LITMIR.BIZ

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and Browning's friends should be invited. Bruce paid for the room and firmly "sat on" the professor's scheme to charge admission.

      "This is no prize fight," he rather warmly declared. "We are not putting ourselves on exhibition, like two pugilists. It is a matter of honor."

      "Well, if youse college chaps don't git der derndest ideas inter yer nuts!" muttered Kelley, who could not understand Browning's view of an affair of honor. "Youse takes der cream, dat's wot yer do!"

      On Saturday afternoon one week after the rush at the park certain students might have been seen to stroll, one at a time, into the saloon over which were the headquarters of Professor Kelley. It was three in the afternoon that about twenty lads were gathered in Buster's training-room to witness the meeting between Merriwell and Browning.

      Tad Horner was chosen referee.

      "Look here," he said before the first round, "if any man here isn't satisfied with my decisions, let him meet me after the match is over, and I will satisfy him or fight him."

      This was said in all earnestness, and it brought a round of applause and laughter.

      It was agreed that it should be a six-round contest, not more and no less, unless one side threw up the sponge or one of the men was knocked out.

      Rattleton was Frank's second, and Hartwick represented Bruce. A regular ring had been roped off, and the men entered from opposite sides at a signal. Much to his disgust, Kelley was not allowed to take any part in the affair.

      Both lads were stripped to the waist. Merriwell was clean limbed, but muscular, while Browning was stocky and solid. The sophomore had gotten rid of his superfluous flesh in a wonderful manner, and he looked to be a hard man to tackle.

      The gloves were put on, and then the rivals advanced and shook hands. An instant later they were at it, and the decisive struggle between them had begun.

      Their movements were so rapid that it was difficult for the eyes of the eager spectators to follow them. Both got in some sharp blows, and the round ended with a clean knock-down for Browning, who planted a terrific blow between Merriwell's eyes and sent the freshman to the floor.

      The sophs were jubilant and the freshmen were downcast. Merriwell simply laughed as he sat on Rattleton's knee.

      "Whee jiz—I mean jee whiz!" spluttered Harry. "Are you going to let that fellow do you. The sophs will never get over it if you do. Hear 'em laugh!"

      "Don't worry," smiled Frank. "This is the beginning. There must be an ending."

      "Do him—do him, Bruce!" fiercely whispered Hartwick in the ear of his principal. "It's plain enough that you can."

      "I think I can," said Bruce, confidently.

      The sophs offered three to two on Browning, and many bets were made.

      Then time was called and the rivals advanced once more.

      The second round was hotter than the first, if possible, and Merriwell drew first blood by giving Browning a heavy one on the nose. It ended with both sparring, and neither seeming to have a decided advantage.

      Now the freshmen were encouraged, and they expressed their confidence in their man. More bets were made, the sophomores still giving odds.

      The third round filled the freshmen with delight, for Merriwell knocked Browning off his feet twice, while he seemed to get no heavy blows himself.

      The sophs became quieter, and no money at odds was in sight. In fact, the freshmen tried to get even money, but could not.

      The fourth and fifth rounds were filled with good, sharp, scientific work, but toward the close of the fifth both men seemed a trifle groggy. Neither had a decided advantage.

      "Dat Merriwell is a boid!" declared Buster Kelley enthusiastically. "Why, dat chap could be der champeen of der woild if he went inter der business fer fair. Dat's on der level, too."

      Both lads were battered and bruised, and there was blood on their faces when they retired to their corners at the command from Horner.

      "He's a nut," confessed Frank. "He has given me some soakers, and he takes his medicine as if he liked it."

      "You'll finish him next round, sure," fluttered Harry. "I shall buck the kickit—I mean kick the bucket if you don't."

      "How is it?" Hartwick eagerly asked as he wiped the blood from Browning's face. "Can you finish him next round?"

      "I shall try, but I don't believe the fellow can be licked unless he is killed. That's what I think of him."

      "Didn't I hear you say you knew a trick that would do him?"

      "Yes, but it is not a square deal, although no referee could call it foul if this were a fight with bare fists. As it is, I'd have to get my glove off."

      "Do it! do it! You're a fool if you don't!"

      "Then I'm a fool. That man has trusted this entire affair to our honor, and if I can't whip him fair I won't whip him at all."

      "You make me sick!" sneered Hartwick.

      At the call the two men promptly faced each other for the final round. At first they were a bit wary, but then, as if by mutual agreement, they went at each other like tigers. Blow followed blow, but it was plain that one man was getting quite as much as the other. Browning got in one of his terrific drives, but it was not a knockout, and Merriwell had the sophomore up up against the rope three times.

      "Time! Break away!" yelled Tad Horner, forcing himself over between the combatants. "It's all over."

      "What's the decision?" shouted a dozen voices.

      "A draw," was the distinct answer. "I declare it an even thing between them."

      There was a moment of silence, and then, bruised and smiling, Frank Merriwell tore off his glove and extended his hand. Off came Browning's glove, and he accepted the hand of the freshman.

      CHAPTER XVII.

       TALKING IT OVER.

       Table of Contents

      Before night nearly every student knew that Merriwell and Browning had fought a six-round, hard-glove contest to a draw, and it was generally said that the decision was fair. Evan Hartwick seemed to be the only witness of the fight who was dissatisfied. Roland Ditson had not been invited to see it, but he expressed a belief that Browning would prove the better man in a fight to a finish.

      Several weeks slipped by.

      After the glove contest Browning had very little to say about the freshman leader. Whenever he did say anything, it was exactly what he thought, and it was noted that he admitted Merriwell to be a comer.

      Evan Hartwick could not crush down his powerful dislike for Merriwell. He admitted to Bruce that he felt an almost irresistible desire to strike the cool freshman whenever they met.

      "I wouldn't advise you to do it, my boy," lazily smiled Browning, who was growing fat again, now that he was no longer in training. "He is a bad man to hit."

      "It depends on what he is hit with," returned Hartwick, grimly. "You made a fool of yourself when you failed to break his wrist, after paying twenty-five toadskins to learn the trick. That would have made you the victor."

      "And it would have made me feel like a contemptible sneak. I have been well satisfied with myself that I did not try the trick. It is a good thing to know, but it should be used on no one but a ruffian."

      "It's surprising to me how soft you're getting. This Merriwell is dangerous in many directions, and his career would have been stopped short if you had broken his wrist. He has shown that he is a baseball pitcher, but no man can pitch with a broken wrist. He is one of the best freshmen half-backs ever seen at Yale, according to the general acknowledgment. And now he is pulling an oar and coaching the freshmen crew at the same time—something

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