Dick was nearly upset by Ditson’s weight, but he managed to keep his feet, squirm around, and get a hold on Duncan. Wolfe rushed in, seeking to render such assistance as possible. By this time Merriwell’s fighting blood was thoroughly aroused.
“The more the merrier!” he cried, with a strange, reckless laugh. “Call up your friends! Get them into it!”
In some manner he succeeded in slamming his elbow against Wolfe’s jaw, and Bern staggered backward, nearly knocked out.
Shea was a man with a violent temper, and without an oversupply of brains. By this time his fury was thoroughly aroused. Snarling like a madman, he rose to his feet, drawing from beneath his coat a long, keen knife, on which the cold white light of the street lamp glinted and gleamed.
“Hold him, cuss him!” cried the slugger, rushing at Dick. “I’ll cut him open!”
But, with a cry of horror, Ditson gave Dick a sidelong thrust, at the same time releasing his hold on the boy.
Merriwell tripped over Buckhart, tried to recover his balance, and went down heavily on his right shoulder. Shea followed the boy like a bloodthirsty panther, and pounced upon him as he struck the ground.
“For Heaven’s sake, let’s get out of this!” gasped Bern Wolfe, as he wheeled and took to his heels.
“I think we’d better,” muttered Ditson, imitating Wolfe’s example.
But, having fled a short distance, something caused Duncan to stop and cast a fearsome glance over his shoulder.