After a little sparring, both led for the face, neither guarding, and both blows told. Then, like a flash, Hegner dropped under and tried to uppercut Frank, thinking to do this before Merry could recover.
The Yale lad went back with a bound, and Hegner found nothing but air. In another instant Frank came in again, and they were at it with fresh fury.
Again both led at the face with their left, but both ducked, and, with crossed arms, their fists shot over each other’s shoulder. They got away instantly, and Hegner followed Frank up, apparently determined to press the battle.
“If he gets Heg angry, he’ll be sorry,” declared one of the club members. “The fur will fly.”
Diamond, who seldom laughed, laughed now.
“If Mr. Hegner knows what is good for him, he’ll hold his temper,” he said. “If he loses it, Frank Merriwell will play with him.”
“Rats!” was the return. “Mr. Merriwell won’t melt things, if he is from Yale. He’s not the only shirt in the laundry; he can be done up.”
“You may be right, but Wallace Hegner hasn’t the starch to do the job.”
“Wait and see.”
For some moments the boxers sparred craftily, feeling for an opening, and then Hegner pushed things again. But his leads were met or dodged, and he received several sharp raps in return. One of his swinging blows came near landing, and it would have knocked Frank down had it reached.