As he retired from the platform there was a shout of welcome, and McGilvay, followed by his seconds, came on. The prize-fighter had a thick neck and huge, bunchy shoulders. His legs were not properly developed, and his appearance was anything but graceful. He bowed to the crowd, and then retreated to his corner. All eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the Unknown. There was a pause, and then he came on. There were muttered exclamations of admiration, for never had a handsomer youth stepped into the squared circle. Chest, shoulders, arms, legs—every part of his body seemed perfectly proportioned. He had a fine, shapely head set upon a beautiful neck, which swelled gently at the base. His every movement was graceful and confident. About his waist was a sash of Yale blue. McGilvay’s colors were green. The seconds were professionals, and they had been astounded when Frank Merriwell stripped before them. In street-clothes he had not foretold his magnificent build. “Who is he?” That question buzzed everywhere, but no one seemed to know him. There were the usual preparations. “He’s handsome, but he’ll be meat for McGilvay.” That was the general opinion. The gong sounded its warning. Everything was ready. The men met in the center of the platform and shook hands. A moment later they were on guard, and then the fight began. For a moment the men sparred and circled round each other. Then the professional rushed in. The amateur was away. He had avoided the rush with ease. The professional followed the youth, who was smiling beneath the white glare of the arc-lights. He tried to rush Frank, but again he was baffled. The amateur whirled and came back. Flash-flash went his white fists. He had struck twice, but the wearer of the green managed to avoid both blows. McGilvay countered, and there was lively work in the center of the ring. At the end the amateur retreated again, hotly followed by his antagonist. “Gil is rushing him,” flew from lip to lip. “He means to make it short.” Neither man had been harmed. The professional did his best to corner his foe, but he was too slow. He counted on getting in a terrible blow with one of those hamlike fists. Time passed swiftly, and the end of the round came with the amateur still running away and the professional pursuing, trying to corner him. “He’s afraid of Pete,” was the universal decision. “He is clever on his feet, but Pete will corner him pretty soon, and end it with one punch.” The professional sat in his corner and laughed. He felt certain that it was an easy thing. “W’y, I kin do dat kid wid one t’ump!” he declared. “He’s scared ter deat’ now.” “Stand up to him,” advised Frank’s second. “You’ll make the crowd sick running erway.” Frank said nothing. Clang! sounded the gong. The men were up and advancing. They met again. They were at it once more. Again the green rushed the blue; again the blue retreated. It seemed to be the same old story over again.