“The fool ran right onto the knife!” panted the big fellow, hastily cutting the ropes that held Frank. “I didn’t mean to hit him with the knife. I could handle him with one hand.”
“It’s unfortunate,” said Frank; “but he brought it on himself.”
“You will testify to that if he dies?”
“Yes.”
“I can depend on you?”
“You may.”
The horrified whitecaps gathered about their fallen leader, who was groaning and moaning on the floor, his blood-stained fingers pressed to his side.
“I’m dying, fellows!” whimpered Dyke. “I have been murdered! Oh, dear! I can’t die now—I can’t die!”
Frank Merriwell stepped forward, boldly, moving the helpless whitecaps aside, and knelt beside the wounded youth.
Dyke saw him and tried to move away.