Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point Part 15

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, d.i.c.k, for you to strip and prepare hurriedly, and step into the ring all fl.u.s.tered."

"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 d.i.c.k. "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 ma.s.s of pounded pulp. Mr.

Spurlock was one of the highly accredited fighters of the yearling cla.s.s.

"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 cla.s.s, already on hand. Mr. Devine, of the yearling cla.s.s, 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 princ.i.p.als 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.

d.i.c.k 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 att.i.tude of semi-defense, as he coolly looked his opponent over.

d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k'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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k's right lower ribs that made the plebe gasp audibly.

Spurlock now started in to take advantage of this by getting the plebe going. d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k did some nimble dodging, devoting his attention largely to defending his eyes from a.s.sault.

Then, in turning, suddenly, d.i.c.k let one leg drag an instant behind him. Spurlock, following like lightning, aimed a blow, but it fell short, for he tripped over d.i.c.k's leg and fell sprawling.

Referee, time-keeper and plebe princ.i.p.als laughed. Spurlock's seconds scowled.

But d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 cla.s.s 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.