Then he twisted about and grappled with the other. A moment later both were sprawling on the paving. Frank saw his opportunity. Grasping Hilda’s arm, he quietly said:
“Come!”
He hurried her straight to the nearest empty hansom.
“Down Seventh Avenue in a hurry!” he said to the driver, as he sprang in after Hilda.
As the hansom turned they caught a glimpse of one of the combatants, who dragged himself from the other and ran toward them shouting. The whip of the driver cracked, the horse leaped forward, and they were away, the cool wind whistling into their faces.
“A piece of luck,” said Frank. “If that fellow had not jumped on Jones just then, I know not how we would have given him the slip.”
“Have we?” asked Hilda, still agitated.
“I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
Merriwell tried to look back. Then he rattled the little trap-door in the roof of the cab till the driver opened it and looked down.