“I don’t believe it, begging your pardon, Mr. Merriwell. But who is the man?” “I am.” Herrick’s jaw dropped; after a moment he looked amused, but attempted to hide a smile. “Really, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I think you underestimate McGilvay’s fighting-ability. He is a wonder. I believe that he will some day stand a show of carrying off the championship of this country.” Diamond had been astounded by Frank’s proposition. His hand fell suddenly on Merry’s arm, but Frank motioned for him to be silent. “That is all right,” said the young Yale athlete; “but I am pretty clever with my hands, and I feel sure I can make a better showing than an Unknown who is on the sick-list. You profess to be Jack Diamond’s friend, and Jack has a wad of cold cash bet on your Unknown at your recommendation. I know he will be satisfied to lose it if I am permitted to take the place of this Unknown. In that way you will be showing that your professions of friendship are more than empty words.” Herrick wavered. In his heart he believed that this smooth-faced, conceited youth would prove a snap for McGilvay—he had no doubt of it. There was not the least danger that the accomplished bruiser would meet his match in a mere college lad. If he refused to permit Merriwell to take the place of the Unknown, it would seem that he was determined to give Diamond no show. If he permitted this, it must seem that he was willing for Jack to win out if possible. That would set him right with Diamond, who was a bird worth plucking. “If you really think there is a show, Mr. Merriwell——” “You’ll do it?” nodded Frank. “Good! I will be on hand and prepared to go into the ring.” “I’ll bring my influence to bear,” Herrick hastened to say. “You know I am not the only one interested. I’ll do what I can.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI THE UNKNOWN WINS. The Thor Athletic Club was packed to suffocation. Tier upon tier rose the mass of humanity on every side of the platform. There was a perfect babel of voices. The preliminary bouts had been “pulled off” after the usual manner, and the audience was waiting eagerly for the final event of the evening, a ten-round contest between Peter McGilvay and an Unknown. “Who is this Unknown?” asked a stout, fat-faced man. “Some say it’s Bob Emerson, of Brooklyn,” answered a gray-mustached gentleman in evening dress. “Bob Emerson couldn’t stand up t’ree roun’s in front o’ McGil,” asserted a bullet-headed fellow. “Spot Herrick’s not fool enough ter back dat sort of a duffer.” “Wot’s der matter wid yer, Denny?” contemptuously exclaimed another. “D’yer t’ink Herrick’s in dis on der level? W’y, I’ll bet me spuds he’s backin’ Pete.” Suddenly the master of ceremonies entered the roped arena and enjoined silence by a gesture, after which he announced the final event of the evening.