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Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 18. The Fight In Barracks |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE FIGHT IN BARRACKS "Let go of me!" roared Dennison, as two men held him. "Let me at that-----" "Any name that you would see fit to call me, Dennison, wouldn't sting," retorted Dick. "You have forfeited the right to have your opinion considered a gentleman's." "Don't you ever call names?" hissed Dennison. "Only to the faces of the men to whom the names are applied," retorted Dick. "And that's right," agreed Furlong heartily. "We've been classmates nearly two years, and I've heard old ramrod say disagreeable things, once or twice, behind men's backs. But it was never until after he had said the same thing to the man's face." "This isn't fair," fussed Dennison, "to hold me back after I've been insulted." By this time, half a dozen more cadets had stopped. Three of the newest comers were yearlings, one was a second classman and two were first classmen. "Will you let me act as one of your friends, old ramrod?" asked Cadet Furlong. "I think you've proved your right, on this and other occasions," laughed Dick quietly. "Go ahead, please, Milesy." "This is not place for a fight," continued Furlong, "and this crowd had better break up, or we shall be seen and there'll be an inquiry from the tactical department. As Prescott's friend, I will say that he is prepared to give full satisfaction to both men. In fact, if they didn't demand it, he would." Before so many, Bert Dodge had to appear brave. "I demand the first meeting for satisfaction," Bert insisted. "And I think you may count on getting the first meeting," nodded Furlong coolly. "Now, Mr. Dodge, to whom shall I look as your friend?" "Let me act!" begged Dennison hoarsely. "Go ahead, Dennison," replied Dodge, who felt that he would draw some comfort from having this big athlete of the class for a backer. "Now, break up, please, gentlemen," begged Furlong. "We don't want and wind of this to blow to official quarters. Dennison, I invite you to come to my room." Like soldiers dismissed from ranks, the sudden gathering in the sally-port dispersed. Dick went on to his own quarters. "Now, that's what I call huge!" chuckled Greg Holmes, as soon as he heard the news. "But see here, old ramrod, I'm to be your other second?" "Of course," nodded Dick. "Then I'm off for Furlong's room at once. And again---hooray!" There being nothing to prevent a prompt meeting, it was arranged to take place that evening at 8.30. In the subdivision where Furlong lived there was an empty room up on the plebe floor. Sharp to the minute of 8.30 the men were at hand. Packard, of the first class, had agreed to act as referee. Maitland, second class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners, stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's other second. Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm, though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active. "Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking. Are you ready, gentlemen?" "Ready!" quivered Dodge. "Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips. "Time!" Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence. It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him. Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge's eye, mockery in Dick's. The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to cheer. There was little of foot work, little of getting away. It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled both men to draw back. They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came. Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded, fanned. A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting trim from such mauling as had been exchanged. "Time!" Biff, bump, pound! It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had to be met. Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso. Just before the close of the second round Prescott thought he saw his chance. Feinting with his left, he drove in a hook with his right, aimed for Bert's nose. It touched, instead, on the lip, not a hard blow, but a tantalizing one. As the men drew back at the call of time a blotch of red was seen on Bert's lower lip. When he came back for the third round, that lip was puffing fast. "Third round, time!" Again Bert Dodge started in with his heavy body tactics. But this time Dick himself changed the style. With swift, clever foot-work he danced all around his now furious opponent. Dodge could follow the swift style, too, however, and defended himself, finally coming back with the assault. Half way through the round Dick received a sharp tap on his nose that brought the red. Stung, Prescott became only the cooler. For some time he fought for the opening that he wanted, and got it at last, though Dodge's guarding left prevented the blow from landing with quite all the force with which it had been driven. Dick's middle knuckles raked that already swollen lip, but the lower knuckles landed against the tip of Dodge's jaw with a force which, while not complete, nevertheless sent Bert to the floor, where he lay on his side. "One, two, three, four-----" began Maitland, his gaze on the slipping second hand of his watch. "Take the full count, Bert!" warned Dennison. "Nine, ten!" finished Maitland. In that instant Dodge was on his feet again, head down and working with great caution. "Time!" The third round ended ere Prescott could put in any finishing touches. Yet, under the skillful hands of his seconds, Dodge came up rather smilingly at the call for the opening of the fourth. There was almost murder in Dodge's eyes now. He felt that he was the better man, and yet he had been getting slightly the worst of it so far. But he would show them! Yet, after forty seconds of this work, when Dodge had just let fly a blow intended to land over Prescott's heart, his fist touched only air and he lurched forward. In the same instant Dick swung a smashing blow on Bert's left ear. Bert went down, lying there like a log. In the silence that followed the finish of the count, and the referee's awarding words, Dick Prescott's voice broke in, as soft and cool as ever: "In fifteen minutes, Mr. Dennison, I'll be ready for _you_!" _ |
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