The desperate rascal leaped over the one he had struck down and was outside in a moment. His wheel was there. Onto it he leaped, his feet found the pedals, and he shot away.
“He’s killed Merriwell!”
“I—think—not,” gasped Frank, speaking with difficulty. “He’s simply—knocked the wind—out of—me.”
Then he sat up, with his hands pressed to the pit of his stomach.
“Why, he stabbed you there!” exclaimed Dustan.
“Don’t think so,” said Merriwell, with a rueful smile. “He came near it. Belt buckle turned knife. He meant to do it, all right. Took me by surprise. I was to blame. Wasn’t on guard. Blow knocked wind out of me—that’s all.”
“Thank Heaven for that! I thought he had done you up. But he meant to, and that was a crime! After him, fellows! Don’t let him get away! Thomaston prison is good enough for him!”
Already two or three had rushed out and started in hot pursuit of the fugitive, raising an outcry on the street. They soon disappeared.
Merriwell arose, looking thoroughly disgusted.
“I was not smart, or he’d not taken me by surprise like that. Wasn’t looking for that kind of a blow.”