“Come on, fellows, let’s do him up!” cried Pud. “We’re three to one, and I owe him something on my own account.”
“Shall we let the freshman go?” asked Glen.
“Sure!” exclaimed Snaith. “We can catch him again. We’ll do up Ranger now!”
The bully and his cronies advanced toward Jack. Will, hardly understanding that he was released, stood still, though Jack called to him:
“Better run, youngster. I can look out for myself.”
“Oh, you can, eh?” sneered Snaith. “Well, I guess you’ll have your hands full. Come on, now, fellows! Give it to him!”
The three advanced with the intention of administering a sound drubbing to our hero, and it is more than likely that they would have succeeded, for Jack could not tackle three at once very well. But something happened.
This “something” was a lad who came bounding up from the rear, with a roar like a small, maddened bull, and then with a cry Nat Anderson flung himself on the back of Pud Armstrong.
“Flabgastered punching-bags!” he cried. “Three to one, eh? Well, I guess not! Acrimonious Abercrombie! But I’ll take a hand in this game!”
“Here! Quit that! Let me go! Stop! That’s no way to fight! Get off my back!” yelled the startled Pud.