Dick Merriwell’s eyes shone like stars. He laughed as he saw the bravos coming. It might be a fight to the death, but, with his blood bounding in his veins, he felt no thrill of dread. He was defending the innocent; his cause was just, and he gloried in the encounter.
The desperadoes flourished their gleaming knives, seeming to hope to intimidate the defenders in that manner. In truth, they were a savage-appearing set.
Reggio, too, was undaunted. The dauntless bravery of the boys was infectious.
There was little time to wait. Seeming to look at one man, Dick swung his club and smote another wretch over the head.
The fellow went whirling end over end down the stairs.
Buckhart dropped another in his tracks.
Reggio tried to get at Nicola Mullura.
“Come within reach of my arm, you dog!” he entreated. “America will lose one great man, who will return no more.”
But it was another of the ruffians who tried to get under the guard of the gondolier and drive his knife home.
Reggio was too quick for the man. He struck and thrust his own blade through the fellow’s forearm.