At that moment the big bully ran upon him. The cowardly brute raised his foot to kick Ralph. The latter saw he was at the rascal's mercy. He let go the two squirming at his side, shot out a hand, and catching the uplifted foot brought its owner pell-mell down upon him.
The bully struck his head in falling, and was momentarily dizzied. Ralph flopped clear over, sat upon him, and was kept busy warding off the blows of the two fellows he had released.
There were six others in the gang. These now made an onrush. Ralph tried to calculate his chances and map out the best course to pursue.
Just then a new element was injected into the scene.
Around the corner of the pile of ties came a new figure with cyclonic precipitancy.
It was Van, the guest of the cottage. He must have witnessed the scene from a distance. He swung to a halt, his face imperturbable as ever, but his eyes covering every object in the ensemble.
"Fight," he said simply, and swinging both arms like battering arms sailed into the nearest adversary.
"Don't strike him!" called out Ralph instantly--"he's wrong in his head!"
"We'll right it for him!" announced one of the crowd.
The speaker swung a bag as he spoke. It seemed to contain something bulky, for as it just missed Van's head and bounded on the shoulders of one of the user's own friends, the latter went down like a lump of lead.