CHAPTER XXIII.
A MAGNIFICENT ATHLETE.
“Ah! I suspected it!” exclaimed Packard, sitting down.
Bertrand Defarge smiled with satisfaction, and pushed along a chair for Hawkins, who accepted it, permitting Defarge to take his hat.
“He is here,” said the scar-faced youth. “I learn that he is something of an athlete, and that he is rated as a king among you. I shall never be satisfied until I have defeated him. It has been my controlling desire since those days at Fardale. I have never permitted it to lessen. I have looked at my face and said to myself: ‘Let that aid you to remember.’”
Packard rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was beginning to like this fellow.
“And you have worked hard to become strong and skilful?”
“I have worked hard in every way. I have had the best instructors a man could have. My muscles are firm as iron, my nerves are steady as the earth itself, and I believe there is no man living who can meet and defeat me in every department. I can shoot with the best experts, either rifle or pistol. I can fence with masters of the art and defeat them. I have thrown some of the greatest amateur wrestlers. As an unknown, I have defeated professional pugilists who were regarded as wonders. I am satisfied that I have reached the highest point possible for me to attain, and now all I ask is to meet this man Merriwell.”
Defarge had drawn up a chair, and was smiling his satisfaction.
Packard’s interest had increased rapidly. To himself he now acknowledged that this youth with the scarred face was decidedly fascinating, to say the least.
“Of course, you realize the kind of a man Merriwell has become?” said Roland. “He has never met his match since entering Yale, and he has escaped unscathed from all the traps and snares laid for him.”