THE BULLY'S MATCH.
A moment of silence followed Bascomb's distinctly-spoken words, and the
eyes of nearly every one were turned on Merriwell, to whose face the
hot color slowly mounted.
"What's the matter with you, Bascomb?" he finally asked. "What do you
want to draw me into this affair for? I don't know as I have any
desire to put on the gloves with Rains."
The big fellow grinned in a way that was distinctly insulting.
"I don't think you have," he said. "You wouldn't cut any ice with him."
"You may be right; but I don't quite understand how you know, as I have
never stood up with you."
"Oh, that wasn't necessary; I've seen you spar, and I have your gage.
You don't run in the class with Rains."
At this juncture Rains made a move as if he would quiet Bascomb, but
the big fellow quickly went on:
"I'm not going to keep still any longer. You're too modest, Rains.
You keep in the background, and let fellows like Merriwell take the
lead in everything, when you should be a leader. You are a better
all-round man than Merriwell any day, and you can knock corners off him
any time he has nerve enough to put on the mitts with you. He's a
dandy to push himself to the front, but----"
That was a little more than Frank could stand. The jolly look had
vanished from his face, and he faced Bascomb, saying sharply:
"Look here, my friend, I reckon you are saying one word for Rains and
two for yourself. I haven't mixed up with you for reasons that you
very well understand, but I don't propose to take much of your talk.
If there is any difference between Mr. Rains and myself, we will settle
it at another time; but if you want to get a rap at me, now is the
accepted occasion, and I will put on the gloves with you."
Bascomb had not been looking for this, and he was taken aback for a
moment. Still, although he knew Merriwell was a far better all-round
athlete, he believed he could more than match him in boxing, so he
eagerly accepted the opportunity.
"I'm your man," he said. "Peel off and get into gear. It won't take
me long to show you there are a few things you do not know."
He laughed in a disagreeable way, and Hodge, who had overheard all, bit
his lips to repress an outburst of anger.
"The sneak!" whispered Bart to Frank, as the latter stepped aside to
take off his coat and vest. "He means to use his sledgehammer blow on
you. He won't box for points, but he will try to soak you. Look out
for him."
"I am not afraid of him."
"That's all right; but you know he has been practicing that blow, and
they say it is terrible. He is cut out for a prizefighter, and is no
fit boxing antagonist for a gentleman."
"I shall look out for his 'wicked left,' as I have heard the boys call
it."
"He wants to provoke you into a fight with himself or Rains."
"I thought as much; but he may change his mind after we spar, if he
does not catch me foul by an accident."
"He is tricky."
"I will watch out for his tricks."
"Look out for his cross-buttock. He's stout as a moose, and he will
give you a nasty fall."
For all of his warning words, Bart had great confidence in Frank. They
had fought once, shortly after coming to Fardale, and Hodge had found
Merriwell more than his match then. Since that time, Frank had missed
no opportunity to pick up points in boxing, and his advancement had
been great.
Still there was a chance that, by some accident, Bascomb might land
once with that "wicked left," or might seek to injure Merriwell by a
fall, if he found that he was matched in every other way, so Bart was
on hand with his words of warning.
It did not take Frank long to get ready, and it was not long before the
two boys faced each other, adjusting the gloves upon their hands. Then
they came up to the scratch, and the word was given that started the
contest.
Bascomb started in at once with a series of false motions intended to
confuse Merriwell, but they simply brought a faint smile to Frank's
face, and he remained as placid as ever until----
Just as Bascomb had decided to rush, Merriwell rushed. There was a
flashing of their gloves. The big fellow struck twice, and both blows
were met by a ready guard.
Biff! biff! biff! First with the right, and then twice with the left
Frank struck the big plebe. None of them were heavy blows, but they
all stung, and the angry blood surged to Bascomb's face, as he saw
Merriwell leap back beyond his reach, laughing a bit.
"Mosquito bites!" said Bascomb, derisively.
"But they count."
"Who cares. I will more than square that in a minute."
"All right; I am waiting."
Once more they were at it, toe to toe, hands moving slightly, light on
their feet, ready to dodge or spring, ready to strike or guard. Blows
came, one landing on Merriwell's cheek, and another on his shoulder;
but more than twenty were dodged or guarded, and Bascomb was struck
twice for every blow he gave.
Frank was watching for that left hand body blow, and it came at last,
just when Bascomb thought it must count.
In that case Bascomb deceived himself.
The blow was struck swiftly enough, but Frank stopped it with a right
hand guard, and, with his left, countered heavily on Bascomb's mouth,
sending the big fellow's head back.
Bascomb was surprised, and he showed it. He was also thoroughly
angered, and he proceeded to "wade into" Merriwell like a cyclone.
On the other hand, Merriwell was cool as ice, and he made every blow
count something, for even when they failed to land they kept the big
fellow busy.
Time after time Bascomb rushed in, but Merriwell was light as a feather
on his feet, and he danced nimbly about, tapping the other fellow now
here, now there, smiling sweetly all the while, and showing a skill
that was very baffling to Bascomb.
"Hang him!" thought the big fellow. "He is a regular jumping jack. If
I don't land a blow on him pretty quick, I am going to clinch."
This he soon did, catching Frank for the cross-buttock throw.
For a moment it looked as if Merriwell would be flung heavily, and
Hodge drew his breath through his teeth with a hissing sound that
turned to a sigh of relief as he saw his friend thrust forward his
right foot between Bascomb's, break his wrist clear and catch the big
fellow behind the left knee with his left hand, while he brought his
right arm up over Bascomb's shoulder, and pressed his hand over
Bascomb's face, snapping his head back and hurling him off sideways.
This was done quickly and scientifically, and it convinced Hodge that
Bascomb could not work the cross-buttock on Merriwell.
Hugh Bascomb was disgusted and infuriated by his failure. He had
counted on having a soft thing, and he was actually getting the worst
of the encounter.
Time was called, and a breathing spell taken.
Then they went at it again, and this time both worked savagely, their
movements being swift and telling.
Watching this battle, Paul Rains began to believe that he was not yet
quite Merriwell's match at boxing.
"But I am a better man than he is at most anything else," thought the
fellow.
Smack! smack! smack!
Merriwell was following Bascomb up like a tiger, and the big fellow was
forced to give ground. Again and again Frank hammered the desperate
plebe, getting few blows in return and seeming to mind none of them no
more than drops of rain.
Bascomb's face wore the look of an enraged bull. Suddenly, with a
quick side motion, he snapped off the glove on his left hand.
Then, with his bare first, he struck straight and hard at Frank
Merriwell's face!