Anybody who ever has been hurt in this way can testify that the red-hot ash sticks to the flesh in a cruel fashion, causing excruciating agony.
As Nick took away one hand, John Garrison Rayne pulled the other loose. Then, hissing defiance between his set teeth, he dragged a long knife from inside his coat and aimed a blow at the detective’s heart.
Nick Carter was unable to ward off the blow entirely, but it only cut a long slit in his sleeve. The next moment he had seized the rascal around the waist and slammed him down upon the table by his side.
The table never was meant to stand such a shock. Down it went, in a muddle of broken legs and splintered top, with the Cuban and Nick in the ruins, for the Cuban had pulled his assailant down with him.
“Thieves!” roared the Cuban. “Look out! Grab him before he can get away!”
Four big men piled on top of Nick behind, and, under their combined weight, down he went, flat upon the floor, while the cunning rascal, who had incited the attack, slipped away in the darkness.
“Let me get up!” shouted Nick. “The thief has got away.”
“Oh, I guess not!” came from one of the men holding him down. “I saw the whole thing. This man asked for a light, and when he had it, he tried to go through the other man’s pockets for his roll. Where are the police? This is the worst holdup I ever saw.”
“You idiot!” exploded Nick.
He was enraged at seeing Rayne get away when so nearly caught. So exerting all his enormous strength, he threw the four men off, and, picking up a chair, swung it around his head to hold them back.