Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.
Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. The citizens followed, running and puffing.
Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. One of the smallest members of Gridley's police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.
Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.
Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.
Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.
"Look out, boys! He'll kill you!" shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.
"Will he?" grunted Dick grimly. "Greg, I'll tackle the fellow—-you be ready to fall on him. Head down, now—-charge!"
As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy's goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.
"Get outer my way!" roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.