THE UNKNOWN WINS.
The Thor Athletic Club was packed to suffocation. Tier upon tier rose
the mass of humanity on every side of the platform. There was a perfect
babel of voices. The preliminary bouts had been “pulled off” after the
usual manner, and the audience was waiting eagerly for the final event
of the evening, a ten-round contest between Peter McGilvay and an
Unknown.
“Who is this Unknown?” asked a stout, fat-faced man.
“Some say it’s Bob Emerson, of Brooklyn,” answered a gray-mustached
gentleman in evening dress.
“Bob Emerson couldn’t stand up t’ree roun’s in front o’ McGil,” asserted
a bullet-headed fellow. “Spot Herrick’s not fool enough ter back dat
sort of a duffer.”
“Wot’s der matter wid yer, Denny?” contemptuously exclaimed another.
“D’yer t’ink Herrick’s in dis on der level? W’y, I’ll bet me spuds he’s
backin’ Pete.”
Suddenly the master of ceremonies entered the roped arena and enjoined
silence by a gesture, after which he announced the final event of the
evening.
As he retired from the platform there was a shout of welcome, and
McGilvay, followed by his seconds, came on. The prize-fighter had a
thick neck and huge, bunchy shoulders. His legs were not properly
developed, and his appearance was anything but graceful. He bowed to the
crowd, and then retreated to his corner.
All eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the Unknown. There was a
pause, and then he came on.
There were muttered exclamations of admiration, for never had a
handsomer youth stepped into the squared circle. Chest, shoulders, arms,
legs—every part of his body seemed perfectly proportioned. He had a
fine, shapely head set upon a beautiful neck, which swelled gently at
the base. His every movement was graceful and confident. About his waist
was a sash of Yale blue.
McGilvay’s colors were green.
The seconds were professionals, and they had been astounded when Frank
Merriwell stripped before them. In street-clothes he had not foretold
his magnificent build.
“Who is he?”
That question buzzed everywhere, but no one seemed to know him.
There were the usual preparations.
“He’s handsome, but he’ll be meat for McGilvay.”
That was the general opinion.
The gong sounded its warning. Everything was ready. The men met in the
center of the platform and shook hands. A moment later they were on
guard, and then the fight began.
For a moment the men sparred and circled round each other. Then the
professional rushed in. The amateur was away. He had avoided the rush
with ease.
The professional followed the youth, who was smiling beneath the white
glare of the arc-lights. He tried to rush Frank, but again he was
baffled.
The amateur whirled and came back. Flash-flash went his white fists. He
had struck twice, but the wearer of the green managed to avoid both
blows.
McGilvay countered, and there was lively work in the center of the ring.
At the end the amateur retreated again, hotly followed by his
antagonist.
“Gil is rushing him,” flew from lip to lip. “He means to make it short.”
Neither man had been harmed. The professional did his best to corner his
foe, but he was too slow. He counted on getting in a terrible blow with
one of those hamlike fists.
Time passed swiftly, and the end of the round came with the amateur
still running away and the professional pursuing, trying to corner him.
“He’s afraid of Pete,” was the universal decision. “He is clever on his
feet, but Pete will corner him pretty soon, and end it with one punch.”
The professional sat in his corner and laughed. He felt certain that it
was an easy thing.
“W’y, I kin do dat kid wid one t’ump!” he declared. “He’s scared ter
deat’ now.”
“Stand up to him,” advised Frank’s second. “You’ll make the crowd sick
running erway.”
Frank said nothing.
Clang! sounded the gong. The men were up and advancing. They met again.
They were at it once more.
Again the green rushed the blue; again the blue retreated. It seemed to
be the same old story over again.
“Oh, this is a sprinting-match!” cried somebody, in disgust.
Flash!—out shot a clean, muscular arm. Crack!—the blow sounded almost
like a pistol-shot.
The professional had grown incautious and given his foe an opening. It
had been accepted, and the blow sent Pete McGilvay clean across the
ring, to fall like a log of wood.
“Ah!” shouted the astounded spectators, as they rose to their feet as
one man.
The Unknown could strike a blow like the kick of a mule. This was the
first surprise.
But McGilvay’s head was hard, and he got up before the referee could
count him out.
He was amazed, and he had learned something. In the future he would be
more cautious. But now the amateur came at him.
“He’s lost his head!” declared an old sport. “He thinks he can end it
right here because he got in one blow. Now Pete will do him.”
But Pete wabbled, and the Unknown punished him severely. Blood began to
flow, but the amateur had not been harmed in the least. The breast of
the professional was heaving.
“By heavens! Pete is getting the worst of it!”
The man who uttered the words could scarcely believe the evidence of his
eyes. It seemed impossible. But that handsome, stern-faced youth with
the flashing eyes gave his antagonist not a moment to rest. The tables
were turned, and the aggressor of a few moments before was making a poor
defense.
The white arms of the amateur whipped the air; his hard fists pounded
the ribs, neck, and jaw of the professional. McGilvay tried to counter,
but he was bewildered. That first terrible blow had left his head
singing and a wavering blackness before his eyes.
The seconds looked on in amazement. They were praying for the end of the
round to come soon. It must come soon to save McGilvay.
Now the crowd was wildly excited. Amazed by the turn of affairs, the
whirlwind style of fighting of the stranger threw them into tumultuous
admiration.
“Look at that! He got Pete on the jaw! That was a heart-blow! He’s
cutting Pete all up!”
The sound of the blows was plainly heard.
Suddenly McGilvay wavered, dropped his arms at his side, and seemed to
lurch forward to meet the terrible fist that struck him fairly on the
point of the jaw. He was hurled half-way through the ropes.
Then, amid the greatest uproar, the referee slowly counted the
professional out.
Frank Merriwell, the “Unknown,” had won the fight, and by doing so had
saved Jack Diamond’s money and won ten thousand with it.
* * * * *
Jack Diamond, literally overflowing with admiration and delight, had
promptly turned his winnings over to Frank.
“It’s your money, every dollar of it,” he said. “Do what you like with
it. Merry, you are a Twentieth Century marvel!”
“How is Herrick?” asked Frank.
“The sorest man I ever saw,” laughed Jack. “He had plenty of good money
on McGilvay. I’ll bet the biggest part of what I won came from his
pocket.”
“Then I’ll see if I cannot do some good with the stuff,” said Merry.
An hour later, in his room, he handed the money to Harry Collins, whose
emotion choked him so that he could not utter his thanks or express his
gratitude.
“Not a word now,” said Merry. “My boy, to get that money and save you I
did something no man could lead me to do for myself. Use it to save
yourself—and your mother. Perhaps it was more for the sake of your
mother, whom I never saw, that I did it, than it was for yours. My
mother is—dead!”
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