CHAPTER XXIII.A MAGNIFICENT ATHLETE.

CHAPTER XXIII.A MAGNIFICENT ATHLETE.

“Ah! I suspected it!” exclaimed Packard, sitting down.

Bertrand Defarge smiled with satisfaction, and pushed along a chair for Hawkins, who accepted it, permitting Defarge to take his hat.

“He is here,” said the scar-faced youth. “I learn that he is something of an athlete, and that he is rated as a king among you. I shall never be satisfied until I have defeated him. It has been my controlling desire since those days at Fardale. I have never permitted it to lessen. I have looked at my face and said to myself: ‘Let that aid you to remember.’”

Packard rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was beginning to like this fellow.

“And you have worked hard to become strong and skilful?”

“I have worked hard in every way. I have had the best instructors a man could have. My muscles are firm as iron, my nerves are steady as the earth itself, and I believe there is no man living who can meet and defeat me in every department. I can shoot with the best experts, either rifle or pistol. I can fence with masters of the art and defeat them. I have thrown some of the greatest amateur wrestlers. Asan unknown, I have defeated professional pugilists who were regarded as wonders. I am satisfied that I have reached the highest point possible for me to attain, and now all I ask is to meet this man Merriwell.”

Defarge had drawn up a chair, and was smiling his satisfaction.

Packard’s interest had increased rapidly. To himself he now acknowledged that this youth with the scarred face was decidedly fascinating, to say the least.

“Of course, you realize the kind of a man Merriwell has become?” said Roland. “He has never met his match since entering Yale, and he has escaped unscathed from all the traps and snares laid for him.”

Hawkins nodded grimly.

“That is just the kind of a man I have been training to defeat,” he said. “All I ask now is the opportunity.”

“And you and I,” said Defarge, speaking to Packard, “must furnish the opportunity for him.”

“How can we do it?” asked Roland, growing more and more interested.

“Have you heard that Merriwell is going to give a big supper to his friends? He calls it an athletic supper. Do you know anything about that?”

“I’ve heard something about it.”

“That is the time to strike him. He should be led into the trap in the presence of his great gathering of friends.”

“But I fail to see how I am to help bring that about.”

“Your brother is one of Merriwell’s particular friends.”

“Not exactly a particular friend, as he has never belonged to Merriwell’s flock; still, I think he is regarded by Merriwell as a friend.”

“Exactly. That is what I have been counting on. Your brother is almost certain to receive an invitation to this supper.”

“It is very likely that he may.”

“Well, you have been mistaken for him hundreds of times. In fact, your very best friends have trouble in telling you apart. Now, can’t you fix it some way that the invitation will not reach the hand of your brother?”

Roland whistled.

“I begin to see your little game,” he said. “It is rather daring, to say the least.”

“But you have worked just as daring games before. You have impersonated your brother more than once. Dressed in his clothes, who can say you are—not—Oliver?”

Defarge’s voice sank, and he spoke the final words slowly, staring hard at Roland. Packard noticed this queer look and caught the strange hesitation in the French youth’s voice.

“Well, what the dickens is the matter with you?” he exclaimed harshly. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I—I was thinking,” faltered Bertrand.

“Thinking what?”

“That you are beginning to look different from your brother.”

“Different? How?”

“Why, your face—it is flushed. The whisky you drink——”

But that was not all. Bertrand could discern a greater difference than that made by the unnatural flush brought to Packard’s face by the intoxicants he drank. The fellow’s countenance was somehow losing its refinement and delicacy, and was taking on a faint suggestion of grossness and brutality, telling that drink had lowered Packard’s morals and filled his mind with evil thoughts.

It is a fact that the thoughts of any boy are finally written on his face in lines that all may read. If he has kind, elevating, noble thoughts, his face becomes handsome and attractive in its expression; but, no matter how handsome he may have grown to be, if he begins to indulge in evil, brutal thoughts, the result will be a gradual but certain change of countenance that will plainly indicate the trend of his mind.

Defarge had detected the growing difference in the looks of the brothers.

“Oh, Oliver is a pale-faced fool!” petulantly exclaimed Roland. “I’ve told him so.”

“But your flushed countenance would betray you,” said Bertrand. “Merriwell may have been deceived in the past, but he would not be this time. He would recognize the difference between you and Oliver. That would ruin the game.”

“I fail to see quite through the game, anyhow. Even if I were to obtain possession of my brother’s invitation to this supper, and should attend in his place, how could I bring about the purpose we wish to accomplish?”

“Every guest is permitted to bring a friend to the supper. I have heard that they are urged to bring a friend along. That would give you the chance to take Hawkins to that supper.”

“That’s so,” nodded Roland. “By Jove! you have quite a clear head on you, Defarge.”

“Oh, I can plan, even if I cannot make a direct move against Merriwell.”

“And at the supper Hawkins could challenge Merriwell to various feats.”

“That’s the idea.”

“It could be brought about very cleverly.”

“There should be no trouble.”

“And Merriwell could not refuse to accept the challenge.”

“Of course not.”

“Defarge, it is worth considering! I believe it may be done.”

“But your looks—your flushed face——”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know a little drug that will take all the color out of my face and make me look as pale as my goody-good brother.”

“And would you use it?”

“In a minute!”

“Then I believe you can carry out my plan.”

Packard rubbed his hands together again.

“It’s worth trying—worth trying!” he muttered. “Oh, it would be great sport to have Merriwell defeated in feats of strength before all his friends!”

“But the best thing to do would be to have him defeated at boxing first, following that with a fencing-bout. In this bout Hawkins could——”

Defarge leaned over and whispered the rest of the sentence in Packard’s ear:

“Run Merriwell through the body!”

“Whew!” whistled Packard once more. “Will he do it?”

“He hates Merriwell. Why shouldn’t he? Look at that face!”

Packard seized the decanter and turned whisky into two glasses.

“Here!” he cried, passing one to Defarge. “To the downfall of Merriwell! Drink it!”

Quickly the strange youth caught a glass, into which he poured some water from the pitcher.

“I drink with you!” he exclaimed. “To the downfall of Frank Merriwell!”

“But now,” said Packard, “before I go any farther, before I take this step, I must be convinced that Mr. Hawkins can stand a show with Merriwell—that there is a possibility of his defeating Merriwell.”

“How do you wish to be convinced?” asked Hawkins, rising.

“With my eyes.”

“You shall be.”

Hawkins turned to Defarge, who nodded. Immediately the youth with the scarred face began to strip. He tossed aside his coat and vest and peeled down to his underclothes in short order.

Packard gasped with astonishment and admiration, for the stranger was magnificently developed, and his muscles were those of the perfect athlete. His legs were lithe, yet powerful and muscular; his waist was strong and slender; his chest was full and deep; his shoulders were broad and handsome; his arms—ah, what arms they were! They might have belonged to Samson! And his neck was the neck of the fully developed athlete.

But above this superbly handsome body rose that horribly scarred face. Packard shuddered when he looked at it.

“Do I strip all right?” asked the stranger quietly.

“By Jupiter! you are a physical marvel!” cried the bewildered medical student. “Apollo could not have had a more perfect figure!”

Was it a smile of satisfaction that contorted the scarred face of Hawkins?

“The beauty of my body is all I possess,” he said bitterly. “My face frightens people. Sometimes, in my own room, I put a mask over my face, tear off my clothes, and stand before a long mirror to admire my muscular body. Then I try to fancy myself with a face suited to this body—such a face as I must have had but for that fire. Oh, it is terrible to know thatI must always wear this disfigured face! I have no real friends! I have but one ambition in life.”

“And that is——”

“To defeat and conquer Frank Merriwell! I shall do it, too!”

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