ter the occurrence of the "great centipede joke,"
as the crawfish affair came to be termed, that Paul Rains and Hugh
Bascomb were having a bout with the gloves in the gymnasium. Quite a
number of spectators had gathered, and Frank Merriwell sauntered up and
joined the group.

Professor Rhynas was giving his attention to another department of the
gymnasium, and he had left Bascomb to meet all comers and "give them
points."

Bascomb was not finding it a very easy thing to give Rains many points,
although he believed he could knock the fellow down any time he wished
to do so by simply letting drive one of his sledgehammer blows.

But Bascomb had not thought of striking Rains with all his strength.
He had discovered that Rains disliked Merriwell, and that was enough to
establish a bond of friendship between the big plebe and the lad with
whom he was boxing.

Bascomb hated Frank, but he feared him at the same time.

"Nobody seems able to get the best of that fellow," he had thought a
hundred times. "It seems to be bad luck to go against him, and so I am
going to keep away from him in the future. Poor Gage! Merriwell was
bad medicine for him."

Bascomb was a coward, but he could hate intensely in his two-faced,
treacherous way.

The moment Merriwell joined the group, Bascomb noted it.

"He's watching Rains," mentally decided the big plebe. "He wants to
see what the fellow is made of."

Rains seemed aware that Merriwell was a spectator, for he braced up and
gave Bascomb a merry go for a few minutes, forcing the big fellow back,
and seeming to tap him with ease and skill whenever and wherever he
chose.

When this little flurry was over, Rains threw off his gloves, and
declared he had had enough.

"So have I," said Bascomb, with a grin. "You're the best man I've put
the mittens on with yet. I believe there is a fellow not more than a
hundred miles from here that thinks he is some one with gloves, but you
can do him dead easy. More than that, I think he knows it, and I don't
believe he has the nerve to stand up and face you for a whirl."

"Oh, I don't want to box with any one," said Rains. "Keep still,
Bascomb."

"You may not want to box, but you can down Frank Merriwell just the
same," declared the big plebe.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BULLY'S MATCH.

A moment of silence followed Bascomb's distinctly-spoken words, and the
eyes of nearly every one were turned on Merriwell, to whose face the
hot colo