Mr. Jennison began to count while Kramer lay on the floor, stirring
uneasily, yet not seeming to comprehend his seconds' warnings.
"--eight, nine, ten!" finished Mr. Jennison, then put the watch in his
pocket.
"The fight is awarded to Mr. Prescott, and it isn't nine thirty yet,"
announced Mr. Edwards.
Dick's jubilant seconds sponged him, rubbed him down, kneaded
his muscles and joyously assisted him in dressing.
Kramer, coming to presently, but with a face that Anstey said
"made him think of the Dismal Swamp," was assisted downstairs
by his seconds, and taken to the cadet hospital.
With the exception of the two yearlings whom Cadet Prescott had
thrashed to a finish, all who had taken any part in the fights were
in their beds, and lights out, when the subdivision inspectors
flashed their bull's-eye lanterns into the room a moment after taps
had sounded.
For the honor of the class another yearling, Garston, forced a
dispute within a few days, and Prescott had his third fight on his
hands. He won it, though, about as easily as he had the other two.
Three such victories left this plebe free from further fight
annoyance.
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