No one thought of asking why Dick would need his wind now. To
those who had heard the brief recital of facts it was plain that
there could be but one finish to the afternoon's sport. Prescott's
hand was sound, at last, and he could give an account of himself.

"Walk slowly, all hands," insisted Dan. "Dick, old fellow, on
the way back, amuse yourself by getting in all the full, deep
breaths that you can."

"I'll be all right," spoke Dick confidently.

It did not look that way to many of them. Dick was shorter, and
weighed much less than did the sophomore who was waiting back
there under the trees. Ripley had had a good deal of training
in boxing, and was not a coward when he thought the odds on his
own side. What none of the fellows knew, though, was that the
lawyer's son, ever since that scene in the school yard, had been
at his boxing lessons again with renewed energy.

"Play him for delay, at first, Dick," whispered Dan. "If Ripley
can rush you, and get you excited, he'll have a better chance
to win out. If you hold him off, hinder him and delay him, before
long he'll lose some of his nerve. A fellow like Ripley will
begin to go all to pieces, once he gets it into his head that
he has a long and hard job before him."

"I'll do my best," Dick promised. "Hang it, if he hadn't knocked
me down so treacherously, I wouldn't care about fighting. I don't
care so much what he _says_. Fred Ripley's mouth is the weakest