A hush followed. Then the now sober referee stepped forward, leaned over the prostrate bruiser, and, marking each numeral with a stroke of his index finger, began to count: “One—two—three——” Galway stirred and partly lifted himself. “Four—five—six——” The pugilist rose to his hands and knees. “Seven——” Husker lifted his hands from the floor. “Eight——” He brought up his left foot and planted it. “Nine——” He staggered to his feet before the final word could be uttered. It was a display of sand, and, although the fellow was an ordinary prize fighter, Frank could not help admiring him for it. But Merry realized that it would not do to let his admiration of the fellow’s grit hold him in check. It was all the more apparent that there could be only one termination of the encounter. Merriwell closed in. Galway side-stepped and rushed. His ponderous left swung through the air with an upward movement. It was an effort to land the “wallop” on Frank’s jaw. The youth was not there. The swing seemed to throw Husker Galway off his guard. Before he could recover Frank came in. With a straight, clean blow, the champion all-round athlete of America sent his opponent down with a shock that jarred the platform to its very foundations. It was all over. The referee counted ten in his most deliberate manner, but the prostrate slugger did not even move a muscle. Then, when his gloves were removed, the victor joined in the efforts to restore Galway, paying little heed to the profuse expressions of admiration and the flow of congratulations from the students. At last he sat up, supported by one of the students, and his eyes sought the face of the youth who had caused his downfall. “Young feller,” he said, “you delivered the goods. I didn’t believe it was in yer; but I’ll back you against anyt’ing on two legs dat stan’s! You’re der real stuff!” CHAPTER XXV. CAUGHT IN THEIR OWN TRAP. Although Fred Fillmore was among the first to congratulate Merriwell, he found an opportunity to slip out of the shed while efforts were being made to restore Husker Galway. Hackett followed him. “I’ve got to have a drink!” exclaimed the latter. “I want something to brace me up after that.” “Just what I’m after,” said Fillmore. “That was enough to drive any one to drink.” They found their way to the bar and both ordered whisky, regardless of the fact that they had been drinking beer and an abundance of that. “What do you think of it, Fred?” asked Hackett, his hand unsteady as he poured his drink. “I can’t think!” confessed the captain of the lacrosse team. “Husker Galway knocked out—by him!” “And he was jagged when the scrap began.” “Was he?” “Wasn’t he?” “I don’t believe it.” “But—but he appeared to be.” “I know he did.” “Then you think——” “He fooled us.” They looked at each other. After a moment or two, Hackett nodded slowly.