Up to this point Merriwell had shown his skill as a boxer, without attempting to do his enemy any serious injury. He now saw that Cole would not recognize the fact that he was outpointed unless compelled to do so by a fair knock-out. Dick now played for Jack’s wind, and several times he landed hard on the pit of his stomach. Enraged by his failure to get in an effective blow, Cole grappled and sought to throw Merriwell. In a moment his feet were snapped into the air, and he was lifted and tossed across Dick’s hip, being sent sprawling fifteen feet away. “If he tries to turn this into a wrestling match, my pard will certain show him some tricks at that,” laughed Buckhart. With his eyes glaring and his teeth set, Jack Cole scrambled up and dashed at Merriwell. Dick sidestepped and struck a blow that stopped the other lad in his tracks. “Give him the grand coup, partner!” exclaimed Buckhart. “You can do it.” Indeed, Dick might have finished the encounter then and there, for Cole had dropped his hands and was quite unguarded. Merriwell did make a move to deliver the blow, but restrained himself. “Perhaps he’s going to call it off,” he said. “Not by a jugful!” roared old John. “Git ter going there, Jack!” Seeming to recover in a moment, Cole accepted this advice, and again pitched into Dick. During the next few moments the boxing was so swift that the eye followed the blows with difficulty. Once Dick was struck, but he recovered quickly, and a moment later delivered a blow that started the blood from his opponent’s nose. Cole did not mind a little blood. In fact, it seemed to make a fury of him, and he launched himself at Dick, striking right and left with sledge-hammer force. “We ought to stop it, gentlemen—we ought to stop it!” palpitated Eustace Smiley. “It will be all over in a minute,” declared Buckhart. “Don’t worry about it.” He was right, for Dick found his opening and gave Cole a solar-plexus blow that again stopped the fellow short. Then Merriwell swung on Jack’s jaw and the boy went “down and out.” Old John could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. As he stooped over his son, he continued urging him to get up and resume the fighting. Jack tried to rise, but his strength was gone, and everything seemed to swing about him. “Git up, boy—git up!” snarled old John. “You can do him yit!” “I—I can’t!” weakly, whispered the defeated chap. “No—use—dad!” Then he dropped back and lay sprawled out on the floor. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XII AN IMPROMPTU CANOE RACE. Water was dashed into Cole’s face, and he was given a swallow or two. It was some minutes before he could sit on a chair without threatening to pitch off to the floor. When he could sit up he looked around for Dick. Merriwell was there, and, as he stepped forward, he said: