Shirley found herself in the midst of a struggling, striking mass. Wherever she turned she saw nothing but flying fists. One of the enemy struck her a glancing blow on the arm. Shirley became angry.
Stepping quickly forward she struck the boy a resounding smack with her open hand.
Dick, who happened to be close to her at that moment, noted this with a grin.
“Hit ’em with your fist,” he called. “It won’t do any good to slap ’em.”
But this Shirley could not do. So there she stood while the struggling mass fought around her. How long the street fight continued, Shirley did not know, but it came to an end suddenly.
From far down the street came the single sharp blast of a whistle. Immediately the struggling combatants dropped their fists and took to their heels.
“Police,” was the cry that went up.
Three minutes later the street was deserted. Both factions had fled, and when the guardians of the law appeared upon the scene there was nothing to give evidence of the struggle that had raged a few moments before.
Shirley had fled with the others, still keeping as close to Dick as possible. Round corner after corner she followed him, for she was keen enough to know that in this way lay safety, while, should she go her own way, she was likely to fall into the hands of the law; and, in her present attire, she had no desire to do this.
But finally the half a dozen who had fled in the same direction as Dick and Shirley came to a halt. They stood panting and gasping.