A number of glancing blows had struck home, one cutting his lips. At last he began to wonder how long he could keep it up, and what the end would be. He knew he might expect no mercy from the maddened crowd, all of whom supposed, by this time, that he was the one who had started the fracas. Unless the police came soon, or some other help—
Suddenly he felt a movement behind him. His first thought was that his enemies had found a way to get him at the rear; but even before he could whirl about to face them, two hands caught his shoulders, and a familiar voice sounded in his ear:
“Lemme have a whack at ’em, kid.”
It was Buck Fargo, the big catcher of the Hornets.
CHAPTER V
FRIENDLY BUCK FARGO
Dazed, bewildered, a sudden overpowering weakness gripping his limbs, Lefty felt himself thrust against the wall, and saw the massive form of the man who had baited him so successfully on the field that morning leap into the front place, eyes blazing and huge fists doubled for action.
Perhaps it was the sight of him—burly, menacing, and fresh—which turned the tide. More likely it was that sudden panicky awakening which comes to every mob when the first outburst of passion has run its course. At all events, Fargo had no more than time to land his fist with precision and force on the faces of two men, before some one at the rear started a yell that the cops were coming.
The effect was magical. Out into the street poured the mob, and fled wildly in every direction. Before he realized that it was all over Lefty felt himself grasped by the shoulders, hustled out of the barricade and rushed across the street. The whole thoroughfare was filled with flying men, so that they passed unnoticed as Fargo headed straight for the nearest corner.
“Them cops is coming at last,” he explained shortly, whirling into a side street. “We don’t want to be pinched. Think you’re good for the hotel, kid? If you ain’t, we can stop at a drug store and have you patched up.”