THE FINISH.
“Ouch!” said Merry.
“Dat didn’t hurt, did it?” asked the slugger, with an air of surprise.
“Not much.”
“How ’bout dat?”
Husker tapped him again.
Merry didn’t seem able to protect himself in the least.
“It’s going to be a slaughter!” muttered Hackett. “I did hope he’d try
to put up a scrap just to give us some fun.”
The students cried:
“Brace up, Merriwell!”
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t let him hit you that way!”
“Open your eyes!”
“Hit back at him!”
“You fools!” thought Bart Hodge. “It’s plain you’ve planned to have
lots of fun with us, but the laugh is coming the other way when this
affair is over. You’ll be the most surprised bunch of lobsters in
Baltimore.”
Galway danced round Merry. He came in and feinted, causing Merry to
make a wild motion to parry. Then he laughed loudly, for it seemed that
Frank had exposed himself.
The prize fighter resolved to show the youth up. To do so he kept
working in and out and drawing Frank, as he supposed, into defenseless
positions.
“Husker is fooling with him, Fred,” muttered Hackett.
“Hope he doesn’t fool too long. I think Merriwell is beginning to
realize he hasn’t any show. He’ll be quitting.”
Merry had divined Galway’s purpose, and he was the one who was doing
the playing. He was watching the fighter’s every movement and sizing
up his style. He saw how the man side-stepped, how he feinted, how he
led and how he guarded. While this was going on Frank was planning his
style of attack when the time should come.
Several times Merry rushed awkwardly just to see how the man defended
himself. He led at Galway’s head and his body. The man defended himself
by parrying, blocking, and retreating.
Frank was not foolish enough to fancy Husker Galway an easy mark, but
he counted on gaining some advantage by taking the man by surprise when
he went into the fight in earnest.
Finally, as if by the rarest blundering accident, Merry landed on
Galway’s chin.
“Well! well! well!” cried Ludley, the chap who had displayed such a
friendly feeling for Frank. “He hit him, then!”
“Could you see that?” sneered a student.
“Course I could! What’s matter with you?”
Black Tom was scratching his head as he watched Merry.
“Nebber befo’ has I seen nobody git loaded on de kind ob stuff he’s
been drinkin’,” murmured the negro.
Galway was angered because he had permitted himself to be hit in such a
manner.
“You couldn’t do dat ag’in in a week!” he growled.
Frank seemed to try it, whereupon the slugger swung to land hard on
Merry’s body.
The blow was blocked, but it was done as if by chance more than skill.
The slugger’s anger increased and he followed Merriwell up.
“Now he’s going to get into him!” hissed Fillmore.
Merry managed to clinch, and he hung on when the referee tried to
“break” them.
“Oh, leggo!” snapped Galway.
He tried to uppercut Frank.
“Break! break!” commanded the referee.
When they did break Merry unexpectedly shot his left to the slugger’s
chin, driving his head back.
Galway uttered a roar. His face flushed and he went after Frank like an
enraged beast.
Merry ducked and went under the man’s swing.
“Oh, the artful dodger!” exclaimed Jack Branch.
“He’ll have to do something more than dodge in a minute,” prophesied
Dick Whisper.
Clang sounded the gong. The first round was over.
Fillmore was disappointed because Merriwell had not been damaged in the
least in the opening round. He hastened to Galway’s corner, speaking to
the pugilist in a low tone.
“You haven’t marked him.”
“Plenty of time, young feller,” said Husker. “I’ll give him a black
eye an’ break his nose in der next round.”
“Well, do something,” urged Fillmore.
He fancied Merriwell would not observe that he took this occasion to
speak to the pugilist.
Apparently Frank did not see it, but the truth was that nothing escaped
his eyes. He knew now beyond question that the captain of the lacrosse
team, who had pretended such friendship, was the one who had planned
to have him beaten up by the slugger. Although his heart was hot with
anger over Fillmore’s treachery, he did not betray his feelings by any
outward sign.
Hodge was attending to Frank in his corner, giving him a drink and
mopping his perspiring face with a sponge.
“Don’t fool around too long, Merry,” he said guardedly. “I’m afraid
you’ll betray the fact that you’re not half the mark they’ve taken you
for.”
“I’m not going to fool any longer,” answered Merry. “I shall go after
him now. I’ve fathomed his style of fighting, and I think I know his
weak points.”
Thirty seconds were quickly over.
Clang!
Galway rose instantly and advanced, while again Frank was slow about
coming to the scratch.
The slugger engaged in earnest, going after Merry with the idea of
quickly keeping his promise to Fillmore. He led at Merriwell’s head.
The blow was skillfully parried, and out shot Frank’s right.
Smack!
The blow sounded clear and solid, and it sent Husker Galway reeling.
“Oh!” cried half the spectators.
Merriwell followed the bruiser up with such swiftness that Galway was
given no time to recover. Again Merry hit him—again and again, knocking
him onto the ropes.
Fred Fillmore gasped with unspeakable amazement, while Tom Hackett’s
eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets.
No one could have been more astonished than Galway. He was surprised
because the youth had been able to hit him at all, and he was still
more surprised by the “steam” behind those blows.
“Yah! yah! yah!” laughed Black Tom. “I done thought it was bery strange
dat gemman got so full on what he was drinkin’.”
Galway recovered and rose from the ropes. His eyes glared and his face
had the ugly look of a man infuriated to the point of some black deed.
“So you can hit?” he snarled, as he danced away. “Come again! Try it
some more!”
Merry accepted the invitation, but the pugilist was on guard now, and
it was not so easy to hit him. Besides that, Galway did some leading
himself, and Frank had to look out for himself. The slugger reached
Frank’s chin, but Merry had leaped back, and the blow was light.
“Nearly got him then, Husker!” cried one of the students.
“Look out for that wallop! Look out for that wallop, Merriwell!”
shouted Ludley. “He puts the best of ’em out with it!”
Frank was looking out for it. He knew the fighter had a dangerous left,
and it was his hope to keep him from landing full and fair with one of
those heavy swings.
Galway followed up. There was a bit of sharp sparring and then a clinch.
“Break!” yelled the referee.
They broke promptly enough this time, but again Frank shot out a
lightning left and reached his antagonist’s jaw.
“Look out for that in the breakaway, Gal!” warned one of the spectators.
“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” came from another. “This is the real thing! It’s
no slaughter, after all!”
Bart Hodge laughed.
“You’ll see the kind of a slaughter you did not expect,” he declared.
The battle was a fast one now, for both men were at it in earnest.
Frank received a number of blows, but not one landed in a way to do him
any damage. He was on guard for the “wallop.” Twice Husker tried to
land with it, but both times his fist swept through the air, for the
smiling youth was not there. Tom Hackett grasped Fred Fillmore’s arm.
“What is the meaning of this?” he palpitated. “Merriwell is fighting
like a wizard! He doesn’t act as if he had ever taken a drink in his
life. I thought he was loaded.”
“So did I,” admitted Fillmore. “He certainly is dazing me; but he’ll
get his medicine before long. Galway can stand all the punishment he’s
getting, and he’ll land for fair in the end.”
“Look at that! look at that! Merriwell has split his lip! He’s
bleeding!”
It was true. Frank had opened the slugger’s lip, and Galway’s teeth
were covered with blood.
All this served to cause the pugilist to lose his head. Had he expected
anything of the sort, he would have fought on coolly; but he had
anticipated an easy victory, and the disappointment was too much for
him. Thinking he would have plenty of sport by hammering Frank round
the ring, he had readily consented to Fillmore’s proposition. He
realized at last that he was being used as a punching bag by the youth
he had despised, and that was more than he could endure and keep his
level. He was being “shown up” before the students who had admired him
and regarded him as a wonder.
“Dern ye! I’ll knock your head off!” he snarled.
Bart Hodge stood with his hands in his pockets, the remotest ghost of a
smile on his dark face.
“This bunch will know more than they did when they started in on this
little game,” he thought. “Get into that big brute, Merry! End it in
this round!”
Frank tried his best to end it, and he gave Husker Galway the severest
sort of punishment; but the bruiser was tough, and, although he was
very groggy, he managed to keep on his pins until the gong sounded.
The second round was ended.
Frank Merriwell was suddenly very popular with the students. They
congratulated him on his success.
He paid little heed to them during the thirty seconds of rest.
Fillmore did not venture to speak to Galway now, for he knew that
Merriwell was very wide-awake. Disgusted and disappointed, he lingered
in the background.
“I believe Merriwell is going to whip Husker!” said Hackett.
“He can’t do it,” muttered Fillmore.
“He had him going in that round. The gong saved him.”
“Galway was fooled. We’ve all been fooled! Perhaps the gong did save
him. You’ll see something different this next round.”
Fillmore was disinclined to give up hope.
When the gong sounded next time Merriwell was up and met Galway in a
twinkling. He lost no time in getting after the pugilist. Galway was
wary at first, but Frank’s success in hitting him twice stung him to a
pitch that led him to rush and lunge.
Merry met him and they clinched.
Again in the breakaway Frank soaked the bruiser on the jaw, and this
time it made the man reel.
Following up, Frank put his left to Galway’s wind and his right to the
fellow’s head.
Galway went down.
“Ah!” cried the spectators.
But it was not a knockout. The referee began to count, but Husker
snarled for him to “dry up” and leaped to his feet.
“You fool!” he grated. “No man ever counted me out, an’ no man ever
will!”
This bruiser had gladly taken upon his shoulders the task to “cut up”
the supposed-to-be unsuspecting stranger. To him it was a pleasure
in anticipation, and he had fully expected to make it a pleasure in
execution. The fact that he was making a wretched mess of his wretched
task bewildered while it enraged him. He saw before him the smiling,
unmarked youth, wholly undisturbed and at his ease. Had that youth been
a fighter with a reputation, Galway would have been prepared and would
not have exposed himself with such disdain. Even now, after he had felt
the force of Merriwell’s skill as a boxer, he could not comprehend that
this youngster was his master.
“You think you’re some, don’t ye?” he growled, as he cautiously
advanced, Merry waiting for him. “Well, you’re goin’ ter git yours
right now!”
Fillmore’s fading courage revived. He saw that Galway was determined to
retaliate, and he returned to the hope that the slugger might settle
the matter with his dreaded “wallop.”
“Wait a minute,” invited Frank. “I want to tell you something. You
tried to trick me and make an exhibition of me before these fellows. I
don’t know the cause behind your action, but you have failed. I have no
particular feeling of hatred for you. I think I have satisfied you and
the spectators that I am not the easy mark I’ve been picked up to be.
I don’t care to resort to the last extremity to end this business. I’m
not a prize fighter. I am willing to call the matter off right here—I
am satisfied.”
“Satisfied, are ye?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I ain’t—not on yer life! I’ll be satisfied w’en I puts you ter
sleep, an’ I’m goin’ ter do it. Look out fer me! Either you squeal or
I’ll knock your block off!”
Frank said no more. As he had stated, knowing the low grade of the
bruiser, he had no personal feeling toward the man; but now he found
that there could be but one end to the encounter. Either he must whip
Galway or Galway would whip him.
From that point the fight was fast and savage. Merriwell astounded
every witness save Hodge by his cleverness in blocking, guarding and
getting away. He remained on the defense some time, leading the slugger
to think him frightened at last. Then he landed fair and full with the
force of his body behind the blow, and there was a crash as Galway fell.
A hush followed.
Then the now sober referee stepped forward, leaned over the prostrate
bruiser, and, marking each numeral with a stroke of his index finger,
began to count:
“One—two—three——”
Galway stirred and partly lifted himself.
“Four—five—six——”
The pugilist rose to his hands and knees.
“Seven——”
Husker lifted his hands from the floor.
“Eight——”
He brought up his left foot and planted it.
“Nine——”
He staggered to his feet before the final word could be uttered.
It was a display of sand, and, although the fellow was an ordinary
prize fighter, Frank could not help admiring him for it.
But Merry realized that it would not do to let his admiration of the
fellow’s grit hold him in check. It was all the more apparent that
there could be only one termination of the encounter.
Merriwell closed in.
Galway side-stepped and rushed. His ponderous left swung through the
air with an upward movement.
It was an effort to land the “wallop” on Frank’s jaw.
The youth was not there.
The swing seemed to throw Husker Galway off his guard. Before he could
recover Frank came in. With a straight, clean blow, the champion
all-round athlete of America sent his opponent down with a shock that
jarred the platform to its very foundations.
It was all over. The referee counted ten in his most deliberate manner,
but the prostrate slugger did not even move a muscle. Then, when his
gloves were removed, the victor joined in the efforts to restore
Galway, paying little heed to the profuse expressions of admiration and
the flow of congratulations from the students.
At last he sat up, supported by one of the students, and his eyes
sought the face of the youth who had caused his downfall.
“Young feller,” he said, “you delivered the goods. I didn’t believe it
was in yer; but I’ll back you against anyt’ing on two legs dat stan’s!
You’re der real stuff!”