"Mr. Kramer," interrupted Mr. Edwards sternly, "this has gone far
enough. You must stop hectoring that plebe, sir. He has all he can
attend to as it is."
Kramer stopped, with a snap of the jaws. He didn't want to. But a
hint, on a matter of etiquette, or the code, from the first class man,
was as valid as a command. And Mr. Edwards had spoken in a
tone that was authoritative enough.
"You run all you want," whispered Greg indignantly. "You have a
right to. This room is smaller than a Queensbury ring."
"I shan't stop my footwork unless the referee orders it," replied
Prescott, in an under-tone.
"You're doing just right," nodded Anstey. "If you weren't Mr. Edwards
would stop it. He's running this fight on the fair-and-square. If I
have a fight I hope it will be my luck to have Mr. Edwards running the
job."
"How do you feel?" asked Anstey, in an undertone.
"All right," returned Dick. "But I had to trust to footwork to save
myself. Mr. Spurlock got nearly all my wind in that other round."
"Is your wind in again?" asked Greg anxiously.
"Yes; I think I feel as fine as my man does," replied Dick, stepping
up from the care of his handlers to await the command.
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