Ripley's eyes danced. "I'll black both eyes, too, before I put
you out," he threatened, in a low tone, as he fought in for another
opening.

"Brag's a good dog," retorted Dick, quietly. The blow, though
it had stung, had served to make him only the more cool. He was
watching, cat-like, for Ripley's style of attack. That style
was a good one, from the "scientific" view-point, if Ripley could
maintain it without excitement and all the while keep his wind.

But would he? The freshman, though not much of a lover of fighting,
had made some study of the art. Moreover, Dick had a dogged coolness
that went far in the arena.

Suddenly, Dick let go such a seemingly careless shoulder blow
with his left, straight for Ripley's face, that Fred almost lazily
threw up his right arm to stop it. But to have that right out
of the way was just what Prescott was playing for. Quick as thought
Dick's right flew out, colliding with Ripley's mid-wind with a
force that brought a groan from the taller fighter. Dick might
have followed it up, but he chivalrously sprang back, waiting
for Fred to make the first sign of renewal of combat.

"Time!" came from the boy with the watch.

"Kid, you're going to be all right; you've got your horse-sense
with you," glowed Ben Badger, as he hurried Dick back under a
tree. "Let me see what I can do to stop your nose running quite
so red."