“We have struck at him—and all the blows have been wasted.”
“Fools! Bunglers! The sandbag! That will fix him.”
Frank heard all this, although still fighting. He fully realized his peril. If he were struck from behind by a sandbag, it would end the battle in a moment. With all his strength he fought to force his way to the wall, against which he might place his back. If he could not escape by the door, he would do his best to hold these human wolves off yet a little longer, hoping that Wynne might return to his aid.
“Stop him!”
Bornier understood the boy’s purpose, and he directed the others. This enraged Durant, who fumed fiercely.
“Get back!” he snarled at Bornier. “You are in the way! We can do better without you.”
“You have not done much thus far,” flashed the proprietor of the Red Flag in return.
Frank retreated step by step. They penned him in and they forced him against a table. Had he been able to look behind him, he would have seen and avoided it.
And then, although he had scarcely shown a sign of weakness, he was crowded hard upon the table. A sandbag struck him a glancing blow on the head. He had tried to avoid it entirely, but failed. That blow dazed him for a moment, and that moment was enough.
Down upon the table he was flung, something twined about him, and they held him there, for his arms were bound, and he was snared at last.