"I'll look after young Prescott," continued Ben Badger. "Thomp
will do all the honors as referee."

Ripley was already peeling off his sweater.

"Get down to your fighting rig, Prescott," urged Badger, leading
his principal to one side. "How are you, boy?" he whispered,
anxiously. "Feeling right up to the fighting pitch?"

"I hate fighting," Dick answered, simply, speaking so that only
his second could hear him.

"Of course it's necessary sometimes, but I can never quite help
feeling that, at best, it's low-down business."

"So it is," assented Bed Badger, heartily enough. "But what about
it in the case of a sneak like Ripley? If he didn't have other
fellows' fists to fear he'd be unbearable."

"He is, anyway," muttered Dick, just before his head was covered
by the sweater that Badger was helping him remove.

"You've been doing a lot of running this afternoon, gentlemen,"
declared Thompson, as the two combatants came toward him. "Do
you each feel as though you had fighting wind left?"

"I've got as much as the other fellow," replied Dick.

"Don't you dare refer to me as a 'fellow'!" ordered Ripley, scowling.