Bert Dodge had been brought around at last.  He was a bit dazed, but he grinned, as he went out, when Dennison murmured in his ear: 

“Never you mind, old man.  I’ll take care of Prescott.  I’ll twist the ramrod into a figure 8.”

“We must proceed as promptly as possible, gentlemen,” rapped out Mr. Packard.  “We must be finished before taps.”

“Dennison will be finished, by that time,” muttered Greg in a cheerful undertone.

Holmes had never provoked a senseless fight.  He was good-natured almost to a fault.  Yet, when a fight became inevitable, Greg could act as principal or second with equal cheeriness.

Nelson had brought back with him togs for Dennison, and that athlete was quickly ready.

Every minute of the time had been utilized well in getting, Dick Prescott in condition for his second scrap of the evening.  His nose-bleed had been stopped, but it was wind and lung power that he wanted most.  He had taken some heavy body thumping, but rest and rubbing had worked out most of the soreness.

“Get up and kick a bit.  See what you can do,” advised Furlong.

Dick went through a few irregular gymnastics.

“There’s one good thing about old ramrod,” declared Greg, in a grinning undertone.  “He’s always ready, every minute of the time!”

Sharply, quickly, now, the combatants were brought face to face.

At the call of time, Dennison sailed in; Dick leaped forward.  Dennison was amused, more than half contemptuous over the easiness of the work that he thought had come to him.  But he felt in honor bound to make the thing short.  In the first place, he had to avenge Dodge.  In the second place, it would reflect upon himself if Dennison allowed Prescott to string the battle out.

Some sharp cracks were given and taken, and many more dodged or struck aside, when, up close to the end of the first round, Prescott landed one between the big fellow’s eyes that made him see stars.

Right in close Prescott followed, before his opponent could recover.

But the time-keeper’s call prevented further doings.

“He’s a mosquito, that’s all,” growled Denison to Nelson, in the corner.

“Go in and swat him, then,” grinned Nelson.

“Watch me!”

“Remember, then, that skeeters are dodgers.”

“I’ll saw him off, this time,” grumbled the big fellow.

The call of time brought both men forward.

But Dick, the same quiet smile on his face, had planned new tactics with Furlong during that minute’s rest.

Now, Dick struck Dennison, not very heavily, on the right shoulder. 
The next time it was a tap on the right chest.

Dennison strove to resent these indignities, but Prescott had a definite plan of sustained assault, and the big fellow could not read it in advance.

Twice Dick got caught by swings, though he was not sadly troubled.  He was lanching in, lightly, all over the less vital parts on his man now.  It did Dennison no harm, but the impudence of it stung the big fellow.