He knew then that his call for assistance had been heard—that Frank and his football comrades had reached the spot, and were in the act of practicing their gridiron tactics upon the unfortunates who had fallen into the very trap they had themselves set.
"Help! help! fellows, take him off!" shrieked the one against whom the angry Ralph had collided; for both of them had gone down in a scrambling, kicking heap.
Fear caused the under dog to make frantic efforts to escape; and while Ralph was able to get a little satisfaction out of his attack, he found it utterly impossible to hang on to the squirming figure, which, eluding his grasp, presently rolled over and over, bounded to his feet, and fled like the wind.
Meanwhile there was taking place a furious fight. The disguised crowd found itself outnumbered two to one, and while they struck back whenever possible, the one thought in their minds was escape.
"Cut it!" shouted the one who seemed to be a leader.
"Don't let them get away! Take 'em prisoners!" whooped a tall lad, who was doing his share of the mauling.
But that was easier said than done. The now sadly demoralized enemy scattered in every direction, some running wildly down the road, and others vanishing in the darkness of the wood.
"They're gone!" cried Lanky Wallace, in disgust, as he found that the fellow he had embraced was no other than his fat friend, Buster Billings.
"Let me go, hang it! You've squeezed the last breath out of me! I'd had that dub, only for your interference. Such rotten luck!" gasped the stout one, as he shook himself free from Lanky's encircling arms.
Frank was at the side of the boy they had rescued just in time.