“If you really think there is a show, Mr. Merriwell——”
“You’ll do it?” nodded Frank. “Good! I will be on hand and prepared to go into the ring.”
“I’ll bring my influence to bear,” Herrick hastened to say. “You know I am not the only one interested. I’ll do what I can.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.