CHAPTER XXVIII.

HAWKINS CRIES “ENOUGH.”

If possible, Roland Packard was more disappointed in the result of the fencing-bout than was Brian Hawkins. At least, the youth of the scarred face was able to better repress and hide his feelings. Packard’s face was white and drawn, lines of anger and disappointment marking it plainly.

“It’s always the way!” he thought. “Now I know Satan helps that fellow Merriwell!”

Hodge came forward, speaking to Packard.

“Mr. Merriwell will permit you to name the style of wrestling,” he said.

“Allow us a few moments,” bowed Packard, attempting to be coolly polite.

“Certainly,” said Hodge, with something like a grim smile playing about his mouth.

Packard stepped over to Hawkins, who was standing with folded arms at one side of the mat. After a brief conference between them, Packard came back to Bart, observing:

“Mr. Hawkins says he prefers to wrestle catch-as-catch-can, the winner to be the one who throws his antagonist twice out of three times. Is that satisfactory?”

“Anything is satisfactory to Mr. Merriwell,” declared Bart, who well knew that Frank was particularly skilful at that style of wrestling, being successful in getting an advantageous hold on his opponent, or having a way of turning what seemed weak holds to his advantage.

If Frank was pleased, he made no display of it, and two minutes later the antagonists were crouching, facing each other at opposite sides of the mat. Then they began to work swiftly round, each one moving to the right, after the style of boxers, both watching for an opening.

The spectators scarcely breathed. It was a picture worthy of the brush of an artist. Those youthful athletes were like crouching panthers, their eyes shining, their muscles taut, their nerves on edge.

Merriwell’s jaw seemed square and firmer than usual; his mouth was firmly closed and his lips pressed together; his nostrils were distended, and his look before the struggle began was that of the determined conqueror.

The look on the scarred face of Merriwell’s antagonist cannot be described. It was savage and terrible enough to daunt a timid person.

Of a sudden, with one great spring at each other, they closed.

“Fair hold and no advantage!” cried Jack Ready, as he saw they had closed evenly, chest to chest, each man having his chin over his opponent’s right shoulder, while there was no advantage of either one having a low hold with both arms.

Such a hold as this is seldom obtained in the catch-as-catch-can style of wrestling, and it seemed to indicate that both men were alert and skilful, neither having permitted the other the slightest advantage.

Then came the furious and skilful struggle which set the heart of every witness to thumping madly. The play of their magnificent muscles could be seen beneath their athletic suits. So swift were some of the movements of the men that the spectators did not catch the significance of every attempt made. From one end of the mat to the other they went, straining, twisting, writhing. And then——

“There goes Merriwell!”

Hawkins had succeeded at last in back-heeling Frank, who went down. The athlete of the scarred face flung his full weight onto Merry, thinking to crush him to the floor, for the shoulders of the loser must strike the floor flatly and fairly.

How did it happen? When it was all over there was not a man among the witnesses who could tell just how Merriwell did it, but, somehow, as he was falling, he turned aside with a twisting movement, and both men struck on their sides.

Their holds had been broken, but, like a flash, Hawkins’ arms closed round Merry, whom he attempted to turn upon his back.

The strange athlete had the best hold, but Frank resisted with all his strength. However, he could not keep Hawkins from turning him.

Then Merriwell’s body made a “bridge.” That is, his heels were on the floor, and also the back of his head, but from his heels to his head not a part of his body touched the mat. Hawkins would not be the victor till he had forced Merry’s shoulders down upon the mat.

Still holding Frank in that position with a “lockhold,” the youth of the scarred face lifted his own body and flung its full weight upon Merry’s chest.

“Ah!” cried the witnesses.

But not a particle did Merry’s body give! It seemed rigid as a bent hoop of so much iron!

Again Hawkins lifted himself and flung himself down upon that arched chest, but with a like result.

Four times did Hawkins repeat this desperate attempt to crush the shoulders of the Yale man to the mat, and still there was not a sign that he had made any impression on that rigid form.

But, in his desperation, Hawkins relaxed his vigilance somewhat. There was a sudden writhing, turning movement. Hawkins’ hold was broken, and Merry had turned and partly risen, getting a grip on his opponent.

Frank’s movements were swift and sure, and he literally flung Hawkins across his back, the heels of the scar-faced youth seeming to whistle through the air overhead and coming down with a terrible thump upon the floor.

The shock was so great that Hawkins had no time to recover and “bridge” before Merry had driven his shoulders flat on the mat.

A great shout went up, for Merriwell had thus snatched victory from defeat and won the first fall.

“La, la!” said Jack Ready, as the sound subsided. “Wasn’t it just perfectly lovely?”

Frank rose to his feet, and Hawkins got up slowly. Both were breathing heavily, for the exertion had been terrific.

Frank showed no elation as he walked over to his side of the mat, but, despite his efforts to appear otherwise, Hawkins could not conceal his bitter disappointment.

Roland Packard tried to speak to the youth of the scarred face, but his lips were dry and parched, and no words came at his command.

“You did it!” said Hodge, in a low tone, looking into Merry’s flushed and dripping face.

“Yes; but he’s the worst customer I ever tackled,” confessed Frank. “I thought he had me once.”

“I, too, was afraid he had you,” acknowledged Hodge. “He is a great wrestler. And to think that he is Brian Hawkins, of Fardale!”

“He has wonderful strength and skill,” said Frank. “His muscles feel like iron as they strain and play.”

“Don’t let him throw you once!” begged Bart. “If you down him the next time, that settles the wrestling-match.”

After a few minutes of rest the wrestlers faced each other once more. Fire seemed burning deep in the eyes of the scar-faced youth. Round and round they circled, ready, crouching, watching.

Then they closed! But Merriwell was the swifter, catching the other’s right wrist with his left hand and thrusting his right hand under Hawkins’ left arm, getting a hold on his neck.

“The half-nelson!” cried several of the witnesses.

It was, in truth, the famous hold of Olsen, the great wrestler, and Hawkins was in a dangerous position.

Merriwell quickly released the fellow’s right wrist, grasped him round the waist, following with the Cornish “heave,” which landed the scar-faced athlete on his back in a twinkling.

And Merriwell came down upon his chest with force enough to drive the fellow’s shoulders hardly and firmly down upon the mat.

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.”

“A heart like his is not easily broken. I’ll guarantee that he can take defeat without a murmur.”

“Well, test him—see if he can! You are not done up yet! He was lucky in getting that half-nelson on you. It was pure luck, and nothing else.”

“You are right, and yet—I should not have let him get it! I was trying for the same hold on him.”

“That was how you happened to be thrown off your guard. You were thinking of the hold you wanted more than of preventing him from getting the one he was after.”

“That’s true.”

“If you were to wrestle with him again, you could defeat him. If you beat him at one of the three contests, you will have an opportunity to challenge him for another trial at everything. Your only hope now is to do him up in the boxing-match.”

Packard’s words gave Hawkins hope, and the fellow swiftly braced up.

After a short rest, preparations were made for the final encounter. Hawkins was permitted to select his gloves. By mutual understanding, it was decided that the rules governing amateur glove-contests should be obeyed, and there should be none of the French method of “boxing with the feet.”

They advanced and stood face to face. Their hands touched, and then they were on guard, sparring for an opening.

Again Hawkins was at his best, for he realized that his only hope for another trial with Frank lay in the success of this encounter.

Round to the right both men worked, sparring gently. Then they closed a little, and the work became swifter and more exciting. Merry feinted and sought an opening, but Hawkins guarded cleverly. Then the scar-faced youth came in like a flash, making a deceptive move with his right and getting in a body-blow with his left. He danced away before Frank could counter, and the first point belonged to Hawkins.

Packard breathed again. But his satisfaction was short, for Merry followed Hawkins closely, giving him no time to recover. The work became swifter and more savage, and Hawkins struck, reaching Frank’s cheek lightly.

That blow was disastrous to the scar-faced youth, however, for Merriwell countered with such terrible force that Hawkins was knocked prostrate on the mat.

“First down for Merriwell!” laughed Jack Ready. “Now we are getting right down to business!”

“You’ve reached him twice to his once, Hawkins!” cried Packard, his excitement making it impossible for him to keep still. “That shows you can do the trick. Up and at him!”

Already Hawkins was up, and quickly he went at Frank. Then the spectators saw some work that thrilled them. The play of fists was astonishingly swift, while those two young athletes leaped and danced about each other. Now they closed in, now one retreated, now the other fell back; but never was there a moment of rest until one of them found the opening he sought and again a heavy blow was struck.

Again it was Hawkins who dropped, but he came up like a flash, his scarred face contorted into an almost fiendish expression. The rage of the fighter was on him now, and he longed to tear Merriwell into strips.

“My, my!” said Jack Ready. “This is perfectly awful!”

But he was hugging himself and grinning with a look of intense delight.

“On, on!” panted Packard. “At him again, Hawkins! He can’t stand before that long!”

But Frank Merriwell remained as calm as ever, though he was able to move with the swiftness of a flash of light. His powerful arms gave play to his gloved hands, which seemed everywhere in the way of his opponent.

Hawkins was determined, and he forced the fighting. He wondered if he could not wear Merriwell out, but he was wearing himself out. He fancied that his own strength was greater than that of Merriwell, but the demands he was making on it were too great.

Frank knew the time must come when Hawkins would slacken that swift pace, and he was waiting for that time. With everything else he had learned, the youth had not learned to husband his strength and make the very most of it in such an encounter as this.

Merriwell possessed a clear brain and good judgment under all circumstances, and a finely developed and well-balanced mind is a requisite of him who would be successful as an athlete, the same as of the man who would succeed at all things. The athlete who possesses the splendid body and the undeveloped mind is just as much deformed as the hunchback who has a splendid education.

All his life Merriwell had used his brains in whatever he undertook. This, to a large extent, was the secret of his phenomenal success. So, now that he was battling with this man who had vowed to defeat him, and who had spent years training for that purpose, Frank used his brain and led the other to exhaust himself. When Hawkins showed a sign of slacking up, Frank pretended to give an opening that lured him on again and kept him straining for victory.

At last the time came when Merry believed Hawkins had reached the limit and was weakening. Then, when the man tried to rest, Frank pressed him in turn, giving him no chance.

Now Merriwell became a perfect whirlwind. He was on all sides of Hawkins, who could only remain on the defensive. And at length the guard of the scar-faced youth was beaten down, and Merry stretched him for the third time upon the floor.

“It is becoming still more awful!” gasped Jack Ready, grinning like a monkey.

Hawkins sprang up, but barely was he on his feet when Frank knocked him flat again.

Five times was this repeated, Merriwell giving the other no chance to recover and get ready for defense.

With the final fall, Hawkins lay panting on the mat. After a moment he sat up slowly, all the confidence and conceit having departed from him.

“It’s no use,” he said, tearing off the gloves and flinging them aside. “I give up!”

Instantly Frank had flung off his gloves and offered Hawkins his hand. That hand was taken, and Merry assisted the other to his feet, saying:

“You gave me a stiff go at everything, old man! You are a wonder, and that’s all right! One time I thought——”

“Never mind what you thought,” said Hawkins. “I confess now that you are my superior. I may as well own up honestly, for everybody here would know it, whether I said so or not.”

“But you are a good one, Hawkie, old fel!” chirped Jack Ready. “Still, you were up against the real thing. Fellows, three yoops for Frank Merriwell!”

“Stop!” cried Merry quickly. “You are all my friends here, and I would not have you rejoice openly over the defeat of another. I propose three cheers for Brian Hawkins.”

The cheers were given at once and most heartily.

“As for Roland Packard,” said Merry, looking round. “He——”

But Packard had found an opportunity to slip away, without being observed, and was gone.