Bill obeyed, and as the light flared up, not only the leader but the rest of the band looked over the young men keenly.
“You’re Matson, all right,” said the leader to Joe, and the rest acquiesced. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers many a time, and I’ve seen you at the Polo Grounds too. All right. You get back in the car,” he said to Jim, poking him in the side with his pistol, “and drive off.”
“What do you want with me?” asked Joe steadily.
“Oh, we’re not going to kill you,” replied the leader, with an evil grin. “But,” he muttered under his breath so low that only Joe could hear him, “by the time we’re through with you, that pitching arm of yours will be out of business. Them’s our orders.”
“Who gave you those orders?” asked Joe.
“Never you mind who gave them,” snarled the bandit. “I’ve got them, and I’m going——”
He never finished the sentence.
Like lightning Joe’s foot shot up and kicked the weapon from the leader’s hand. The next instant his fist caught another of the scoundrels a terrific crack on the jaw. The man went down as though he had been hit with an axe. At the same moment Jim’s hard right fist smashed into another straight between the eyes. There was the snap of a breaking bone and the man toppled over. The fourth rascal, who had been paralyzed with astonishment, forgot to shoot and started to run, but Jim was on him like a tiger and bore him to the ground, his hands tightening on his throat until the rascal lay limp and motionless.
In the meantime, the leader, nursing his hurt wrist, had hobbled to the car, whose engine all this time had remained running. Joe made a dash for the car, but the chauffeur put on all speed and darted away into the darkness.