He had barely done so, when he was seized by the arm by someone who stepped out of the shrubbery that lined the walk.
“Come on,” said the man in French, and a second appeared in his wake.
Dick recognized the voice. It was that of Baptiste LeBlanc.
Certain capture stared Dick in the face. To call for help would be of no avail, for there was no one that could come to his aid quickly. He thought swiftly and then acted.
Once upon a time, during their school year, a Japanese boy had lived for a time in Colfax, the home town of the boys, and was the marvel of the town for his ability at jiu jitsu, the Japanese art of wrestling. He had taught many of the boys some of the simpler tricks of judo, as the art is often called, and now Dick remembered these.
Snapping back with his foot, the heel of his heavy shoe-pack caught the man standing in back of him square on the shin.
Then when the other had come near him, he used one of the holds taught him by the son of Nippon, and sent the other flying.
The beauty of the art of jiu jitsu is that weight and size of the opponent are never taken into consideration. Knowing the proper method, a girl of sixteen can throw a full-grown man several feet.
As everyone knows who has ever experienced it, there are few things that hurt any more than a well-directed blow on the shin. The force of the one dealt Dick’s capturer was sufficient to make him groan with pain, and loose his hold on the boy’s arm.
Free of his captors, Dick figured that discretion was the better part of valor in this case, and darted back into the house, slamming the door shut, and turning the key in the lock. Then he reached for his rifle and went to the front window and saw the pair sneaking off down the road.