“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!”