and, second
class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners,
stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's
other second.

Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee
to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily
training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and
a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other
drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both
men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm,
though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active.

"Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to
a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between
rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking.
Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"Ready!" quivered Dodge.

"Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips.

"Time!"

Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well
placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude
almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter
back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West
Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence.

It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical
coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage
of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly
parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three
heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back
out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular,
staggered him.

Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge's eye, mockery in
Dick's.

The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to
cheer. There was little of foot work, little of getting away.
It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled
both men to draw back.

They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came.

Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded,
fanned. A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting
trim from such mauling as had been exchanged.

"Time!"

Biff, bump, pound!

It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had
to be met. Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance
to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso.

Just before the close of the se