“You think you’re some, don’t ye?” he growled, as he cautiously advanced, Merry waiting for him. “Well, you’re goin’ ter git yours right now!”
Fillmore’s fading courage revived. He saw that Galway was determined to retaliate, and he returned to the hope that the slugger might settle the matter with his dreaded “wallop.”
“Wait a minute,” invited Frank. “I want to tell you something. You tried to trick me and make an exhibition of me before these fellows. I don’t know the cause behind your action, but you have failed. I have no particular feeling of hatred for you. I think I have satisfied you and the spectators that I am not the easy mark I’ve been picked up to be. I don’t care to resort to the last extremity to end this business. I’m not a prize fighter. I am willing to call the matter off right here—I am satisfied.”
“Satisfied, are ye?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I ain’t—not on yer life! I’ll be satisfied w’en I puts you ter sleep, an’ I’m goin’ ter do it. Look out fer me! Either you squeal or I’ll knock your block off!”
Frank said no more. As he had stated, knowing the low grade of the bruiser, he had no personal feeling toward the man; but now he found that there could be but one end to the encounter. Either he must whip Galway or Galway would whip him.
From that point the fight was fast and savage. Merriwell astounded every witness save Hodge by his cleverness in blocking, guarding and getting away. He remained on the defense some time, leading the slugger to think him frightened at last. Then he landed fair and full with the force of his body behind the blow, and there was a crash as Galway fell.
A hush followed.