CHAPTER X.
WELCOME HOME.
Don Gordon’s assailant kept him exceedingly busy in warding off the thrusts of the knife, and the boy had a lively time of it before he could escape from his clutches. When the students went to work to clear the car, Don hoped that the man would become frightened and let go his hold; but instead of that, he seemed all the more determined to pull his captive out of the door. In spite of his resistance Don was dragged as far as the stove, and there he made a desperate and final effort to escape. Placing his foot against the side of the door he threw his whole weight upon the belt, jerked it from the man’s grasp and fell in the aisle all in a heap. When he scrambled to his feet the car was clear of strikers, his antagonist being the last to jump from the platform. Don was surprised to see how few there were left of the students. When they left Bridgeport there were more of them than the seats could accommodate; but there were only a handful of them remaining, and they were gathered in the forward end of the car. Where were the others? While Don stood in the aisle debating this question, two or three boys arose from their hiding-places under the seats and hurried past him.
“Come on, Gordon,” said one. “The way is clear now.”
“Where are you going?” asked Don.
“Anywhere to get out of the mob. Lots of our fellows have left the car and taken to their heels. Come on.”
“Don’t go out there,” cried Don. “You will be safer if you stay with the crowd.”
The boys, who were so badly frightened that they hardly knew what they were doing, paid no attention to him. They ran out of the car, and a minute later the rioters made their first charge, and the order was given to fire. This put life into Don, who lost no time in getting out of the range of the bullets in his companions’ muskets. Stepping out of the aisle he made his way toward the forward end of the car, by jumping from the back of one seat to the back of another. As he was passing a window a coupling-pin, or some other heavy missile, came crushing through it, barely missing him and filling his clothing with broken glass. If it had hit him, it would probably have ended his career as a military student then and there.
Reaching the forward end of the car in safety the first thing Don saw, as he dropped to his knee by Egan’s side, was a loaded musket; and the second was one of the Bridgeport students lying motionless under a seat. His face was too pale and his wide-open eyes were too void of expression to belong to a living boy, and Don straightway came to the conclusion that he was dead.
“Poor fellow,” was his mental comment. “There’ll be a sad home somewhere when the particulars of this night’s work get into the papers. He doesn’t need his musket any more, so I will use it in his stead.”
Don secured his musket in time to assist in repulsing every charge the mob made upon the car, and then, like the others, he began firing from the windows. While he was thus engaged one of the lieutenants passed along the aisle, and discovering a student lying prone under a seat, he bent down and looked at him. Like Don, he thought, at first, that the boy was dead; but upon closer examination he found that there was plenty of life in him.