“He hates Merriwell. Why shouldn’t he? Look at that face!”
Packard seized the decanter and turned whisky into two glasses.
“Here!” he cried, passing one to Defarge. “To the downfall of Merriwell! Drink it!”
Quickly the strange youth caught a glass, into which he poured some water from the pitcher.
“I drink with you!” he exclaimed. “To the downfall of Frank Merriwell!”
“But now,” said Packard, “before I go any farther, before I take this step, I must be convinced that Mr. Hawkins can stand a show with Merriwell—that there is a possibility of his defeating Merriwell.”
“How do you wish to be convinced?” asked Hawkins, rising.
“With my eyes.”
“You shall be.”
Hawkins turned to Defarge, who nodded. Immediately the youth with the scarred face began to strip. He tossed aside his coat and vest and peeled down to his underclothes in short order.