“Hurrah, boys! Go at it!” shouted Ned, leaping in to help his chums.
Clarence had been struck, and was lying also on the ground. But Fred Weldon was giving a good account of himself, dodging the baton of the Boer—an immense fellow—and getting in some facers, which made the baton strokes uncertain.
With a strong tap on the back of the Boer’s cranium, which was bare, Ned quickly sent him alongside of his two mates.
Then for a moment the fray was over, for the remaining policeman had rushed to the outside of the ring, and was blowing his whistle for help.
“Bolt!” cried the crowd, opening a lane for them, although otherwise they did not offer to help.
“No, you don’t,” cried Stephanus, covering the two boys with his revolver. “Move a foot and I’ll riddle you.”
Ned looked down at poor Clarence, who was lying senseless on the ground, and decided that the game was up. He therefore glanced towards Stephanus and cried with a scornful laugh—
“I won’t run away, Stephanus Groblaar, and you may have this useless baton.” As he uttered the words he pitched the baton full at his enemy.
Stephanus fired as the baton left Ned’s hand, while he ducked. Where the head of Ned had been the bullet struck the wall and knocked a piece of stone out.
But Stephanus had no time to fire again or evade the baton. Full in the face it struck him, and down he also went.