“I reckon that’s right,” he said. “He fooled us. But he must be a tank, for he drank as many as seven big slugs of Old Tom gin.”
“So did Hodge.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, Merriwell may have braced up after getting into the scrap. Perhaps that was what sobered him.”
“What sobered Hodge?”
Again they looked at each other blankly.
“It’s too much for me,” admitted Hackett. “I give it up. But I never dreamed Merriwell could fight like that, even if he didn’t take a drink. Why, why, Fred, he knocked out the champion of the Pimlico Road and a man who might easily be the champion of Baltimore!”
“Don’t I know it? You don’t have to tell me! I’d bet my life Husker could hammer the head off him—before I saw this. I can’t believe Merriwell did it!”
“Well, let’s drink up. Here’s to drown our disappointment.”