And he left the Red Flag.
CHAPTER XIV.
AMERICAN BLOOD.
Frank made a desperate effort to follow Wynne through the doorway. He had felt himself grasped again by several hands, his hard fists cracked upon evil faces, and he had torn himself out of his coat in his mad struggle.
In vain.
They fastened to him like leeches. They twined about him like the arms of a deadly octopus. Samson himself would have found them troublesome.
Down upon his knees the boy was forced, and now it seemed that they had him foul. Something like a gasp of satisfaction came from those fierce men who had hurled themselves on one brave American lad. They had been astounded by his nerve and the tiger-like manner in which he had fought, and they were relieved to see him go down.
There were no cries. They were struggling silently, madly—a frightful battle.
Frank felt them crushing upon his back, felt a hand come around and close on his throat, felt his wind shut off in a moment by the long, coiling fingers of Montparnasse.
“They’ll have to kill me before I give up!” he thought, and, with true American grit, he continued the battle against terrible odds.