“We’d better be lively if that girl is free,” said Sam, nervously. “There is no telling what she may do.”
They advanced on Frank, but stopped in surprise, as he suddenly shot up to standing position, with his back against the wall. There was a look in the eyes of the captive that warned them he was not in a submissive mood.
“Grab him, fellers!” ordered Joe Hooker. “Strip his clothes off! We’ll have the tar and feathers onto him in less than five minutes! We’ll fix him!”
He sprang at Frank, but out shot one of Merry’s feet, striking Joe in the stomach and hurling him backward with terrific force. The fellow dropped to the floor, where he lay gasping, grunting and groaning, apparently badly hurt.
Sam Hooker gave a howl of rage when he saw what had happened to his brother. He had fancied Merriwell was beyond making further resistance, but now he saw his mistake. However, the fate that had befallen Joe did not render him cautious. Uttering fierce language, he rushed at Merry.
In France Frank Merriwell had learned to “box with his feet,” having taken lessons from a Frenchman who was an expert in the art. Frank had realized the value of being able to use his feet scientifically in a rough-and-tumble fight, and now his acquirement stood him in good stead.
Joe Hooker had been kicked in the stomach, but his brother received a kick under the chin that fairly lifted him off the floor.
Sam went down with a crash.
The masked ruffians were astounded. They stared at Frank as if unable to believe a youth whose hands were tied behind his back had upset the terrible Hooker brothers so quickly and easily.
“Go—for—him!” groaned Joe, catching his breath in gasps. “Kill him! Smash him!”