Frank had not been thrown at all, and he had won two throws in succession, which made him the victor in the wrestling-match.
Roland Packard would have given almost any amount of money had he been somewhere else just then. The triumphant shouts of the excited and delighted witnesses were most hateful in his ears.
This was not what Roland had come there to witness, and it was something he had not anticipated seeing. His mouth tasted bitter, and everything seemed to swim around him. He actually gasped for air.
Hawkins got up slowly, as if he could not quite realize that the wrestling-match was over and he had been defeated. He looked at Merriwell in a strange, dazed manner.
“How did he do it?” were the words he whispered to himself. “Is this a dream?”
But it was stern reality. The hour of triumph for which Hawkins had toiled many years in building up his body was swiftly turning to an hour of galling defeat.
Hawkins walked over to his side of the mat, his appearance being that of a man whose every hope is shattered.
“He’s defeated at everything!” muttered Packard, when he saw that look of dejection. “For Heaven’s sake, brace up! Don’t let his gang see you looking like this!”
“Wasted years!” muttered Hawkins thickly. “I can never conquer him unless I do now, for I have reached the highest point attainable.”
“Then go in and knock his head off in the boxing-match!” panted the medical student. “That will be sufficient to give you satisfaction. If you defeat him at anything, his friends will die with shame, and it will break his heart.”