"Back again!" yelled Terry, punching his victim in the chest with his open hand and sending him reeling toward McCullough.
Then they threw themselves upon him, slapping him, banging him from side to side, pulling his ears, arms and nose until he holloed for mercy, tossing him from one to the other, and swinging him at full length by his hands and feet. Finally, they flung him helpless, red and gasping for breath, upon a table. Once more they slapped him until he glowed like a lobster, and then rubbed him down with alcohol.
"On with his clothes!" shouted Ralston. "How do you feel, Jack, old man?"
"All right!" replied Steadman weakly, with a grin. "How they murdered me!"
At this moment the street bell rang and a middle-aged negro appeared with a valise, tin box, and chamois-covered sword.
"Why, it's old Clarence!" ejaculated Steadman.
The negro undid the valise and took out the olive-drab khaki field uniform. In a trice he had buckled and buttoned the delinquent officer into it. From the tin box came a campaign hat. Steadman fastened on the sword himself. There were tears of feeble excitement in his eyes.
"Are you sure it's not too late?" he asked anxiously.
"I've taken my oath to get you there," answered Ralston.
"By George! You're a good fellow!" repeated Steadman. He held out his hand. "You've saved my reputation—I might almost say—my life."