THE "BEAST" WHO SCORED SMASH! But the plebe wasn't there.

Dick Prescott had counted on this, and had wriggled out by a duck and a plunge forward that carried him beyond momentary risk of Mr.Spurlock's following right.
The yearling's left fist landed with such force as to cause a half square yard of plaster to fall with a thud.
With a yell of disgust Spurlock wheeled about, but the plebe was waiting for him.
At just the right instant, Dick let fly with all his might with his own left.
It caught the yearling over the right eye, closing it.
Just three or four feet back danced Prescott, then came forward again.

A blow set the yearling's nose to bleeding afresh.
Then bang! went the other eye closed.

The upper class men gasped with astonishment, for Spurlock was now getting into bad shape.
He was all but dazed, in fact; and had twenty-five seconds yet to go in the round.
Then, as much in mercy as for anything else, Dick Prescott dropped his left against the yearling's jawbone.
There was a crash as the dazed man went to the floor.
Instantly Mr.Jennison's voice rose, counting: "One, two, three, four--" "Take the full count, Spurdy," advised Kramer, bending forward over his principal.
"-- eight, nine, ten!" gasped out the timekeeper.
Mr.Spurlock had shown no sign of rising.

In fact, he was still unconscious.
"I award the fight to Mr.Prescott," called the cool, exact tones of Mr.Edward.
Greg could have let out a whoop and danced a war-dance, but in the presence of upper class men this plebe had to restrain himself.
Anstey's eyes flashed, but otherwise the Virginian bore himself modestly.
"Carry Mr.Spurlock down to the door.