“Get at ’em!” ordered the fellow whose coat was turned. “It’ll take all of us to do the job.”
“All of you may not be able to do it,” cried Merry.
But the two fellows who had been on guard were fresh, and they pitched in fiercely. In a short time Bart and Frank found they were being overpowered. They were blinded by blows and beaten breathless, but still they fought.
Hark! What was that? The sound of singing from a distance—the old, familiar song:
“Here’s to good Old Yale—drink it down!
Here’s to good Old Yale—drink it down!
Here’s to good Old Yale,
She’s so hearty and so hale—
Drink it down! Drink it down! down! down!”
From Frank Merriwell’s lips pealed a wild cry—the Yale yell. It echoed along the street, and the distant singing stopped. The cry was answered!
“Help, fellows!”
There was another answer, and soon running feet were heard.
“A thousand furies!” snarled the leader of the ruffians. “Those other fellows are coming!”
Then he made a desperate lunge at Frank, who saw something bright glitter in his fingers. Merriwell avoided the thrust, but heard a cutting sound as the bright instrument slashed his coat.