“What do you mean, sir?” gasped the man. “My name is not Weeden; it is Wright.”
The mob, thinking that it was a ruse to keep them from getting their prey, turned angrily on Nick.
“He is an accomplice!” they shouted. “Lynch him, too!”
With frenzied cries, they turned upon Nick, who still hung on to his prisoner.
The farmer fought by Nick’s side, and did splendid work in holding back the crowd.
There were too many for the two men, strong as they were, and one of the leaders of the mob had thrown a rope over Nick’s head, when a patrol wagon filled with policemen dashed around the corner.
“Let the police deal with them,” said one or two of the cooler heads in the crowd.
Some of the mob, angered at the loss of a chance to lynch somebody, tried to reach the detective, but were driven back.
One of the officers recognized Nick, and, swinging his club, shouted:
“I know this man; he is all right; fall back!”