The fellow seemed to whirl end over end and strike out in the middle of the street, where he lay in a stunned condition, not even appearing to breathe.
Quick as a flash, Frank whirled and faced the others, knowing the fellow’s companions would be sure to attempt to avenge him.
“Come on, you loafers!” he cried.
“He struck Ned!” shouted one. “Give it to him!”
They all jumped for Frank, but in doing so they bothered each other more or less.
Merry met them halfway, his arms working like piston rods, his hard fists cracking on their heads.
It was an astonishing spectacle, for he went into them like a tornado, knocking them right and left.
To Frank it seemed that never before had he felt so strong and able. He was perfectly confident that he could clean out the entire crowd of half-intoxicated young bloods, and he was doing a very satisfactory job when somebody cried:
“Police!”
Instantly there was a scattering. Somebody had aided to his feet the fellow Frank struck first, and in a few seconds every one of the gang vanished.