The big fellow struck twice, and both blows were met by a ready guard.
Biff! biff! biff! First with the right, and then twice with the left Frank struck the big plebe.

None of them were heavy blows, but they all stung, and the angry blood surged to Bascomb's face, as he saw Merriwell leap back beyond his reach, laughing a bit.
"Mosquito bites!" said Bascomb, derisively.
"But they count." "Who cares.

I will more than square that in a minute." "All right; I am waiting." Once more they were at it, toe to toe, hands moving slightly, light on their feet, ready to dodge or spring, ready to strike or guard.

Blows came, one landing on Merriwell's cheek, and another on his shoulder; but more than twenty were dodged or guarded, and Bascomb was struck twice for every blow he gave.
Frank was watching for that left hand body blow, and it came at last, just when Bascomb thought it must count.
In that case Bascomb deceived himself.
The blow was struck swiftly enough, but Frank stopped it with a right hand guard, and, with his left, countered heavily on Bascomb's mouth, sending the big fellow's head back.
Bascomb was surprised, and he showed it.

He was also thoroughly angered, and he proceeded to "wade into" Merriwell like a cyclone.
On the other hand, Merriwell was cool as ice, and he made every blow count something, for even when they failed to land they kept the big fellow busy.
Time after time Bascomb rushed in, but Merriwell was light as a feather on his feet, and he danced nimbly about, tapping the other fellow now here, now there, smiling sweetly all the while, and showing a skill that was very baffling to Bascomb.
"Hang him!" thought the big fellow.