“Who the dickens is the great athlete?” gasped Dick Starbright, staring round.
“Is it a joke?” questioned Bert Dashleigh.
“Bet he has a lot of chorus-girls trip into that room and dance for us!” grunted Browning.
“Behold!” said Jack Ready. “No man knoweth the things Frank Merriwell may do! And I’ll guarantee he’ll do any old athlete that bucks up against him. He’s the real stuff. Trot out your blooming athlete!”
Frank now stepped from the table.
“In a room just off the one adjoining,” he said, “are suits for wrestling, fencing, or boxing. It will not take us long to dress to carry out the remainder of this program. Mr. Hawkins, are you ready, sir?”
His eyes were fastened on the scar-faced youth.
Roland Packard, who was strangely pale, whispered in Hawkins’ ear:
“Remember that you are to injure him some way, so that he will be unable to pitch any more. He has taken you by surprise, so that you cannot run him through the shoulder with your own trick rapier, but you ought to be able to twist that arm or shoulder somehow in wrestling. Don’t underrate him.”
“You, Roland Packard,” said Frank, “may act as the second of your friend.”