“Salute.”
They did so.
“Engage.”
Clash! They were at it.
“Do your best,” urged the strange youth. “Press me as hard as you like. Give me Frank Merriwell’s pet thrust when you get—ah!”
Defarge had shortened his guard like a flash, dropped till the fingers of his left hand rested lightly on the floor, with his body straightened out, thrusting then with a movement that seemed too swift to avoid.
Hawkins parried with a circular movement of his wrist, moving just one foot to one side as he did so, and the thrust was avoided.
“By heavens!” cried Defarge, as he came up with a spring. “He caught me with that every time.”
“And you came near catching me,” confessed Hawkins. “To tell the truth, if you had not warned me in advance of a peculiar movement, I believe I should have been caught.”
“See if you are as lucky next time.”