But while he was all abroad, half a dozen of his followers swarmed over Dick Elliott, and made the latter prisoner. The rest of the Grammar School boys had been driven off, but Dick was a captive.
'We've copped one!' roared a big red-haired lad. 'I'll tell yer what we'll do wi' him. Let's roll him i' the sludge!'
His comrades shouted joyful assent, and Dick, fighting like a tiger, but helpless in the hands of the wharf-rats, was dragged towards the river, where his captors intended to roll him in the deep mud left by the ebbing tide.
The band, with their struggling victim in their midst, were close upon the river before Chippy got to his feet, his head still singing from that shrewd crack.
'Wot's the game?' said Chippy in a husky whisper to himself. 'I see. I heerd Carrots say it 'ud be a good game to roll one on 'em in the sludge. But that's seven on 'em to one. That ain't good enough!' And he began to hurry after them.
'Wot cheer, mates!' he shouted in his hoarse tones. ''Old 'ard a bit! Lemme come up!'
But the victorious band were deaf to the calls of their leader, and at this instant they disappeared at a point where a sloping wharf ran from the quay edge into the river.
'Bring 'im along to the other end o' the wharf!' commanded the red-haired boy; 'then we'll chuck 'im bang into the mud, an' see 'im scrabble 'is way out!'
'Lemme go, you fellows!' yelled Dick, fighting with tooth and nail to wrench himself free; but there were too many for him, and Chippy, who loved fair play, and practised it, was too far behind. But, luckily for Dick, other help was at hand, or he would assuredly have been pitched straight into eighteen inches of foul black mud.
A boat had been pulled from a ship in mid-stream to the wharf, and a tall gentleman landed from it as Dick was dragged past the spot.