"We hold all the honors so far." Quickly enough the call of time came.
Farley, the flow of blood from his nose stanched, came back as full of steam as before.
Dave's footwork was as nimble as ever.

Speed and skill in dodging were features of Darrin's fighting style.
Yet Farley caught him, with a blow on the chest that sent him to his knees.
Like a flash, however, Darrin was upon his feet, and Farley lunged at him swiftly and heavily.
In the very act of reaching his feet, however, Dave Darrin leaped lightly to the left.
With an exclamation of disgust Farley turned and swung again.
But Dave dropped down, then shot up under his opponent's guard once more.
_Biff!_ This time an exclamation of real pain came from Farley, for the blow had landed solidly on his left eye, just about closing it.
A second time Darrin might have landed, but he was taking no chances under a steam-roller like Farley.
As Dave danced away, however, followed up by his opponent, bellowing from the sudden jolt his eye had received, he saw that Farley was fighting almost blindly.
Dan Dalzell now jumped in as close as he had any right to be.
He wanted to see what would happen next.
Nor was he kept long guessing, for Dave had slipped around on the blind side of his opponent.
"Confound you! Can't you stand up and fight square ?" demanded Farley harshly.
Dave flushed, this time.

Dodging two of Farley's blows he next moved as though about to retreat.
Instead, however, Darrin leaped up and forward.
Pound! Dave's hard left fist landed crushingly near the point of Farley's jaw.
Down went the larger man, while his seconds rushed to him.
Midshipman Trotter, watch in hand, began calling off the seconds.
Steadily he counted them, until he came to "-- eight, nine, _ten_!" Still Farley lay on the ground, his good eye, as well as his damaged one, closed.
If he was breathing it was so slightly that his seconds, not permitted under the rules to go close, could not detect the movements of respiration.
"He loses the count," announced Second Class Man Tyson, in businesslike tones.

"I award the fight to Mister Darrin." Always the ceremonious "mister" with which upper class men refer to new fourth class men.

It is not until the plebe becomes a "youngster" that the "mister" is dropped for the more friendly social address.
Farley's seconds were kneeling at his side now.
"Can you bring him out easily ?" asked Midshipman Tyson, going over to the defeated man's seconds.
"He's pretty soundly asleep, just now," put in Midshipman Trotter.
"My, but that was a fearful crack you gave your man, mister!" "I'm sorry if I have had to hurt him much," replied Dave coolly.
"I am not keen for fighting." Dan and Rollins offered their services in helping to bring Farley to, only to met by a curt refusal from Midshipman Henkel.
So Dave and his seconds stood mutely by, at a distance, while the two officials in the late fight added their efforts to those of the seconds of the knocked-out man.
At last they brought a sigh from Farley's lips.
Soon after the defeated midshipman opened his eyes.
"Is--Darrin--dead ?" he asked slowly, with a bewildered look.
Midshipman Trotter chuckled.
"Not so you could notice it, mister.