"Speak for yourself, fellow," Dick answered, coolly.
"I'm a gentleman, and a gentleman's son," proclaimed Fred, haughtily.
"You're a mucker, and the son of a mucker!"
"Time!"
Dick could stand an ordinary insult with a fair amount of good
nature, when he despised the source of the insult. But now there
was a quiet flash in his eyes that Badger was glad to see.
Ripley started in to rush things. In quick succession he delivered
half a dozen stout blows. Only one of then landed, and that glancingly.
Ripley was puzzled, but he had no time to guess. For Dick was
not exactly rushing, now. He was merely fighting in close, remembering
that he had two striking hands, and that feinting was sometimes
useful.
"A-a-a-h!" The murmur went up, eagerly, as the onlookers saw Prescott
land his right fist in solid impact against Ripley's right eye.
Bump! Before Ripley could get back out of such grueling quarters
Dick had landed a second blow over the other eye. Ripley staggered.
A body blow sent him to his knees. Dick backed off but a few
inches.
"One, two, three, four, five, six-----" droned off the timekeeper.
Fred Ripley tried to leap up, but, as he did so, Dick's waiting
left caught him a staggering one on the nose that toppled him
over backwards to the ground.
"One, two, three-----" began the timekeeper, but suddenly broke
off, to call time.
"Prescott, you're a bird!" declared Ben Badger, exultantly, as
he led his man away.
"I wouldn't have gone for him so hard," muttered Dick.
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