Down Jack went. As he tried to get up Flemming kicked him over.
The sound of the fight had aroused those in the front of the saloon, and several came hurrying in.
The door had not been closed, as Flemming had directed, and the curious ones gained easy admission to the room.
Among the foremost was Plug Kirby, a tough of
the town, whom Frank had once whipped. He saw Frank stretched on the floor, and he hoarsely demanded:
"Who done that job? Who hit me friend Merriwell? Show me der blokie, an' I'll punch der face offen him instanter!"
Thrusting out his chin, Kirby glared around at the boys. At best, he was an ugly-looking scoundrel, with a bullet head and a bulldog neck.
"So you are one of Merriwell's friends!" sneered Flemming. "That speaks well for Merriwell!"
"W'at's dat?" snarled Plug, advancing on Fred. "Dat Merriwell is white ter ther bone, an' I sticks by him—see! Dis gang has done him dirt, an' I'm goin' ter punch der mugs offen der whole of yer!"
"Merriwell should be proud of his friends!" cried Flemming, scornfully. "It is plain that he has been very careful in his selection!"