By this time Merriwell was up and had the wretch by the throat. He held him thus with one hand, tearing off his mask with the other.
“I want to see your features, my fine bird!” he said. “A trip to the stone jug will cure you of your pranks, perhaps.”
In the meantime, the other fellow had been flung back toward the weak point in the stone wall, and Bramwell, following Merry over, landed on the wretch with both feet and stretched him quivering on the ground.
“This one is cooked, Merriwell!” he cried.
“Go on, Bramwell—go on!” urged Merry. “Leave them to me! I’m out of the race now.”
The Ashport man hesitated a moment. He saw that Frank was in a position to make the ruffians his captives. If he lingered to give aid there would be no chance of defeating Huntley.
Away he went.
Frank was on his feet now. He limped to the spot where the second man lay, stripped off his mask and looked at him.
“I’ll know you both,” he muttered, and shot away in pursuit of Bramwell.
The waiting crowd had grown weary when, from the observatory of the clubhouse, came a cry. Then followed the announcement that the first runner had appeared in sight.