“We’ve got them foul,” declared Dick. “They’ll have to surrender.”
“Surrender?” snarled Satan. “Not on your life! We’ll fight.”
Fight they did. It was a fierce old battle that took place down there in the warehouse basement. Dick signaled out the crimson-clothed leader of the rascals and engaged him. While they were tussling and writhing and squirming, other struggles were taking place amid the boxes and bales and dim shadows of the place.
Merriwell found his antagonist strong as a bull, but was finally getting the best of the fellow when some one kicked over the pot of grease, the “slut” candle. The burning stuff ran flaring into a dry mass of straw and excelsior. Fire leaped up in a twinkling, illuminating the entire basement.
Startled, the boys stopped in the midst of their furious struggles.
“Fire!” yelled one, in a tone of great alarm.
“That’s bad business!” panted Dick, tearing away from his antagonist and leaping toward the flames. “Quick, boys, let’s see if we can’t smother it!”
Satan, enraged by what had happened and utterly reckless of consequences, sprang after Dick and grappled with him again.
“You fool!” exclaimed Merriwell, twisting about. “Let me alone! Don’t you see what’s happening? The building will go up in flames!”
“Let it go!” rasped the disguised fellow. “You’re the cause, and I’m going to soak you.”