Fillmore hastened to Husker Galway and shook hands with him. Others rose and greeted him in a similar manner. In the pugilist’s ear Fillmore whispered: “I’m going to give you a knockdown to the chap I phoned you about. Get him into a bout and mark him up as much as you can. Give him a black eye or two, if possible.” “Does he t’ink he can scrap?” “He thinks he can do anything and everything.” “I’ll take some of der wind outer him in a hurry,” promised Galway. “This is our boxing instructor, Husker Galway, Mr. Merriwell,” said Fillmore, introducing them. “’Waryer!” said Husker, seizing Frank’s hand. For some reason Merry had prepared for just what followed. Something warned him that the pugilist would try to give him a grip that would make him wince, and therefore Frank proceeded to get the hold that he desired. When Galway tried to crush his fingers, Merry proceeded smilingly to close on the fighter’s hand with a grip of iron. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Galway,” he said, with that pleasant smile. “It really gives me great pleasure.” He gave the pugilist a grip that might have crushed the bones in another man’s hand. At first Galway pretended not to notice it, but in a moment he tried to tear his hand away, the look on his face showing that he was in pain. “Wot in howlin’ thunder you tryin’ ter do?” he snarled. “Leggo! Leggo of that fist!” “I beg your pardon!” said Merry, in apparent surprise, as Husker seemed on the point of hitting him. “Evidently you—hic!—you don’t belong to my lodge.” All the blood seemed squeezed from Galway’s hand. “Dat’s the fin I broke on Pug Curran,” said the pugilist, by way of explanation. “Was yer tryin’ ter finish it fer me?” Fillmore and the others were surprised, for they had seen the man cause dozens of people to wilt and beg while pretending to shake hands with them in an ordinary manner. The fact that Frank had checkmated the move and caused Galway to squeal was most astonishing to them. Galway grew angry. “You’re too fresh, dat’s wot’s der matter wid youse!” he said, glaring at Merry. “You oughter have some of it taken outer yer!” “Why, didn’t I—hic!—didn’t I beg your pardon?” said the young man, in surprise. “Better beg it ag’in,” growled the bruiser. “Oh, very well!” exclaimed Merry hastily. “I’ll do it!” Husker fancied Frank was frightened. Fillmore fancied Frank was drunk. He gave the pugilist a signal, and the latter grew more arrogant. “Wot you need is a little t’umpin’,” he said. “I’d like ter put on der gloves wid youse an’ take some of der freshness outer yer.” “Would you?” “You bet!” “I’d rather not. I’ve heard about you.” “Oh, I didn’t suppose you’d have der nerve. It wouldn’t really hurt yer none, but it would do yer good. Der gloves are like cushions. A jab in der jaw is like a caress.” “Put them on with him, Merriwell!” cried Fillmore. Taking the cue from their leader, the other students urged him to do so. “Don’t be frightened,” said one.