A sound like mocking laughter came from behind the gag in Merry’s mouth.
“He’s laughing!” muttered one of the gang, in astonishment.
“Good grit!” nodded the big fellow.
“I believe you are in sympathy with him!” snarled the leader. “Help me up, somebody!”
They aided him to rise, but it was with difficulty that he could stand unassisted upon his feet. He leaned against the wall, glaring in a deadly manner at the defiant captive.
“Are you going to let him stand there and bluff you all?” he fumed. “You can down him with a rush. Go at him now!”
“We’re not paid for that,” said the big fellow. “We were paid to catch him and bring him here. That’s what we’ve done.”
“I’ll pay you! Down him! I’ll make it five dollars more all round.”
“That goes!” was the cry, and the ruffians rushed upon Frank.
Then Merry’s feet came into play. In France he had learned the art of boxing with his feet, and he could handle them almost as nimbly as an ordinary boxer could handle his fists. The first man to spring at him received a kick in the stomach that doubled him up like a jack-knife, the next was hurled to the floor, and the third got one on the side of the head that sent him staggering away, bewildered and blinded.