PACKARD IS SATISFIED.
Having made this statement, the young athlete of the scarred face turned
to his clothing, as if he would dress.
“I am not yet satisfied,” said Packard. “Let me see you display some of
your powers and skill.”
“Sit down,” invited the one addressed. “Sit on that chair.”
He pointed at a plain wooden chair, and Packard sat on it, as directed.
Immediately the youth of the hideous face stooped, thrust his arm under
the front crosspiece of the chair-frame, grasped the back piece, and
said:
“Hold fast to the chair and sit quite still.”
The medic did as directed. Hawkins took a deep breath, and then his
muscles began to swell and strain as he rose. And as he straightened up
he lifted the chair from the floor with Packard upon it—up, up, up! The
muscles of that magnificent upper arm and shoulder stood out hard and
rigid! They swelled and grew taut across the back! Up, up, till Packard
was lifted shoulder-high and held at arm’s length, still sitting on that
chair!
It was a most astounding feat of strength, and Packard was breathless
with admiration.
But how was the fellow to put him down?
After a moment Hawkins began to stoop, lowering his body gradually,
still balancing Packard on the chair as he let him down. Slowly, gently,
deliberately the athlete lowered that chair and its human burden,
depositing it lightly upon the floor.
“There!” cried Defarge triumphantly; “what do you think of that?”
“It was simply astounding!” admitted Roland, jumping up and drawing a
deep breath.
“Are you satisfied?” asked Hawkins quietly.
“As to your strength, yes.”
“You believe I am stronger than Merriwell?”
“You must be. I know Merriwell seldom exhibits the full extent of his
strength, but I cannot conceive that he is stronger than that. Can you
wrestle?”
“Yes, in any style you may name. I have taken lessons from masters of
the art.”
“Then you should be able to throw Merriwell. But the fellow is skilful
in many other ways.”
“For instance?”
“He can handle his fists and feet, as I have said.”
“There are a set of boxing-gloves on the wall. You may put on one pair
and Defarge the other. Then you may both come at me and try to hit me.”
“What will you do?”
“I will not permit either of you to hit me once.”
“Oh, come off!” laughed Packard. “We can get you between us, and you
can’t help being hit.”
“If either of you are able to hit me one fair blow in five minutes’
time, I will admit that I am not yet prepared to meet Merriwell.”
“All right; we’ll show you!” cried Packard. “Move the furniture out of
the way. But, before you begin, I want you to know that I am something
of a boxer. Once on a time I took lessons from Buster Kelley, New
Haven’s great fighter, for the purpose of getting into shape for a go
with Merriwell.”
“So much the better,” nodded the undisturbed athlete, “for it will serve
as a more satisfactory test.”
So the furniture was moved back from the center of the room, and Packard
and Defarge threw off coats and vests, drew on the gloves, and prepared
for the encounter.
When they were ready, the athlete said:
“Before we begin I will warn you that I may often defend myself with my
feet, as well as with my hands. I shall strike neither of you with my
clenched fists, but I may push you with either feet or hands.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Roland. “I’ll risk but I can dodge your
feet.”
“You may find it more difficult than you think. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” said Packard.
“Ready,” said Defarge.
“Then come at me, and make it as hot as you like.”
They accepted the invitation, both springing forward. He was away before
them, dancing to one side, quickly leading them to separate. Then, like
a flash, he flitted between them.
Both struck at him—and missed!
He laughed in their faces. Packard followed him up closely and struck
again and again. The wonderful youth of the scarred face parried or
dodged every blow. But Defarge came rushing in, and they seemed to have
the fellow cornered. Then, quick as a flash, Hawkins placed one foot
against Packard’s breast and gave him a push that flung him with a heavy
thud to the floor. Defarge was tripped up and sent sprawling over
Packard, and the athlete stood back, his arms folded, a chuckling laugh
escaping his lips.
Packard got up, uttering words of mingled anger and wonder. Why, it
seemed utterly impossible to corner the fellow! Roland vowed he’d not be
caught again by that foot-trick.
Defarge was up.
“Now!” cried Packard, “both together!”
Again they rushed; again that handsomely built youth easily avoided
them. They were separated, and once more he flitted between them.
Neither touched him, though both tried to do so.
Packard set his teeth and followed the fellow up once more. The athlete
put his hands behind his back and stood quite still, without guarding.
Packard struck at his head. That head moved to one side with the
quickness of a flash, and Packard missed.
Packard struck at the man’s body. That body leaped backward like a
panther, and it was untouched.
The medical student gasped. Never in his life had he seen a man he
fancied could handle himself like that.
Then Defarge came charging in, and both struck at Hawkins together.
Hawkins parried the blows of one with his left hand and the blows of the
other with his right. Then, with his left hand, he gave one of them a
thrust, at the same time pushing the other with his right foot, and
again he skipped between them and was away.
Packard stopped and said:
“He’s a wizard! Confound him! can’t we corner him, anyhow?”
But they could not, though for five minutes they did their level best.
When five minutes had elapsed by the little clock on the mantel, the
scar-faced athlete stopped, saying:
“The time is up. Are you satisfied?”
“More than satisfied in this line. You are the quickest man I ever saw.
Your foot-work is something marvelous.”
Was that strange contortion of the scarred face a smile caused by Roland
Packard’s words?
“You say you can fence?” Packard went on. “Merriwell is the champion
here since he defeated Defarge.”
“Defarge was the champion before?”
“So called.”
“But Merriwell has a thrust of his own that I am unable to avoid,”
Defarge confessed. “I have practised it since till I am sure I can make
the lead quite as well as Merriwell himself.”
“Try it on me,” invited the stranger. “Have you a suit I can get into? I
see you have a set of foils, masks, and protectors.”
Defarge had several suits. He brought two of them out, and ten minutes
later the two young men were prepared for a fencing-bout, while Packard
had retired to a corner, where he sat on a chair and watched.
“On guard,” said Hawkins.
They were ready.
“Salute.”
They did so.
“Engage.”
Clash! They were at it.
“Do your best,” urged the strange youth. “Press me as hard as you like.
Give me Frank Merriwell’s pet thrust when you get—ah!”
Defarge had shortened his guard like a flash, dropped till the fingers
of his left hand rested lightly on the floor, with his body straightened
out, thrusting then with a movement that seemed too swift to avoid.
Hawkins parried with a circular movement of his wrist, moving just one
foot to one side as he did so, and the thrust was avoided.
“By heavens!” cried Defarge, as he came up with a spring. “He caught me
with that every time.”
“And you came near catching me,” confessed Hawkins. “To tell the truth,
if you had not warned me in advance of a peculiar movement, I believe I
should have been caught.”
“See if you are as lucky next time.”
They were at it again, and Defarge improved the very first opportunity
to try that thrust again. But his success was no greater than before,
his opponent seeming to escape with ease.
Then Hawkins showed that he could play with Defarge, counting on the
French youth almost at will.
With an exclamation of rage, Bertrand flung down his foil at last.
“It makes me too mad to fence!” he snarled. “Here I’ve spent years at
it, and I find myself like a baby in your hands!”
“And you gave Merriwell something of a go, if I have been informed
correctly,” said Packard.
“I kept him busy,” declared Defarge.
“I’m more than satisfied,” asserted the medical student. “Hawkins is the
most wonderful athlete alive, and I’ll bank on it! He can defeat
Merriwell at anything!”
“I thought you would come to that conclusion,” said the French youth.
“Will you try to help carry out the plan I proposed?”
“Sure thing,” nodded Packard. “You may count on me! At last I believe I
shall live to see the day when Merriwell’s colors will be lowered in the
dust! It will be the happiest day of my life!”