Whack—Frank caught this sound, preceded by the air-cutting whistle of some swiftly-directed object.
Whack—whack! the sound was repeated. Frank was free. His assailant had relaxed his grasp. His hands were now busy warding off mysterious blows in the face.
Frank darted to one side, his precious savings clasped by one hand. He stared in wonder.
Some one on the roof of the front passenger coach was leaning over its rounding edge. He was armed with a jointed piece of iron. This he plied whip-fashion. Twice its end had struck the robber’s face, leaving two great red welts.
Then a spry, nimble form dropped from the car roof to the platform. Frank made out a boy about his own age. He was dressed wretchedly, and was thin and weak-looking, and his face was grimed, but he must have had pluck, for, running straight up to the would-be thief, he plied the weapon in his grasp like a flail.
A sharp blow made the ruffian roar with pain. Holding a hand to his eye, he retreated down the platform, fairly beaten off.
“There’s a police officer,” said Frank suddenly, noticing a man wearing a uniform come running down the platform from the direction of the waiting room.
“Oh, pshaw!” ejaculated his rescuer, springing nimbly to the platform of the nearest coach.
“Hold on, hold on,” cried Frank—“I want to thank you, I—”
But his mysterious friend had sprung across the car platform in a jiffy. He was swallowed up in the darkness beyond.