“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.