“Oh, this is a sprinting-match!” cried somebody, in disgust. Flash!—out shot a clean, muscular arm. Crack!—the blow sounded almost like a pistol-shot. The professional had grown incautious and given his foe an opening. It had been accepted, and the blow sent Pete McGilvay clean across the ring, to fall like a log of wood. “Ah!” shouted the astounded spectators, as they rose to their feet as one man. The Unknown could strike a blow like the kick of a mule. This was the first surprise. But McGilvay’s head was hard, and he got up before the referee could count him out. He was amazed, and he had learned something. In the future he would be more cautious. But now the amateur came at him. “He’s lost his head!” declared an old sport. “He thinks he can end it right here because he got in one blow. Now Pete will do him.” But Pete wabbled, and the Unknown punished him severely. Blood began to flow, but the amateur had not been harmed in the least. The breast of the professional was heaving. “By heavens! Pete is getting the worst of it!” The man who uttered the words could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. It seemed impossible. But that handsome, stern-faced youth with the flashing eyes gave his antagonist not a moment to rest. The tables were turned, and the aggressor of a few moments before was making a poor defense. The white arms of the amateur whipped the air; his hard fists pounded the ribs, neck, and jaw of the professional. McGilvay tried to counter, but he was bewildered. That first terrible blow had left his head singing and a wavering blackness before his eyes. The seconds looked on in amazement. They were praying for the end of the round to come soon. It must come soon to save McGilvay. Now the crowd was wildly excited. Amazed by the turn of affairs, the whirlwind style of fighting of the stranger threw them into tumultuous admiration. “Look at that! He got Pete on the jaw! That was a heart-blow! He’s cutting Pete all up!” The sound of the blows was plainly heard. Suddenly McGilvay wavered, dropped his arms at his side, and seemed to lurch forward to meet the terrible fist that struck him fairly on the point of the jaw. He was hurled half-way through the ropes. Then, amid the greatest uproar, the referee slowly counted the professional out. Frank Merriwell, the “Unknown,” had won the fight, and by doing so had saved Jack Diamond’s money and won ten thousand with it. * * * * * Jack Diamond, literally overflowing with admiration and delight, had promptly turned his winnings over to Frank. “It’s your money, every dollar of it,” he said. “Do what you like with it. Merry, you are a Twentieth Century marvel!” “How is Herrick?” asked Frank. “The sorest man I ever saw,” laughed Jack. “He had plenty of good money on McGilvay. I’ll bet the biggest part of what I won came from his pocket.” “Then I’ll see if I cannot do some good with the stuff,” said Merry.