Still Dick Merriwell fought on like a fury. Thrice he knocked down the smaller of the three thugs. As many times he sent the big man staggering before heavy blows. And he gave the other jabs and kicks that made him snarl and curse.
It was a grand fight against odds, and the chap who had been knocked down felt that young Merriwell was a wonder.
"I must help him!" he panted. "I must!"
Then he set his teeth and made a fourth attempt to get up. The ground seemed unsteady beneath him, but just then he saw one of the men get hold of Dick from behind.
In an instant the chap whom Dick had warned grew steady and rose. He saw the trio close in on Merriwell, and then he plunged into the battle again.
It was fortunate that he recovered just as he did, for the ruffians had caught Merriwell at a disadvantage. They might have succeeded in downing him, but the other came rushing into the fray once more, striking right and left.
This diversion gave Dick a chance to break away, and, with a singular laugh, he resumed the unequal struggle. That laugh—it was like the laugh of Frank Merriwell when beset by peril and when fighting against odds. It was full of recklessness, and there was something about it that made a foe hesitate in amazement.
"Ha! ha! ha!" it sounded. "Why, this is real sport! Get at them, pardner! I reckon we’re enough for a set of curs like these! How do you like it, coyote? Ha! ha! ha? Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha!"
That laugh sounded strange and eery in the darkness, and it made the ruffians pause a moment.
"He’s the devil!" declared one of them.