A MAGNIFICENT ATHLETE.
“Ah! I suspected it!” exclaimed Packard, sitting down.
Bertrand Defarge smiled with satisfaction, and pushed along a chair for
Hawkins, who accepted it, permitting Defarge to take his hat.
“He is here,” said the scar-faced youth. “I learn that he is something
of an athlete, and that he is rated as a king among you. I shall never
be satisfied until I have defeated him. It has been my controlling
desire since those days at Fardale. I have never permitted it to lessen.
I have looked at my face and said to myself: ‘Let that aid you to
remember.’”
Packard rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was beginning to like
this fellow.
“And you have worked hard to become strong and skilful?”
“I have worked hard in every way. I have had the best instructors a man
could have. My muscles are firm as iron, my nerves are steady as the
earth itself, and I believe there is no man living who can meet and
defeat me in every department. I can shoot with the best experts, either
rifle or pistol. I can fence with masters of the art and defeat them. I
have thrown some of the greatest amateur wrestlers. As an unknown, I
have defeated professional pugilists who were regarded as wonders. I am
satisfied that I have reached the highest point possible for me to
attain, and now all I ask is to meet this man Merriwell.”
Defarge had drawn up a chair, and was smiling his satisfaction.
Packard’s interest had increased rapidly. To himself he now acknowledged
that this youth with the scarred face was decidedly fascinating, to say
the least.
“Of course, you realize the kind of a man Merriwell has become?” said
Roland. “He has never met his match since entering Yale, and he has
escaped unscathed from all the traps and snares laid for him.”
Hawkins nodded grimly.
“That is just the kind of a man I have been training to defeat,” he
said. “All I ask now is the opportunity.”
“And you and I,” said Defarge, speaking to Packard, “must furnish the
opportunity for him.”
“How can we do it?” asked Roland, growing more and more interested.
“Have you heard that Merriwell is going to give a big supper to his
friends? He calls it an athletic supper. Do you know anything about
that?”
“I’ve heard something about it.”
“That is the time to strike him. He should be led into the trap in the
presence of his great gathering of friends.”
“But I fail to see how I am to help bring that about.”
“Your brother is one of Merriwell’s particular friends.”
“Not exactly a particular friend, as he has never belonged to
Merriwell’s flock; still, I think he is regarded by Merriwell as a
friend.”
“Exactly. That is what I have been counting on. Your brother is almost
certain to receive an invitation to this supper.”
“It is very likely that he may.”
“Well, you have been mistaken for him hundreds of times. In fact, your
very best friends have trouble in telling you apart. Now, can’t you fix
it some way that the invitation will not reach the hand of your
brother?”
Roland whistled.
“I begin to see your little game,” he said. “It is rather daring, to say
the least.”
“But you have worked just as daring games before. You have impersonated
your brother more than once. Dressed in his clothes, who can say you
are—not—Oliver?”
Defarge’s voice sank, and he spoke the final words slowly, staring hard
at Roland. Packard noticed this queer look and caught the strange
hesitation in the French youth’s voice.
“Well, what the dickens is the matter with you?” he exclaimed harshly.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I—I was thinking,” faltered Bertrand.
“Thinking what?”
“That you are beginning to look different from your brother.”
“Different? How?”
“Why, your face—it is flushed. The whisky you drink——”
But that was not all. Bertrand could discern a greater difference than
that made by the unnatural flush brought to Packard’s face by the
intoxicants he drank. The fellow’s countenance was somehow losing its
refinement and delicacy, and was taking on a faint suggestion of
grossness and brutality, telling that drink had lowered Packard’s morals
and filled his mind with evil thoughts.
It is a fact that the thoughts of any boy are finally written on his
face in lines that all may read. If he has kind, elevating, noble
thoughts, his face becomes handsome and attractive in its expression;
but, no matter how handsome he may have grown to be, if he begins to
indulge in evil, brutal thoughts, the result will be a gradual but
certain change of countenance that will plainly indicate the trend of
his mind.
Defarge had detected the growing difference in the looks of the
brothers.
“Oh, Oliver is a pale-faced fool!” petulantly exclaimed Roland. “I’ve
told him so.”
“But your flushed countenance would betray you,” said Bertrand.
“Merriwell may have been deceived in the past, but he would not be this
time. He would recognize the difference between you and Oliver. That
would ruin the game.”
“I fail to see quite through the game, anyhow. Even if I were to obtain
possession of my brother’s invitation to this supper, and should attend
in his place, how could I bring about the purpose we wish to
accomplish?”
“Every guest is permitted to bring a friend to the supper. I have heard
that they are urged to bring a friend along. That would give you the
chance to take Hawkins to that supper.”
“That’s so,” nodded Roland. “By Jove! you have quite a clear head on
you, Defarge.”
“Oh, I can plan, even if I cannot make a direct move against Merriwell.”
“And at the supper Hawkins could challenge Merriwell to various feats.”
“That’s the idea.”
“It could be brought about very cleverly.”
“There should be no trouble.”
“And Merriwell could not refuse to accept the challenge.”
“Of course not.”
“Defarge, it is worth considering! I believe it may be done.”
“But your looks—your flushed face——”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know a little drug that will take all the
color out of my face and make me look as pale as my goody-good brother.”
“And would you use it?”
“In a minute!”
“Then I believe you can carry out my plan.”
Packard rubbed his hands together again.
“It’s worth trying—worth trying!” he muttered. “Oh, it would be great
sport to have Merriwell defeated in feats of strength before all his
friends!”
“But the best thing to do would be to have him defeated at boxing first,
following that with a fencing-bout. In this bout Hawkins could——”
Defarge leaned over and whispered the rest of the sentence in Packard’s
ear:
“Run Merriwell through the body!”
“Whew!” whistled Packard once more. “Will he do it?”
“He hates Merriwell. Why shouldn’t he? Look at that face!”
Packard seized the decanter and turned whisky into two glasses.
“Here!” he cried, passing one to Defarge. “To the downfall of Merriwell!
Drink it!”
Quickly the strange youth caught a glass, into which he poured some
water from the pitcher.
“I drink with you!” he exclaimed. “To the downfall of Frank Merriwell!”
“But now,” said Packard, “before I go any farther, before I take this
step, I must be convinced that Mr. Hawkins can stand a show with
Merriwell—that there is a possibility of his defeating Merriwell.”
“How do you wish to be convinced?” asked Hawkins, rising.
“With my eyes.”
“You shall be.”
Hawkins turned to Defarge, who nodded. Immediately the youth with the
scarred face began to strip. He tossed aside his coat and vest and
peeled down to his underclothes in short order.
Packard gasped with astonishment and admiration, for the stranger was
magnificently developed, and his muscles were those of the perfect
athlete. His legs were lithe, yet powerful and muscular; his waist was
strong and slender; his chest was full and deep; his shoulders were
broad and handsome; his arms—ah, what arms they were! They might have
belonged to Samson! And his neck was the neck of the fully developed
athlete.
But above this superbly handsome body rose that horribly scarred face.
Packard shuddered when he looked at it.
“Do I strip all right?” asked the stranger quietly.
“By Jupiter! you are a physical marvel!” cried the bewildered medical
student. “Apollo could not have had a more perfect figure!”
Was it a smile of satisfaction that contorted the scarred face of
Hawkins?
“The beauty of my body is all I possess,” he said bitterly. “My face
frightens people. Sometimes, in my own room, I put a mask over my face,
tear off my clothes, and stand before a long mirror to admire my
muscular body. Then I try to fancy myself with a face suited to this
body—such a face as I must have had but for that fire. Oh, it is
terrible to know that I must always wear this disfigured face! I have no
real friends! I have but one ambition in life.”
“And that is——”
“To defeat and conquer Frank Merriwell! I shall do it, too!”