A quick glance revealed the situation. One man was being attacked by three others, while on the outskirts of the group a little boy hovered, terror-stricken, still crying out for help. The man upon the defensive was holding his own manfully. He was tall and active, and made shrewd play with a stout cudgel, apparently his only weapon, striving constantly to prevent his adversaries from attacking him in the rear. Yet three to one was heavy odds; knives gleamed in the moonlight; and while two of the attacking force advanced warily on him the third was creeping stealthily around behind just as the boys appeared on the scene. With a shout Dick leaped forward, discharging his right hand barrel over the heads of the contestants as he ran. The effect of his shot was well-nigh magical. On the instant the three men broke and ran, diving into the bushes as if they knew the country well. The tall man started to follow, fumbling vainly in his pocket as he did so, then drew up with a suppressed cry of pain and turned to his rescuers. "Much obliged," he said. "Just about in time, I guess; they pretty nearly had me--"
He broke off suddenly, lurching unsteadily toward the buggy. "Don't know but what they've done me, now," he muttered.
Dick could see that his face was deathly pale. "Here, Jim," he called, "take him and the boy. Drive right in to the hospital. I'll get back, all right; it isn't far--" He helped the man into the wagon and lifted the boy in behind. Putnam gave the mare a cut with the whip and the buggy shot forward toward the town.
CHAPTER V
[DUNCAN MCDONALD]
On a Saturday afternoon, a fortnight after the shooting trip to the lake, Dick Randall and Jim Putnam, on their way across the yard, came face to face with Harry Allen and Ned Brewster, sauntering leisurely over toward the gym. The day, although the month was December, was warm and clear; the ground lay bare of snow; altogether it was an afternoon when out of doors seemed far more attractive than in.
Allen, halting them, struck an attitude, raised one arm, and started to declaim. "Whither away, whither away--" he began, and then, as Brewster planted a well-aimed blow in the small of his back, he came abruptly to a stop. "Confound you, Ned," he said, "that hurt. Can't you appreciate good poetry? I never saw such a fellow. Well, if I've got to descend to vulgar prose, where do you chaps think you're going, anyway?"
Randall laughed, and in a tone of exaggerated deference, answered, "With your kind permission, Mr. Poet, we are 'whithering away' to the rustic cottage of Mr. McDonald, leader of strike-breakers, who has now recovered, and has been out of the hospital for some days. Mr. McDonald has won his fight; the 'passel o' furriners,' as my friend at the livery stable calls them, has been put to rout, and Mr. McDonald wishes to have an opportunity to thank his gallant rescuers in person. Isn't that what we are, Jim? Gallant rescuers? Of course we are."
Putnam nodded. "Sure," he answered, "of course. At least you are. I don't know whether I can qualify or not. I was driving the mare, you know. But still, on the whole, I believe that took more courage than fighting strikers. Oh, yes, we're heroes, all right, and we're going down to be properly thanked."