As he passed a narrow street, even dirtier-looking than the rest, an arm suddenly shot out and dealt him a blow across the head, knocking him to the ground.
Dick was stunned by the force of the blow, but he was by no means deprived of his coolness nor resourcefulness. He rolled over quickly several times, seeking to put as much distance as possible between himself and his unseen opponent, and then scrambled quickly to his feet.
Two men bore down on him. Short wiry Mexicans they were, and one held a knife in his hand. Dick took one look at them, then turned and ran.
But the force of the blow he had just received made it impossible for him to run far, and soon he turned, and with his back to the wall of a house, faced his adversaries.
Just out of striking distance the latter halted, and spoke to him in Spanish. Dick shook his hand, indicating that he did not understand.
“Speak English,” he said.
The men conversed together in low tones, then one of them spoke a single English word to Dick:
“Money!”
“Oh, I see,” said Dick, “you want my money, eh? Well, you won’t get it. I need it myself.”
He shook his head at the men, and they gesticulated angrily, one of them raising his knife. Then, with a cry, they sprang forward.