame to have bad blood after the fight is over,” muttered Tyson rebukingly.