At the ninth count Larry sprang to his feet, easily eluded Mop's
swinging blow, and slipping lightly around the ring, escaped further
attack until he had picked up his wind.

"That's the game," yelled Ben. "Keep it up, old boy, keep it up."

"C'est bon stuff, Larree," yelled Joe, dancing wildly in Ben's corner.
"C'est bon stuff, Larree, for sure."

But once more master of his wind, Larry renewed his battering assault
upon Mop's head, inflicting some damage indeed, but receiving heavy
punishment in return. The close of the round found him exhausted and
bleeding. In spite of the adjurations and entreaties of his friends,
Larry pursued the same tactics in the third round, which ended even more
disastrously than the second. His condition was serious enough to bring
Mack Morrison to his side.

"What's up with you, Larry?" said Mack. "Where's your science gone? Why
don't you play the game as you know it?"

"Mack, Mack," panted Larry. "It ain't a game. I'm--I'm fighting, and,
Mack, I'm not afraid of him."

Mack whistled. "Who said you are afraid of him, youngster?"

"He did, Mack, he called me a coward--you remember, Ben, up in the cedar
bush that day we played hookey--you remember, Ben?" Ben nodded. "He
called me a coward and"--grinding the words between his teeth--"he
called my mother a coward. But I am not afraid of him, Mack--he can't