“Come on, Merriwell!”
He believed Frank was close at his heels, and he made a rush straight for the outer door. Two men arose up before him. He laid the head of one open with his heavy cane, and a sharp blow broke the wrist of the other.
The door was reached. His hands fell on the bars, and they were jerked from their sockets. Chains rattled, and, a second later, he flung himself headlong out into the night.
Wynne ran from the spot, but only for a short distance. He whirled about, calling to Frank, but receiving no answer. Then, for the first time, the thought came to him that he might have deserted his friend and countryman in that place of deadly peril.
Not a moment did Wynne pause after that thought struck him, but back to the door of the Red Flag he dashed, ready to charge in there again, and place himself at Frank Merriwell’s side, no matter how great the peril.
The door was closed and barred. He beat upon it. There was no answer. The place seemed dark and deserted.
“Oh!” gasped Harvey Wynne. “What have I done! Where is that boy with the nerves of iron?”
The thought that he had deserted Frank to a frightful fate made Wynne feel the utmost humiliation and self-contempt. He was thoroughly disgusted and ashamed of himself. He pictured Merriwell weltering in his blood within that dreadful place.
Then Wynne dashed away to find a police officer. An officer was soon found, and the excited young American told his story.
The officer looked incredulous.