It was a shrewd move. As Schmidt well knew, most of the habitués of his place were men whose names figured on the list of deserters sought by the Federal authorities. Like an avalanche the hesitating line rallied and swept down on Ned.
“Childs, are you with me?” cried Ned, as he saw.
“Y-y-yes,” stammered the young sailor, but Ned saw that he couldn’t place much dependence upon his ally.
The Dreadnought Boy met the onslaught with a vigor that astonished Schmidt’s cohorts. Before his fists, which shot out into the massed faces like piston-rods, many a tough loafer and stoker went down. Childs, though, was borne to the ground at the first rush. His defense was half-hearted at best and he made little attempt to resist, deeming it a hopeless contest.
Ned did not dare to lower his defenses long enough to give the sharp blast on his whistle that he knew would summon aid from the outside. But pursing his lips as he drove blows right and left with flail-like force, he contrived to send out a shrill call without the aid of his bos’un’s pipe.
In the uproar the sound was unheard outside. In fact, it is doubtful if even the shrill summons of the whistle could have been heard beyond the front office, closed as the doors were. But the sound was interpreted as some kind of a signal by Schmidt’s crowd and for an instant they hesitated. It was Ned’s chance. He jerked Childs, who was cowering and helpless, to his feet.
“For heaven’s sake, be a man!” he implored. “Come on, rush for the door. We’ve one chance in a hundred of getting out.”
All this time the men from the Manhattan had remained inactive. In fact, all that occurred had taken place so swiftly that they had not yet had time exactly to realize what was going forward.
Now, however, they sprang to their feet in a body.
“Ahoy, Manhattans!” shouted Ned, as he saw this. “Here’s a chance to show the stuff you’re made of!”