“Let go!”
“I say you shall not.”
“Let go, or take the consequences,” cried Panton furiously, and he raised his gun as if to strike at his companion with the butt.
“Here, Smith, Wriggs, help me, he is half mad. He must not, he shall not go alone!”
“Then come with me, cowards!” cried Panton.
“No, sir, we aren’t a coming to see you die,” said Smith quickly, as he seized the hand which held the gun. “Now, Billy, ketch hold behind.”
The struggle began, but it was a vain one. No one present was gifted with much strength; but it was three to one, and as the darkness fell the four shadowy forms looked dim and strange, writhing here and there, Panton striving hard to free himself from the restraining hands as he made a brave fight, but gradually growing weaker till, all at once, Wriggs, who had retained his position behind during the struggle, suddenly clasped his hands round the poor fellow’s waist, and lifted him right from the ground.
“That’s got him,” he growled. “Now, Tommy, you get hold on his legs, and we’ll lie him down.”
“Right!” cried Smith, and in this ignoble way Panton would the next minute have been thrown down, had not a shout suddenly come out of the gloom behind them.
The effect was magical.