Standing up fairly, with little footwork, but displaying much more speed, Dick Prescott drove in blow after blow in such bewildering succession as to all but daze the yearling.
Bang! Kramer's right eye was half closed just as Cadet Jennison called the end of the first round.
"Great Scott, but that little fellow is a canned hurricane!" muttered Devine, as he wrung out cloths in cold water and applied then to Kramer's swelling eye.

"Old man, you want to swing one blow down on the top of his head, and crush him, if you want to save your personal appearance." "Won't I ?" grunted Kramer.

"Just watch me.

I won't murder the plebe, but I've stood all the fooling I'm going to." As the combatants rushed at each other again Kramer struck out two or three times; then clinched to save himself.
"Break away, there!" admonished Edwards sternly.

"Get off!" Again in that round Kramer clinched, despite the referee's sternest orders.
"That's no way to meet a plebe, Mr.Kramer," cried Edwards disgustedly.
After the second get-away Dick fairly danced around his man.