Chapter 16. To Break An Enemy's Wrist

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_ CHAPTER XVI. TO BREAK AN ENEMY'S WRIST

Buster Kelley was a character. Professor Kelley he called himself. He claimed to be a great pugilist, and he was forever telling of the men he had put to sleep. But he couldn't produce the papers to show for it. The public had to take his word, if they took anything.

In fact, he had never fought a battle in his life, unless it was with a boy half his size. He made a bluff, and it went. The youngsters who came to Yale and desired to be instructed in the manly art were always recommended to Kelley.

To give Kelley his due, he was really a fairly good boxer, and he might have made a decent sort of a fight if he had possessed the courage to accept a match and the self denial and energy to go through a regular course of training.

But Kelley was making an easy living "catching suckers," and there was no real reason why he should go through the hardships of training and actually fighting so long as he could fool the youngsters who regarded him as a one-time great and shining light of the prize ring.

He was too shrewd to stand up with any pupil who might get the best of him and permit that pupil to hammer away at him. He kept them at work on certain kinds of blows, so he always knew exactly what was coming. In this manner of training them he never betrayed just how much he really knew about fighting.

Some of the young fellows who became Kelley's pupils were the sons of wealthy parents, and then it happened that the professor worked his little game for all there was in it. He sold them "secrets," and they paid dearly for what they learned. Some of the secrets were of no value at all, and some were actually worth knowing.

It happened that he did know how to break a man's wrist in a very simple manner, providing he could find just the right opportunity. It was a simple trick, but the opportunity to practice it could seldom be found in a fight.

Kelley's eyes, which were somewhat bleary, bulged with greed as he saw Browning count out the money.

"It's givin' yer der trick dirt cheap--see?" said the professor. "I never sold it less dan twice dat ermount before. Dat's straight. I'll have ter make yer promise not ter tell it ter der odder chaps before I instructs yer."

"If I buy it it is mine," said Bruce.

"Come off der roof! You enters inter an' agreement wid me dat yer don't blow dis t'ing, ur I don't tell yer."

"What if I want to tell a particular friend?"

"Yer don't tell him. Dat's all. I had ter pay t'ree hunderd dollars ter learn dis, an' sign a 'greement dat I wouldn't give it erway. Jem Mace tort me dis trick w'en I sparred wid him in Liverpool. He says ter me, says he: 'Buster, ye're a boid, dat's wot ye are. If you knowed der trick of breakin' a bloke's wrist dere ain't no duffer in der woild dat can do yer. I'll show yer der crack fer sixty pound.' He wouldn't come down a little bit, an' I paid him wot he asked. Since dat time I've knocked roun' all over der woild, an' it's saved me life fife times. Dat was a cheap trick wot I got from old Jem, dat were. A dago pulled a knife on me oncet fer ter cut me wide open, but I broke der dago's wrist quicker dan yer can spit."

"Well, here is your money, and now I want to know that trick."

"Yer 'grees not ter tell it ter anybody?"

"Yes, I agree."

"Dat settles it."

Kelley took the money and carefully stowed it away in his clothes.

"Strip up an' git inter yer trainin' rig," he directed.

Bruce went into the back room, and Buster poked himself in the ribs with his thumb, grinning and winking at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.

"Oh, say! but I'm a peach!" he told himself in a confidential whisper. "If der college perfessers don't git arter me ergin I'll make me forchune right yere."

Kelley had originally hung out a sign and advertised to instruct young gentlemen in boxing, but the faculty had made it rather warm for him, and it was generally supposed that he had been forced to leave New Haven. He had not left, but he had changed his quarters to the rooms he now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon.

In a short time Bruce called that he was ready, and the professor leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia such as a man in Kelley's business might need.

At one side of the room were several small closets, in which Kelley's pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them. The door of one closet was open, and Browning's street clothes were hanging on some hooks inside.

Browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes. He was stripped to the waist.

Buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye, punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh.

"Well, say!" cried the professor. "I'd like ter know wot yer kickin' erbout! I never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has, an' dat's on der dead. Why, w'en yer comes yere yer didn't have a muscle dat weren't buried in fat, an' now dey're comin' out hard all over yer. You'd kick ef yer wuz playin' football!"

"That's all right," said Bruce, rather impatiently. "I know what I want, and I am paying you to give it to me. Go ahead."

"Don't be so touchy," scowled Kelley. "Tackle der bag a while, an' let's see how yer work."

Browning went at the punching bag while the professor stood by and called the changes. He thumped it up against the ceiling and caught it on the rebound thirty times in succession, first with his right and then with his left. Then he went at it with both hands and fairly made it hum. Then, at the word, with remarkable swiftness, he gave it fist and elbow, first right and then left. Then he did some fancy work at a combination hit and butt.

By the time Buster called him off Browning was streaming with perspiration and breathing heavily.

"Dat's first rate," complimented the professor. "Yer does dat like yer wuz a perfessional."

"Great Scott!" gasped Bruce. "I'd never torture myself in this way if I didn't have to! It is awful!"

He looked around for a chair, but Buster grinned and said:

"Dat's right, set right down--nit. Youse don't do dat no more in dis joint. Wen I gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough--see? Dat's der way ter pull der meat off er man."

"Well, what's next?"

"See if yer can raise yer record anoder pound on der striker."

Bruce went at the striking machine, which registered the exact number of pounds of force in each blow it received.

"Has any one beaten me yet?" he asked.

"Naw. Dere ain't nobody come within ninety pound of yer."

Bruce looked satisfied, but he made up his mind to raise his record if possible, and he succeeded in adding twelve pounds to it.

"Say!" exclaimed Buster, "if dat cove wot yer arter does you he's a boid!"

"That's just what he is," nodded Bruce, streaming with perspiration. "He is a bad man to go against."

"If yer ever gits at him wid dat left ye'll knock him out, sure."

"He is like a panther on his feet, and I shall be in great luck if I find him with my left."

"Yer don't want ter t'ink dat. Yer wants ter t'ink yer goin' ter find him anyhow. Dat's der way."

"I have thought so before, and I have discovered that he is a wonderfully hard man to find."

"Wen yer goin' ter fight him?"

"I am going to try to make him meet me one week from to-day."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet."

"Is he a squealer?"

"I don't believe you could drag anything out of him with horses."

"If dat's right yer might make it yere, an' it could be kept quiet. I'd charge a little somet'ing fer der use of der room, but dat wouldn't come out of eder of youse, fer we'd make der fellers pay wot come in ter see it."

"We'll see about that," said Bruce. "But now I want to know that trick."

"Oh, yes. I near fergot dat."

"Well, I didn't."

"Say, if yer use dat on him I don't t'ink we can have der scrap here."

"Why not?"

"If one of dem freshies got injuries in dis place so bad it might git out, an' dat would fix me."

"I don't intend to use it on him unless I have to. Go ahead and explain your trick. If it isn't straight I want my money back."

"Dere won't be any money back, fer der trick is all right, all right. Now stan' up here an' I'll show yer how it's did."

Kelley then showed Bruce how to bring the edge of his open hand down on the upper side of an enemy's wrist just back of the joint.

"Yer wants ter snap it like dis," Buster explained, illustrating with a sharp, rebounding motion. "If yer strikes him right dere wid der cushion meat on der lower edge of yer hand an' snaps yer hand erway like dis, it's dead sure ter break der bone. Jes' try it on yer own wrist, but be careful not ter try it too hard."

Bruce did as directed, and he found that he hurt himself severely, although he struck a very light blow.

"Dat's ter trick," said Kelley, "an' it's a dandy. Don't yer ever use it 'less yer dead sure yer wants ter break der odder feller's wrist."

Then the professor called up a colored boy, who rubbed Bruce down, and the king of the sophomores finally departed.

As he walked back toward his room in the dusk of early evening, Browning began to feel sorry that he had learned the trick at all.

"It would be a dirty game to play on Merriwell," he muttered, "but now that I know it, I may get mad and do it in a huff, especially if I see Merriwell is getting the best of me."

The more Browning thought the matter over the greater became his regret that he had learned the trick of breaking an opponent's wrist. For all that he had a strong feeling against Merriwell, he could see that the leader of the freshmen was square and manly, and he did not believe Frank would take an unfair advantage of a foe.

Bruce became quite unlike his old jovial self. He was strangely downcast and moody, and he saw that he was fast losing prestige with those who had once regarded him as their leader.

Hartwick, Browning's roommate, was more bitter against Merriwell.

"The confounded upstart!" he would growl. "Think of his coming here and carrying things on with such a high hand! When we were freshmen the sophomores had everything their own way. They Lambda Chied us till they became sick of it, and all our attempts to get even proved failures. Now the freshmen who are following the lead of this fellow Merriwell seem to think that they are cocks of the walk. I tell you what it is, Bruce, you must do that fellow, and you must do him so he will stay done."

"Oh, I don't believe he is such a bad fellow at heart, It wouldn't be right to injure him permanently."

"Wouldn't it? Give me the chance and see if I don't fix him."

Hartwick began to regard his roommate with disdain.

"For goodness' sake, don't get soft," he implored. "The fellows will say you are chicken-hearted, and that will settle your case. You'll never get back to your old position if you once lose it."

"I'd rather be thought chicken-hearted than hold my position by dirty play."

Hartwick made no retort, but it was plain to see that he entertained a different view of a case like the one in question.

Browning worked like a beaver to get himself in shape for the coming struggle, but he promised himself over and over that he would never do such a thing again. It was pride and hope that sustained him through his severe course of training.

"No fresh mug can do youse now," Buster Kelley finally declared. "I'll put me dough on you, an' I'll win, too."

Bruce was really in very good form, and he felt that he stood more than an even chance with Merriwell.

He had seen the freshman fight, however, and he realized that he would not have a walkover.

The freshmen began to think that Browning feared to meet Merriwell, and they openly told him as much. They taunted him to such an extent that it was with the utmost difficulty he held himself in check till the expiration of the time he had set for getting himself in condition.

"What if I should see the freshman getting the best of me and should break his wrist?" he thought. "I might make it appear to be an accident, but I would know better myself. I'd get the best of Merriwell, and the fellows would still hail me as King Browning, but I would be ashamed of myself all the while."

It was that thought which troubled him so much and made him appear so grouchy.

"Browning is in a blue funk whenever he thinks of stacking up against the freshman," one sophomore confidentially told another. "I believe he has lost his nerve."

"It looks that way," admitted the other.

Thus it came about that Bruce's appearance led his former admirers to misjudge him, and he saw a growing coolness toward him.

"I'll meet Merriwell on the level," he finally decided, "and I will whip him on the level or I'll not whip him at all."

Then he instructed Hartwick to carry a challenge to Frank.

"I will fight him with hard gloves," said Bruce.

He had decided that with a glove on his hand he could not easily perform the trick of breaking his enemy's wrist in case he was seized by an impulse to do so.

"Gloves?" cried Hartwick. "Why, man, why don't you challenge him to meet you with bare fists?"

"Because I have decided that gloves are all right."

"The fellows will say you are afraid."

"Let them say so if they like," returned Bruce, but he winced a bit, as if a tender spot had been touched.

Hartwick did his test to induce his friend to challenge Merriwell to a fight with bare fists, but Bruce had made up his mind and he was obstinate.

So it came about that Hartwick carried the challenge just as Browning desired, and it was promptly accepted. Merriwell was not a fellow who sought trouble, but he knew he must meet Browning or be called a coward, and he did not dally. He quietly told Hartwick that any arrangements Mr. Browning saw fit to make would be agreeable to him. In that way he put Browning on his honor to give him a square deal.

The matter was kept very quiet. It was decided that the match should come off in Kelley's back room, and a few of Merriwell's and Browning's friends should be invited. Bruce paid for the room and firmly "sat on" the professor's scheme to charge admission.

"This is no prize fight," he rather warmly declared. "We are not putting ourselves on exhibition, like two pugilists. It is a matter of honor."

"Well, if youse college chaps don't git der derndest ideas inter yer nuts!" muttered Kelley, who could not understand Browning's view of an affair of honor. "Youse takes der cream, dat's wot yer do!"

On Saturday afternoon one week after the rush at the park certain students might have been seen to stroll, one at a time, into the saloon over which were the headquarters of Professor Kelley. It was three in the afternoon that about twenty lads were gathered in Buster's training-room to witness the meeting between Merriwell and Browning.

Tad Horner was chosen referee.

"Look here," he said before the first round, "if any man here isn't satisfied with my decisions, let him meet me after the match is over, and I will satisfy him or fight him."

This was said in all earnestness, and it brought a round of applause and laughter.

It was agreed that it should be a six-round contest, not more and no less, unless one side threw up the sponge or one of the men was knocked out.

Rattleton was Frank's second, and Hartwick represented Bruce. A regular ring had been roped off, and the men entered from opposite sides at a signal. Much to his disgust, Kelley was not allowed to take any part in the affair.

Both lads were stripped to the waist. Merriwell was clean limbed, but muscular, while Browning was stocky and solid. The sophomore had gotten rid of his superfluous flesh in a wonderful manner, and he looked to be a hard man to tackle.

The gloves were put on, and then the rivals advanced and shook hands. An instant later they were at it, and the decisive struggle between them had begun.

Their movements were so rapid that it was difficult for the eyes of the eager spectators to follow them. Both got in some sharp blows, and the round ended with a clean knock-down for Browning, who planted a terrific blow between Merriwell's eyes and sent the freshman to the floor.

The sophs were jubilant and the freshmen were downcast. Merriwell simply laughed as he sat on Rattleton's knee.

"Whee jiz--I mean jee whiz!" spluttered Harry. "Are you going to let that fellow do you. The sophs will never get over it if you do. Hear 'em laugh!"

"Don't worry," smiled Frank. "This is the beginning. There must be an ending."

"Do him--do him, Bruce!" fiercely whispered Hartwick in the ear of his principal. "It's plain enough that you can."

"I think I can," said Bruce, confidently.

The sophs offered three to two on Browning, and many bets were made.

Then time was called and the rivals advanced once more.

The second round was hotter than the first, if possible, and Merriwell drew first blood by giving Browning a heavy one on the nose. It ended with both sparring, and neither seeming to have a decided advantage.

Now the freshmen were encouraged, and they expressed their confidence in their man. More bets were made, the sophomores still giving odds.

The third round filled the freshmen with delight, for Merriwell knocked Browning off his feet twice, while he seemed to get no heavy blows himself.

The sophs became quieter, and no money at odds was in sight. In fact, the freshmen tried to get even money, but could not.

The fourth and fifth rounds were filled with good, sharp, scientific work, but toward the close of the fifth both men seemed a trifle groggy. Neither had a decided advantage.

"Dat Merriwell is a boid!" declared Buster Kelley enthusiastically. "Why, dat chap could be der champeen of der woild if he went inter der business fer fair. Dat's on der level, too."

Both lads were battered and bruised, and there was blood on their faces when they retired to their corners at the command from Horner.

"He's a nut," confessed Frank. "He has given me some soakers, and he takes his medicine as if he liked it."

"You'll finish him next round, sure," fluttered Harry. "I shall buck the kickit--I mean kick the bucket if you don't."

"How is it?" Hartwick eagerly asked as he wiped the blood from Browning's face. "Can you finish him next round?"

"I shall try, but I don't believe the fellow can be licked unless he is killed. That's what I think of him."

"Didn't I hear you say you knew a trick that would do him?"

"Yes, but it is not a square deal, although no referee could call it foul if this were a fight with bare fists. As it is, I'd have to get my glove off."

"Do it! do it! You're a fool if you don't!"

"Then I'm a fool. That man has trusted this entire affair to our honor, and if I can't whip him fair I won't whip him at all."

"You make me sick!" sneered Hartwick.

At the call the two men promptly faced each other for the final round. At first they were a bit wary, but then, as if by mutual agreement, they went at each other like tigers. Blow followed blow, but it was plain that one man was getting quite as much as the other. Browning got in one of his terrific drives, but it was not a knockout, and Merriwell had the sophomore up up against the rope three times.

"Time! Break away!" yelled Tad Horner, forcing himself over between the combatants. "It's all over."

"What's the decision?" shouted a dozen voices.

"A draw," was the distinct answer. "I declare it an even thing between them."

There was a moment of silence, and then, bruised and smiling, Frank Merriwell tore off his glove and extended his hand. Off came Browning's glove, and he accepted the hand of the freshman. _

Read next: Chapter 17. Talking It Over

Read previous: Chapter 15. On The Ball Field

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