Frank did not care for the friendship of such fellows, as there was nothing in the world he despised more than a hypocrite. He could respect a foe who was open and frank; but he had no use for anybody who wore two faces.
Fred Davis had not been told where the fight was to take place; but he had scented it in some way, and he came panting to the spot, just as Merriwell and Bascomb were about to meet. He rushed straight to Frank, exclaiming:
"You must not fight on my account! You shall not! You haven't any right to do it! This must stop!"
"Here, Bart," said Merriwell to Hodge, speaking quietly and firmly, "turn this boy over to Mulloy, and tell him to keep Davis from making any fuss."
"But you must listen to me!" cried the little plebe, on the verge of tears. "People sometimes get killed in fights. If you are badly hurt, I'll never forgive myself. Can't I do something to stop it? Why, I will apologize to Bascomb, and——"
"That would simply place you more in contempt, and would not let me out in the least, boy. Take him away, Mulloy," Frank spoke to the Irish lad, who was now at hand. "See that he doesn't get into trouble."
Seeing it was impossible to put an end to the contest, Fred gave up in despair.
Merriwell and Bascomb now faced each other. There was no demand that they should shake hands, and neither offered to do so. The boys formed a circle around them, and, at the word, they leaped at each other and the fray had begun.
Bascomb made an effort to clinch immediately, but Frank landed two blows that sent him staggering. This was an advantage which Merriwell followed up, and Bascomb was forced to keep falling back for some moments, shifting the battle-ground considerably from the point where the struggle began.
Spat! spat! spat! sounded the blows; but it was not always an easy thing to tell who was getting the worst of it.