“It’s Gifford!” shouted Herc, recognizing the centre of the group, who, though putting up a plucky fight, was overwhelmingly outnumbered.
“Hey! Gifford, stick it out. Beales to the rescue!” yelled Ned, carried away by indignation and forgetting that it would have been better judgment to try diplomatic methods first.
Echoing the cry, his two companions followed him in a furious dash into the crowd. Before the jackies’ sturdy arms the South Americans fell right and left like ninepins; but they, taken by surprise though they were, soon recovered their wits, and a hail of stones poured in on the boys and Gifford, to whose side they had fought their way.
“Quick, Gifford, get your back against the wall. We don’t want them attacking us from behind!” exclaimed Ned.
As the four sailors braced their backs against the corner building and stood, with flashing eyes, waiting the fresh onslaught of the Costavezans, a stone whizzed through the air.
Crack!
Before Ned had time to dodge it, the missile grazed his cheek. It fortunately only bruised the skin, but it set the blood to flowing. In a second, as if it had been a signal to the mob, the air became full of rocks. The Americans had to hold their arms over their heads to prevent being seriously injured.
“Come on!” exclaimed Ned, as the mob paused for a second for fresh ammunition, “a charge is the only thing for it.”
“When I say,—go,” seconded Stanley.