CUNNINGHAM MEETS HIS MASTER.
But Jack Cunningham had a hard head, and he was not a man to be knocked
out by the first blow. Somehow he continued to cling to Frank’s collar.
Recovering quickly from the shock of Merry’s blow, he uttered a snarl
and swung back. Frank ducked, and the huge fist of the giant went over
his shoulder.
The two men who had been playing cards came running out.
“Hey, Jack, what’s the matter?” they cried. “Want some help?”
“No, I don’t want any help!” roared Cunningham. “Just yo’ keep back an’
watch me knock some of the conceit out of this college chap.”
Then he gave Frank a thrust away and spat on his hands.
“I’m goin’ to everlastingly knock the corners off yo’, youngster!” he
declared. “Yo’ thumped me, an’ no man ever does that without gittin’
licked, and licked good!”
Frank saw that he was in for a hand-to-hand encounter with the big
ruffian.
Knowing now that he had been tricked and brought to that old house for
some evil reason, Merry was inwardly seething with anger, though
outwardly he seemed perfectly cool.
“Before we engage in this little racket,” he said, “supposing you tell
me what your name is. I’m all in the dark. Why have you lied to me and
brought me out here?”
“Oh, just to have fun with yo’,” declared Cunningham, tearing off his
coat and flinging it down. “Yo’ are a conceited college chap, an’ I’ve
taken all this bother just to have a good chance to thump some of the
conceit out of yo’.”
“Muldoon, I told you when you used the whip on your horses that you were
a fool, but now I am forced to add that you are a liar!”
“Muldoon?” cried one of the other men. “What’s he callin’ yo’ that fer,
Jack?”
“Why, because I’m Muldoon, brother to the strong man,” returned
Cunningham. “An’ I’m goin’ to break this feller plumb in two. Look out,
youngster!”
The upper hall, like the lower, was wide and roomy, giving them a very
fair chance for the battle.
Cunningham rushed at Merry, but Frank side-stepped, avoiding him easily,
and he gave the fellow a body-blow that knocked a great puff of wind out
of him.
“Stand up, hang yo’!” grunted Cunningham. “Don’t try any of yoah
monkey-tricks!”
“He hit you a thumper, Jack!” cried one of the watching men.
Cunningham recovered, but he was surprised when the beardless youth took
the initiative and came at him, leaping aside and then diving in.
Once more Frank landed, and this time his hard knuckles cut the cheek of
the man who had led him into the trap.
“Why don’t you smash him, Jack?” shouted the watching men.
“I’m goin’ to!” was the fierce retort. “Just you see!”
But he soon found it was not such an easy task to “smash” the young Yale
athlete, who was a scientific boxer and knew all the tricks of the
professional fighter. Just when Cunningham thought he had the youth
cornered—biff! biff! biff!—he got it in such swift succession that he
was dazed and the nimble-footed lad slipped away. It was not long before
the ruffian began to lose his head and try to “rush.”
“Steady, Jack!” shouted one of the men. “Yo’ can’t do him that way!”
“I’ll kill him!” grated Cunningham. “I’ll smash him!”
“Smash him!” shouted the men again.
Not a word came from the youth, whose lips were pressed together, whose
jaws were set, and whose eyes flashed.
Frank was determined to punish this man for the trick, and he soon had
the fellow’s face bruised and bleeding in a dozen places. But Cunningham
was hard as iron, and he possessed the “wind” and endurance of a
mountaineer. It was not an easy thing to wear such a man out.
Once Merriwell found a good opening, went in, his fists flashed, and the
man went down heavily. One of the ruffian’s companions assisted him to
rise, saying:
“We’ll all jump on him, Jack! We’ll do him in short order!”
“Keep off!” roared the giant, his eyes gleaming fiercely, while blood
began to trickle from his chin. “No whiskerless kid like that can whip
Jack Cunningham!”
He swept his would-be assistant back with one arm and advanced on
Merriwell again.
“Dern yo’!” he panted, his great breast heaving. “What right have yo’ to
fight like this! You’re nothing but a boy!”
No reply. The college youth was standing there, his arms hanging by his
sides, his bosom not seeming to heave to any great extent from the
exertion. He was utterly fearless in his aspect, causing those men to
wonder greatly, for never before had they encountered a lad just like
this one.
If there was anything Frank Merriwell detested it was fighting; but he
had perfected himself in the art of self-defense for such an occasion as
this, and now, highly indignant at the deception practised upon him, he
was resolved to teach this ruffian a lesson.
Had Merriwell not been a skilful boxer he must have fallen before the
savage assaults of the ruffian long before this.
Could he defeat Cunningham, he felt that he would then be ready to meet
the other men, even though they both came at him at once, for something
told him they were no such savage fighters as the man with whom he was
battling.
Frank did not wait for Cunningham, but suddenly his hands went up and he
sprang forward. The ruffian was on guard, but Merry quickly retreated,
without offering to strike a blow.
Then the man did the very thing Frank had hoped to lead him into. He
rushed once more.
The youth halted and met that rush. Cunningham struck a ponderous blow,
but the Yale youth’s head went to the left and the hairy fist shot over
his shoulder. Frank’s left fist landed on the man’s ribs. Had Cunningham
been stripped it would have proved a much more effective blow, but as it
was his ribs seemed to crack.
“Oh!” grunted the watching men.
Cunningham stood stock-still, an expression of pain on his face. Frank
had gone under his arm and whirled, and he struck again, hitting his
opponent in the back of the neck, almost at the base.
With outstretched arms, the ruffian staggered forward and was caught in
the arms of one of his friends.
“That was an awful one, Jack!” gasped this man. “Better let us fix him!”
“Keep off!” cried the giant once more. “Jack Cunningham can’t have it
said he was licked by a kid!”
Frank was waiting when he turned. For a moment Merry fancied the ruffian
thought of drawing a weapon, but it is possible that Cunningham’s pride
kept him from being forced to use a knife in order to do up an unarmed
lad.
“Yo’re the devil!” snarled the man; “but I’ll finish yo’ yet!”
Indeed, he recuperated quickly, soon being ready to resume the fight.
“That kid in town said yo’ could fight,” muttered the man; “but I didn’t
believe it. He was right, but I swear I’ll down yo’ in the end!”
Now, however, Merriwell closed in on the man and gave him not a moment’s
rest. He saw that the only way to put Cunningham out was to never let up
until able to strike the knock-out blow.
The man had learned a very painful lesson, and he was not as careless as
he had been; but the skill of the athletic young boxer was far too much
for him.
Again and again Frank reached Cunningham’s face, which would bear the
marks of that encounter for many days. One of the man’s eyes was
swelling fast, threatening to close entirely.
Again Cunningham’s friends begged to be permitted to take a hand,
plainly not daring to strike in without permission as long as he
remained on his feet.
Frank gave the ruffian no chance to reply. He was pressing Cunningham
hard. A blow that reached the fellow’s solar plexus caused his hands to
fall.
Then Merriwell found the opening he wanted, and he struck Cunningham a
fearful blow on the point of the jaw.
The ruffian went down—and “out.”
But as he fell one of his mates struck Frank over the head with a piece
of lead pipe that was wrapped about with several folds of cloth.
Struck down in this cowardly manner from behind, the champion athlete of
Yale fell limply across the body of the ruffian he had whipped.