The battle was a fast one now, for both men were at it in earnest. Frank received a number of blows, but not one landed in a way to do him any damage. He was on guard for the “wallop.” Twice Husker tried to land with it, but both times his fist swept through the air, for the smiling youth was not there. Tom Hackett grasped Fred Fillmore’s arm.
“What is the meaning of this?” he palpitated. “Merriwell is fighting like a wizard! He doesn’t act as if he had ever taken a drink in his life. I thought he was loaded.”
“So did I,” admitted Fillmore. “He certainly is dazing me; but he’ll get his medicine before long. Galway can stand all the punishment he’s getting, and he’ll land for fair in the end.”
“Look at that! look at that! Merriwell has split his lip! He’s bleeding!”
It was true. Frank had opened the slugger’s lip, and Galway’s teeth were covered with blood.
All this served to cause the pugilist to lose his head. Had he expected anything of the sort, he would have fought on coolly; but he had anticipated an easy victory, and the disappointment was too much for him. Thinking he would have plenty of sport by hammering Frank round the ring, he had readily consented to Fillmore’s proposition. He realized at last that he was being used as a punching bag by the youth he had despised, and that was more than he could endure and keep his level. He was being “shown up” before the students who had admired him and regarded him as a wonder.
“Dern ye! I’ll knock your head off!” he snarled.
Bart Hodge stood with his hands in his pockets, the remotest ghost of a smile on his dark face.
“This bunch will know more than they did when they started in on this little game,” he thought. “Get into that big brute, Merry! End it in this round!”
Frank tried his best to end it, and he gave Husker Galway the severest sort of punishment; but the bruiser was tough, and, although he was very groggy, he managed to keep on his pins until the gong sounded.