It seemed an interminable time before his keen eye saw what seemed to be a shadow looming up not a foot away. Without an instant’s hesitation, he plunged forward and made a beautiful flying tackle. As he had hoped, he caught the fellow fairly about the knees and, with a crash which shook the room, they went down together.
Like a flash, Dick twisted around and made a grab for the unknown’s right wrist. In the darkness he missed it, but managed to get a grip on the arm just below the elbow.
Then followed a brief but desperate struggle. The fellow writhed and twisted and did his utmost to break away and free the hand which held the knife, but, having once closed with his enemy, Merriwell had little trouble in pinning him down.
He had scarcely done so when the hall door was flung open and Buckhart stood on the threshold, Tucker just behind him.
“Suffering coyotes!” the Texan exclaimed as his eyes fell upon the two men in close embrace on the floor.
Then he pushed the electric light button, which was close beside the door, and the room was flooded with brilliancy.
“Come in, Brad,” Dick said quietly, “and close the door.”
Buckhart and Tucker both stepped inside, the latter shutting the door after him.
“Kindly relieve this gentleman of his sticker, one of you,” came again in Merriwell’s even tones.
To hear him, one would never have supposed that he had just been engaged in a struggle for his life.