CHAPTER VITHE UNKNOWN WINS.
The Thor Athletic Club was packed to suffocation. Tier upon tier rose the mass of humanity on every side of the platform. There was a perfect babel of voices. The preliminary bouts had been “pulled off” after the usual manner, and the audience was waiting eagerly for the final event of the evening, a ten-round contest between Peter McGilvay and an Unknown.
“Who is this Unknown?” asked a stout, fat-faced man.
“Some say it’s Bob Emerson, of Brooklyn,” answered a gray-mustached gentleman in evening dress.
“Bob Emerson couldn’t stand up t’ree roun’s in front o’ McGil,” asserted a bullet-headed fellow. “Spot Herrick’s not fool enough ter back dat sort of a duffer.”
“Wot’s der matter wid yer, Denny?” contemptuously exclaimed another. “D’yer t’ink Herrick’s in dis on der level? W’y, I’ll bet me spuds he’s backin’ Pete.”
Suddenly the master of ceremonies entered the roped arena and enjoined silence by a gesture, after which he announced the final event of the evening.
As he retired from the platform there was a shout of welcome, and McGilvay, followed by his seconds, came on. The prize-fighter had a thick neck and huge, bunchy shoulders. His legs were not properly developed, and his appearance was anything but graceful. He bowed to the crowd, and then retreated to his corner.
All eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the Unknown. There was a pause, and then he came on.
There were muttered exclamations of admiration, for never had a handsomer youth stepped into the squared circle. Chest, shoulders, arms, legs—every part of his body seemed perfectly proportioned. He had a fine, shapely head set upon a beautiful neck, which swelled gently at the base. His every movement was graceful and confident. About his waist was a sash of Yale blue.
McGilvay’s colors were green.
The seconds were professionals, and they had been astounded when Frank Merriwell stripped before them. In street-clothes he had not foretold his magnificent build.
“Who is he?”
That question buzzed everywhere, but no one seemed to know him.
There were the usual preparations.
“He’s handsome, but he’ll be meat for McGilvay.”
That was the general opinion.
The gong sounded its warning. Everything was ready. The men met in the center of the platform and shook hands. A moment later they were on guard, and then the fight began.
For a moment the men sparred and circled round each other. Then the professional rushed in. The amateur was away. He had avoided the rush with ease.
The professional followed the youth, who was smiling beneath the white glare of the arc-lights. He tried to rush Frank, but again he was baffled.
The amateur whirled and came back. Flash-flash went his white fists. He had struck twice, but the wearer of the green managed to avoid both blows.
McGilvay countered, and there was lively work in the center of the ring. At the end the amateur retreated again, hotly followed by his antagonist.
“Gil is rushing him,” flew from lip to lip. “He means to make it short.”
Neither man had been harmed. The professional did his best to corner his foe, but he was too slow. He counted on getting in a terrible blow with one of those hamlike fists.
Time passed swiftly, and the end of the round came with the amateur still running away and the professional pursuing, trying to corner him.
“He’s afraid of Pete,” was the universal decision. “He is clever on his feet, but Pete will corner him pretty soon, and end it with one punch.”
The professional sat in his corner and laughed. He felt certain that it was an easy thing.
“W’y, I kin do dat kid wid one t’ump!” he declared. “He’s scared ter deat’ now.”
“Stand up to him,” advised Frank’s second. “You’ll make the crowd sick running erway.”
Frank said nothing.
Clang! sounded the gong. The men were up and advancing. They met again. They were at it once more.
Again the green rushed the blue; again the blue retreated. It seemed to be the same old story over again.
“Oh, this is a sprinting-match!” cried somebody, in disgust.
Flash!—out shot a clean, muscular arm. Crack!—the blow sounded almost like a pistol-shot.
The professional had grown incautious and given his foe an opening. It had been accepted, and the blow sent Pete McGilvay clean across the ring, to fall like a log of wood.
“Ah!” shouted the astounded spectators, as they rose to their feet as one man.
The Unknown could strike a blow like the kick of a mule. This was the first surprise.
But McGilvay’s head was hard, and he got up before the referee could count him out.
He was amazed, and he had learned something. In the future he would be more cautious. But now the amateur came at him.
“He’s lost his head!” declared an old sport. “He thinks he can end it right here because he got in one blow. Now Pete will do him.”
But Pete wabbled, and the Unknown punished him severely. Blood began to flow, but the amateur had not been harmed in the least. The breast of the professional was heaving.
“By heavens! Pete is getting the worst of it!”
The man who uttered the words could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. It seemed impossible. But that handsome, stern-faced youth with the flashing eyes gave his antagonist not a moment to rest. The tables were turned, and the aggressor of a few moments before was making a poor defense.
The white arms of the amateur whipped the air; his hard fists pounded the ribs, neck, and jaw of the professional. McGilvay tried to counter, but he was bewildered. That first terrible blow had left his head singing and a wavering blackness before his eyes.
The seconds looked on in amazement. They were praying for the end of the round to come soon. It must come soon to save McGilvay.
Now the crowd was wildly excited. Amazed by the turn of affairs, the whirlwind style of fighting of the stranger threw them into tumultuous admiration.
“Look at that! He got Pete on the jaw! That was a heart-blow! He’s cutting Pete all up!”
The sound of the blows was plainly heard.
Suddenly McGilvay wavered, dropped his arms at his side, and seemed to lurch forward to meet the terrible fist that struck him fairly on the point of the jaw. He was hurled half-way through the ropes.
Then, amid the greatest uproar, the referee slowly counted the professional out.
Frank Merriwell, the “Unknown,” had won the fight, and by doing so had saved Jack Diamond’s money and won ten thousand with it.
Jack Diamond, literally overflowing with admiration and delight, had promptly turned his winnings over to Frank.
“It’s your money, every dollar of it,” he said. “Do what you like with it. Merry, you are a Twentieth Century marvel!”
“How is Herrick?” asked Frank.
“The sorest man I ever saw,” laughed Jack. “He had plenty of good money on McGilvay. I’ll bet the biggest part of what I won came from his pocket.”
“Then I’ll see if I cannot do some good with the stuff,” said Merry.
An hour later, in his room, he handed the money to Harry Collins, whose emotion choked him so that he could not utter his thanks or express his gratitude.
“Not a word now,” said Merry. “My boy, to get that money and save you I did something no man could lead me to do for myself. Use it to save yourself—and your mother. Perhaps it was more for the sake of your mother, whom I never saw, that I did it, than it was for yours. My mother is—dead!”