In a second he had reasoned it out. He was caught--he knew it. He could resist three minutes, five minutes, slowly sinking against his ebbing strength, frantically cheered for a spectacular resistance--and then what? If he had a chance, it was in preserving every ounce of his strength for the coming rounds. "All right; you've got me this time," he said coldly, and, relaxing, let his shoulders drop. Dana's hand fell stingingly on him, announcing the fall. He rose amid an angry chorus: "What the deuce!" "Say, I don't stand for that!" "Thought he was game." "Game nothing!" "Lost his nerve." "Sure he did." "Well, I'll be damned." "A quitter--a rank quitter!" He walked to his seconds, angry at the misunderstanding. "Here, I know what I'm doing," he said in short, quick breaths, forgetting that he, a freshman, was addressing the lords of creation. He was a captain again, his own captain, conducting his own battle. "I'll get him yet. Rub up this shoulder, quick." "Keep off the ground," said one mentor. "You bet I will." "Why the deuce did you give in so easily?" "Because there are two more rounds, and I'm going to use my head--hang it!" "He's right, too," said the first senior, rubbing him fiercely with the towel. "Now, sport, don't monkey with him until you've jarred him up a couple of times!" "That's what I'm going to do!" "Time!" cried the voice of Dana. This time he retreated slowly, drawing Fisher unwarily toward his edge of the ring, and then suddenly, as the sophomore lunged at him, shot forward again, in a tackle just below the waist, raised him clear off the ground, spun him around, and, putting all his force into his back as a wood-chopper swings an ax, brought him down crashing, clear across the ring. It was a fearful tackle, executed with every savage ounce of rage within him, the force of which momentarily stunned him. Fisher, groggy under the bruising impact, barely had time to turn on his stomach before Stover was upon him. Dink immediately sprang up and back, waiting in the center of the ring. The sophomore, too dazed to reason clearly, yielding only to his anger at the sudden reversal, foolishly struggled to his feet and came staggering toward him. A second time Stover threw all his dynamic strength into another crashing tackle. This time Fisher went over on his back with a thump, and, though he turned instinctively, both shoulders had landed squarely on the turf, and, despite his frantic protests, a roar went up as Dana allotted the fall to Stover. This time, as he went to his corner, it was amid pandemonium: "You're a corker, freshman!" "Oh, you bulldog!" "Tear him up!" "You're the stuff!" "Good head, freshman!" "Good brain-work!" Several upper classmen came hurriedly over to his corner, slapping him on the back, volunteering advice. "Clear out," said his mentor proudly. "This rooster can take care of himself."