THE FENCING-BOUT.
There was a buzzing hum of excitement round that table when Merriwell
and the strange athlete with the scarred face had disappeared into the
dressing-room.
All had seemed to feel that something unusual was to take place at this
feast, but not one of them seemed to have suspected anything like this.
Merriwell had a way of doing remarkable things, but the termination of
this “athletic dinner” was an event to be long talked of at Yale.
And the fact that Roland Packard had been permitted to sit at that table
was also very surprising, for Merriwell had permitted it, knowing all
the time the fellow was Roland, while others had supposed him Oliver,
with the exceptions of the youth with the scarred face and Bart Hodge.
But a short time elapsed before Frank and the stranger both appeared,
attired in light suits fit for almost any athletic task.
Hodge and Packard were the seconds, and, for the time, Bart put aside
his intense hatred for the medical student who hated Frank—that is, he
put it aside enough to confer with Packard and come to an understanding
about what was to take place.
It had been the intention of the plotters to make the fencing-bout the
last thing to take place between Merriwell and the stranger, and
preparations had been made for the use of a special foil, from which the
button could be snatched when the time came for Hawkins to puncture
Frank through the right shoulder; but this discovery of the plot by
Merry upset all these plans, and Packard was compelled to agree to
Bart’s demand that the fencing-bout should be first and the
boxing-contest last, with a wrestling-match between.
The students gathered about the table moved their seats so that all
could look into the adjoining room with ease.
As the principals and their respective seconds drew aside for a moment
before the fencing-bout, Packard said to Hawkins in a low tone:
“It’s infernally strange that Merriwell should have found out about our
trap!”
“That’s right,” nodded Hawkins, looking searchingly at Roland. “But
three persons knew of it. Two of us are here.”
“Good gracious! You can’t suspect that I told anything about it, man?”
“Somebody must have told.”
“But I hate this fellow Merriwell. Don’t think I’d let him get onto
anything like that!”
“You drink too much whisky at times, Mr. Packard.”
“But I have not since this plot was formed—I have not been under the
influence of drink for a moment! I swear to you that no hint of this has
escaped my lips!”
“Then there was but one other way for it to reach Merriwell. Defarge has
said that Merriwell had the power to force him to anything. He must have
blabbed!”
“That’s right!” grated Packard. “It has put us in a mighty awkward
place, for it gave Merriwell the chance to turn the tables on us.”
“Yes; but I shall defeat him at everything, just the same, so we will be
triumphant in the end.”
“I pray you do!” muttered Roland. “I shall be guyed to death if you
don’t.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll soon show you that I can count on him at will in
fencing; I will throw him twice out of three times when we wrestle, and
I’ll wind up by putting him out in the boxing-match.”
“Do it!” panted Packard, “and this will be the happiest day I’ve seen in
a year!”
“Are you ready?” called the voice of Hodge.
“We are,” answered Packard.
The foils were offered for Hawkins to make his selection, which he
quickly did. Then the masks were adjusted, and the two young athletes
stood face to face, with Merriwell’s breathless friends looking on.
“Gentlemen, salute!” sounded the clear voice of Hodge, to whom had
fallen the privilege of giving the signal.
The contestants responded with a sweep of their foils.
“On guard!”
The proper positions were assumed.
“Engage!”
Click! The foils touched and slid along each other lightly.
Then followed such a display of light-footedness, agility, and skill as
those present had never before witnessed. In a very few seconds it
became evident to all that the stranger with the scarred face was
wonderfully clever, but, with all his cleverness, he failed in his first
four attempts to count on Merriwell. A backward leap, a quick side-step,
or a simple turn of the wrist sufficed to enable Frank to escape in each
instance.
But in the meantime Merry had made two attempts, and each had been
balked with equal ease.
“Ye gods!” breathed Jack Ready. “Here is where we get the real article,
and no discount!”
Then, of a sudden, to the astonishment of every spectator, the stranger
tried Frank Merriwell’s own particular and peculiar thrust. With
shortened guard, he dropped like a flash, his body straightening out and
the fingers of his left hand resting on the floor, while his foil
flashed straight out in a long thrust.
It counted!
The first point had been made by Hawkins.
It was with difficulty that Bart Hodge choked back an expression of rage
and dismay.
Packard smiled. So did Frank Merriwell! The scarred face of the strange
youth remained hideously expressionless.
They were at it again instantly, but both seemed more on the alert, more
skilful, more determined.
Franks turned two lightning thrusts, and with the second one he
countered so swiftly that the eye could hardly follow his movement.
And he counted fairly!
“Honors are even,” said the stranger. “Now look out for yourself.”
He became a perfect whirlwind. Round and round Frank he worked, striving
to find an opening, but obtaining none, for all of his great skill. The
work of Merriwell was quite as amazing as that of Hawkins.
Then came the moment when Hawkins dropped to the floor again and made
that thrust.
Merriwell had seemed waiting for that very moment. With a long leap to
the left he was out of the way. The moment his feet touched the floor he
flung himself forward. Hawkins was recovering with an upward and
backward spring as Merriwell dropped, using the same thrust, and counted
beautifully.
Frank’s friends could not keep still, and there was a volley of
hand-clapping.
“Try Merry’s tricks, will you?” muttered Hodge, his eyes glittering.
“Well, he’ll show you how he meets his own style of fighting. How do you
like it?”
These words were not intended for the ears of Hawkins, but Packard heard
them and cursed inwardly.
Merriwell now had the advantage, and that seemed to anger the stranger
somewhat. The youth with the scarred face became fiercer than ever in
his assaults, and Frank’s skill in escaping every form of attack did not
serve to soothe his wounded vanity.
Was it possible that Merriwell was his equal with the foils? The thought
that this might be true enraged Hawkins, who exposed himself somewhat in
his next reckless attempt to push Frank.
Merriwell had been waiting for the time when his antagonist should
become impatient and anxious. In fact, in certain ways he had been
seeking to provoke Hawkins somewhat. Now he took advantage of the
fellow’s carelessness, and, almost before the youth with the scarred
face realized it, Frank had counted on him three times in succession.
Roland Packard was pale and angry. He had reckoned on a great triumph,
but everything was going against his man.
Hodge was beginning to look intensely satisfied, and Jack Ready chirped
up cheerfully:
“I’m afraid Mr. Hawkins has bitten off more than he can masticate.
Merriwell is simply making a holy show of the gentleman.”
Hawkins heard, and his heart seethed with bitter disappointment. Was it
for this he had worked all these years? He had fancied himself perfected
in the arts required to defeat Merriwell, but he found himself
vulnerable where he had believed he was the strongest. For a moment he
was seized with a fear that Merriwell might defeat him, and in that
moment his downfall came. It seemed that Frank read his thoughts, for he
seized the occasion to make such an attack on Hawkins that the youth
with the scarred face was placed entirely on the defensive.
In vain Hawkins tried to hold his own. Merriwell had several original
and peculiar tricks, all of which were new to Hawkins and proved
effective. Had they been tried by an ordinary fencer, they might have
failed, but Merriwell made them count.
The time of the bout passed swiftly, but Hawkins was kept on the
defensive from the turning-point to the end. When the end came,
Merriwell had scored three times the number of points of Hawkins, and
was easily the victor.
Hawkins threw down his foil.
“This is merely the beginning,” he said, though there was a trace of
bitter disappointment in his voice and manner. “I shall defeat you,
Merriwell, in the next two matches. I have no doubt of it.”
“La, la!” said Jack Ready. “How nice a fellow must feel when he owns
such a large stock of conceit! But let’s possess our souls in patience,
and see how he will feel when the little circus is over.”