So there was really nothing to do but stand and take what was coming to him, at the same time give as good as he knew how.
They would never be able at any rate to say they had won an easy victory.
By this time they were beautifully daubed with mud, as each appeared to be the under dog while the minutes crept along.
Darry's only hope lay in the possibility of some one passing that way, and as the day was so stormy, and few people ever took this road, his chances were indeed slender.
Now the whole bunch seemed to be upon the ground alongside the road, struggling like a pack of Kilkenny cats, the three aggressors having their hands on Darry at one time in the endeavor to subdue him.
Suddenly Jim gave a hoarse cry.
"Haul off dere, fellers; somebody's comin'!" was what he ejaculated.
Immediately the other two sprang to their feet like a couple of deer, afraid lest they be caught at their game; perhaps a vision of old Hank Squires flashed before them, with the penitentiary in the background.
Darry, out of breath, but game to the last, made an ineffectual attempt to hold one of his tormentors, catching the flying end of his jacket; but such was the moment of Sim's upward movement, and the flimsy character of his wearing apparel, that the entire section came away, remaining in the grip of the enemy as he went tearing after his mates.
The three of them plunged into the bushes alongside the road, and were lost to sight, leaving Darry half sitting up on the road, plastered with mud, and ruefully surveying the strip of cloth in his hand.