“Husker is fooling with him, Fred,” muttered Hackett. “Hope he doesn’t fool too long. I think Merriwell is beginning to realize he hasn’t any show. He’ll be quitting.” Merry had divined Galway’s purpose, and he was the one who was doing the playing. He was watching the fighter’s every movement and sizing up his style. He saw how the man side-stepped, how he feinted, how he led and how he guarded. While this was going on Frank was planning his style of attack when the time should come. Several times Merry rushed awkwardly just to see how the man defended himself. He led at Galway’s head and his body. The man defended himself by parrying, blocking, and retreating. Frank was not foolish enough to fancy Husker Galway an easy mark, but he counted on gaining some advantage by taking the man by surprise when he went into the fight in earnest. Finally, as if by the rarest blundering accident, Merry landed on Galway’s chin. “Well! well! well!” cried Ludley, the chap who had displayed such a friendly feeling for Frank. “He hit him, then!” “Could you see that?” sneered a student. “Course I could! What’s matter with you?” Black Tom was scratching his head as he watched Merry. “Nebber befo’ has I seen nobody git loaded on de kind ob stuff he’s been drinkin’,” murmured the negro. Galway was angered because he had permitted himself to be hit in such a manner. “You couldn’t do dat ag’in in a week!” he growled. Frank seemed to try it, whereupon the slugger swung to land hard on Merry’s body. The blow was blocked, but it was done as if by chance more than skill. The slugger’s anger increased and he followed Merriwell up. “Now he’s going to get into him!” hissed Fillmore. Merry managed to clinch, and he hung on when the referee tried to “break” them. “Oh, leggo!” snapped Galway. He tried to uppercut Frank. “Break! break!” commanded the referee. When they did break Merry unexpectedly shot his left to the slugger’s chin, driving his head back. Galway uttered a roar. His face flushed and he went after Frank like an enraged beast. Merry ducked and went under the man’s swing. “Oh, the artful dodger!” exclaimed Jack Branch. “He’ll have to do something more than dodge in a minute,” prophesied Dick Whisper. Clang sounded the gong. The first round was over. Fillmore was disappointed because Merriwell had not been damaged in the least in the opening round. He hastened to Galway’s corner, speaking to the pugilist in a low tone. “You haven’t marked him.” “Plenty of time, young feller,” said Husker. “I’ll give him a black eye an’ break his nose in der next round.” “Well, do something,” urged Fillmore. He fancied Merriwell would not observe that he took this occasion to speak to the pugilist.