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.
"Time!" "That's the b.j.-est skeeter I ever saw," grinned Nelson, as he sprayed water over Dennison's biceps.
"You quit, Nelse!" "All right.

Don't get mad at me.

Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!" Again the men were called to the center of the room.

They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business.
On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there.