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Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 19. Mr. Dennison's Turn Is Served |
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_ CHAPTER XIX. MR. DENNISON'S TURN IS SERVED Furlong sprang forward to protest. "See here, old ramrod, don't be foolish." "I can handle it as well tonight as at any time," Dick laughed as coolly as ever. "But you've taken a lot of punishment." "Fifteen minutes is all I need, with seconds like you and Greg." "Will it be fair to yourself, Prescott?" demanded Packard. "Wholly," replied Dick unconcernedly. "Let him alone," urged Greg. "Old ramrod always knows what he's doing." "I'm not sure that we can get Dodge out of here and attended to, and be already for the start in fifteen minutes," replied Packard. "Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five," insisted Dick. "Whatever time is necessary, so that we start in time to be through before taps." "What do you say, Dennison?" asked Packard. "I? Oh, I'll be ready," grinned the athlete. "Will you serve Dennison?" asked Packard, turning to Nelson "Yes; of course." "Then, Nelson, confer with Dennison and see whom he wants to serve with you. The rest of us will work over Dodge. Whew! Look that ear puff up while you watch it!" "Beauty, isn't it?" asked Greg grimly. "It will be a cauliflower decoration, all right." Nelson went scurrying, soon returning with Anderson. Any yearling would gladly have served tonight, in order to see what doughty Dick Prescott would do against his second man in the same evening. With Nelson and Anderson came two other yearlings who had agreed to see Dodge safely to the door of cadet hospital. Bert Dodge had been brought around at last. He was a bit dazed, but he grinned, as he went out, when Dennison murmured in his ear: "Never you mind, old man. I'll take care of Prescott. I'll twist the ramrod into a figure 8." "We must proceed as promptly as possible, gentlemen," rapped out Mr. Packard. "We must be finished before taps." "Dennison will be finished, by that time," muttered Greg in a cheerful undertone. Holmes had never provoked a senseless fight. He was good-natured almost to a fault. Yet, when a fight became inevitable, Greg could act as principal or second with equal cheeriness. Nelson had brought back with him togs for Dennison, and that athlete was quickly ready. Every minute of the time had been utilized well in getting, Dick Prescott in condition for his second scrap of the evening. His nose-bleed had been stopped, but it was wind and lung power that he wanted most. He had taken some heavy body thumping, but rest and rubbing had worked out most of the soreness. "Get up and kick a bit. See what you can do," advised Furlong. Dick went through a few irregular gymnastics. "There's one good thing about old ramrod," declared Greg, in a grinning undertone. "He's always ready, every minute of the time!" Sharply, quickly, now, the combatants were brought face to face. At the call of time, Dennison sailed in; Dick leaped forward. Dennison was amused, more than half contemptuous over the easiness of the work that he thought had come to him. But he felt in honor bound to make the thing short. In the first place, he had to avenge Dodge. In the second place, it would reflect upon himself if Dennison allowed Prescott to string the battle out. Some sharp cracks were given and taken, and many more dodged or struck aside, when, up close to the end of the first round, Prescott landed one between the big fellow's eyes that made him see stars. Right in close Prescott followed, before his opponent could recover. But the time-keeper's call prevented further doings. "He's a mosquito, that's all," growled Denison to Nelson, in the corner. "Go in and swat him, then," grinned Nelson. "Watch me!" "Remember, then, that skeeters are dodgers." "I'll saw him off, this time," grumbled the big fellow. The call of time brought both men forward. But Dick, the same quiet smile on his face, had planned new tactics with Furlong during that minute's rest. Now, Dick struck Dennison, not very heavily, on the right shoulder. The next time it was a tap on the right chest. Dennison strove to resent these indignities, but Prescott had a definite plan of sustained assault, and the big fellow could not read it in advance. Twice Dick got caught by swings, though he was not sadly troubled. He was lanching in, lightly, all over the less vital parts on his man now. It did Dennison no harm, but the impudence of it stung the big fellow. "Time!" "That's the b.j.-est skeeter I ever saw," grinned Nelson, as he sprayed water over Dennison's biceps. "You quit, Nelse!" "All right. Don't get mad at me. Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!" Again the men were called to the center of the room. They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business. On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there. Dennison's effort was to swing in one hard, sufficient blow. Just thirty-five seconds from the start of the round Dick found his opportunity, and took it. His right smashed in fearfully on the end of the big fellow's jaw bone, just under the ear. Bump! Dennison's big, muscular body hit the floor like the falling of a tree. Maitland counted, for he knew the big fellow couldn't rise in ten seconds after a blow like that. "Nine, ten," finished the time-keeper, and dropped his watch into his pocket. "I award the fight to Mr. Prescott," announced Packard. "Now, what are we going to do with this big hulk?" That was a problem. It would hardly do to take another cadet to hospital that night. Anyway Dennison would need a stretcher, and four cadets to carry him, for he still lay on the floor in a stupor, from which the usual methods of reviving a man after a knockout failed to bring him. It was just ten minutes before taps when Dennison was finally brought around and helped to his feet. "Where's Prescott?" asked Dennison, after he had gulped down a glass of water. "Here," answered Dick, stepping forward. "Prescott, I don't suppose I'm very clear headed yet," rambled on Dennison. "But I want to apologize for my words this afternoon. And---I'm glad you whacked me right tonight. Perhaps I'll really learn something from it. But my apologies, anyway." "Say no more," begged Dick, tendering his hand. "It is all forgotten." Dick received hasty congratulations from the late officials of the fights. Then they, and Prescott and his friends, disappeared quickly to quarters. Dennison was helped to his room. When the subdivision inspectors went through with their bulls-eye lanterns immediately after taps, they found all present save Cadet Albert Dodge. Dodge passed a painful couple of hours until opiates won out and he passed into drugged sleep. In one respect Dodge got far less out of the fight than had Dennison. Bert had not even learned, convincingly, that Prescott was a man to let alone. _ |
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