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Frank Merriwell's Chums, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 17. The Bully's Match |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. THE BULLY'S MATCH A moment of silence followed Bascomb's distinctly-spoken words, and the eyes of nearly every one were turned on Merriwell, to whose face the hot color slowly mounted. "What's the matter with you, Bascomb?" he finally asked. "What do you want to draw me into this affair for? I don't know as I have any desire to put on the gloves with Rains." The big fellow grinned in a way that was distinctly insulting. "I don't think you have," he said. "You wouldn't cut any ice with him." "You may be right; but I don't quite understand how you know, as I have never stood up with you." "Oh, that wasn't necessary; I've seen you spar, and I have your gage. You don't run in the class with Rains." At this juncture Rains made a move as if he would quiet Bascomb, but the big fellow quickly went on: "I'm not going to keep still any longer. You're too modest, Rains. You keep in the background, and let fellows like Merriwell take the lead in everything, when you should be a leader. You are a better all-round man than Merriwell any day, and you can knock corners off him any time he has nerve enough to put on the mitts with you. He's a dandy to push himself to the front, but----" That was a little more than Frank could stand. The jolly look had vanished from his face, and he faced Bascomb, saying sharply: "Look here, my friend, I reckon you are saying one word for Rains and two for yourself. I haven't mixed up with you for reasons that you very well understand, but I don't propose to take much of your talk. If there is any difference between Mr. Rains and myself, we will settle it at another time; but if you want to get a rap at me, now is the accepted occasion, and I will put on the gloves with you." Bascomb had not been looking for this, and he was taken aback for a moment. Still, although he knew Merriwell was a far better all-round athlete, he believed he could more than match him in boxing, so he eagerly accepted the opportunity. "I'm your man," he said. "Peel off and get into gear. It won't take me long to show you there are a few things you do not know." He laughed in a disagreeable way, and Hodge, who had overheard all, bit his lips to repress an outburst of anger. "The sneak!" whispered Bart to Frank, as the latter stepped aside to take off his coat and vest. "He means to use his sledgehammer blow on you. He won't box for points, but he will try to soak you. Look out for him." "I am not afraid of him." "That's all right; but you know he has been practicing that blow, and they say it is terrible. He is cut out for a prizefighter, and is no fit boxing antagonist for a gentleman." "I shall look out for his 'wicked left,' as I have heard the boys call it." "He wants to provoke you into a fight with himself or Rains." "I thought as much; but he may change his mind after we spar, if he does not catch me foul by an accident." "He is tricky." "I will watch out for his tricks." "Look out for his cross-buttock. He's stout as a moose, and he will give you a nasty fall." For all of his warning words, Bart had great confidence in Frank. They had fought once, shortly after coming to Fardale, and Hodge had found Merriwell more than his match then. Since that time, Frank had missed no opportunity to pick up points in boxing, and his advancement had been great. Still there was a chance that, by some accident, Bascomb might land once with that "wicked left," or might seek to injure Merriwell by a fall, if he found that he was matched in every other way, so Bart was on hand with his words of warning. It did not take Frank long to get ready, and it was not long before the two boys faced each other, adjusting the gloves upon their hands. Then they came up to the scratch, and the word was given that started the contest. Bascomb started in at once with a series of false motions intended to confuse Merriwell, but they simply brought a faint smile to Frank's face, and he remained as placid as ever until---- Just as Bascomb had decided to rush, Merriwell rushed. There was a flashing of their gloves. The big fellow struck twice, and both blows were met by a ready guard. Biff! biff! biff! First with the right, and then twice with the left Frank struck the big plebe. None of them were heavy blows, but they all stung, and the angry blood surged to Bascomb's face, as he saw Merriwell leap back beyond his reach, laughing a bit. "Mosquito bites!" said Bascomb, derisively. "But they count." "Who cares. I will more than square that in a minute." "All right; I am waiting." Once more they were at it, toe to toe, hands moving slightly, light on their feet, ready to dodge or spring, ready to strike or guard. Blows came, one landing on Merriwell's cheek, and another on his shoulder; but more than twenty were dodged or guarded, and Bascomb was struck twice for every blow he gave. Frank was watching for that left hand body blow, and it came at last, just when Bascomb thought it must count. In that case Bascomb deceived himself. The blow was struck swiftly enough, but Frank stopped it with a right hand guard, and, with his left, countered heavily on Bascomb's mouth, sending the big fellow's head back. Bascomb was surprised, and he showed it. He was also thoroughly angered, and he proceeded to "wade into" Merriwell like a cyclone. On the other hand, Merriwell was cool as ice, and he made every blow count something, for even when they failed to land they kept the big fellow busy. Time after time Bascomb rushed in, but Merriwell was light as a feather on his feet, and he danced nimbly about, tapping the other fellow now here, now there, smiling sweetly all the while, and showing a skill that was very baffling to Bascomb. "Hang him!" thought the big fellow. "He is a regular jumping jack. If I don't land a blow on him pretty quick, I am going to clinch." This he soon did, catching Frank for the cross-buttock throw. For a moment it looked as if Merriwell would be flung heavily, and Hodge drew his breath through his teeth with a hissing sound that turned to a sigh of relief as he saw his friend thrust forward his right foot between Bascomb's, break his wrist clear and catch the big fellow behind the left knee with his left hand, while he brought his right arm up over Bascomb's shoulder, and pressed his hand over Bascomb's face, snapping his head back and hurling him off sideways. This was done quickly and scientifically, and it convinced Hodge that Bascomb could not work the cross-buttock on Merriwell. Hugh Bascomb was disgusted and infuriated by his failure. He had counted on having a soft thing, and he was actually getting the worst of the encounter. Time was called, and a breathing spell taken. Then they went at it again, and this time both worked savagely, their movements being swift and telling. Watching this battle, Paul Rains began to believe that he was not yet quite Merriwell's match at boxing. "But I am a better man than he is at most anything else," thought the fellow. Smack! smack! smack! Merriwell was following Bascomb up like a tiger, and the big fellow was forced to give ground. Again and again Frank hammered the desperate plebe, getting few blows in return and seeming to mind none of them no more than drops of rain. Bascomb's face wore the look of an enraged bull. Suddenly, with a quick side motion, he snapped off the glove on his left hand. Then, with his bare first, he struck straight and hard at Frank Merriwell's face! _ |
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