“Roland Packard?” exclaimed several, in surprise. “Why I thought he was Oliver!”
Brian Hawkins rose to his feet, his scarred face contorted by a strange smile, while his bright eyes glittered.
“To a certain extent, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “you have turned the tables on me; but the final result will be unaltered. How you tumbled to the game is something I cannot understand. As you have tumbled to it, I confess that I am here to defeat you. I did mean to challenge you across this table, but you got ahead of me. Do you remember me?”
“No.”
“I am Brian Hawkins, and I was at Fardale with you.”
“Hawkins—good Lord!”
Bart Hodge was on his feet, staring at the youth with the scarred face.
“Yes, Hawkins,” nodded the strange athlete. “You remember me, Hodge. We had some trouble at Fardale, and I believe you came out the victor; but to-night I will show you that you are no longer in my class by defeating your friend and superior. I have worked steadily to put myself in condition to accomplish this design, and the time has come.”
“Oh, say!” cried Jack Ready, “just wait till the little affair is over! I’ll bet my enormous fortune that you sneak away, with your tail between your legs, like a whipped dog! Yea, verily! So mote it be, for it’s bound to ’mote’ so.”
CHAPTER XXVII.