“A gallant working man,” thought Fandor, as he caught a glimpse of a young man running across the road dressed in a blue jacket, the sort plumbers wear; “there’s still honest folk left who won’t let women be molested.”
But the time for action was come; he was level by now with the two women, who were still struggling, and cried in a peremptory voice to the assailants:
“Let the women go!—or I strike.”
At this the two bullies, finding it was their turn to be attacked, suddenly loosed hold of their victims and wheeling round to face Fandor and his companion, stood on the defensive.
In an instant Jérôme Fandor realized the state of affairs; one of the fellows was putting a hand in his pocket—his purpose was manifest.
“By God!” yelled the young man, “none of your tricks here!—or you’ll make me angry.”
Fandor was wrestling savagely, locked in a close embrace with the fellow who had first laid hands on the workgirl; behind him he could hear the laboured breath and fierce cries and oaths of the working man who had hurried to the rescue, and knew that the same battle was raging between him and the second ruffian.
A few seconds, and all was over.
At the very moment Fandor, with a masterly trip, stretched his adversary on the ground, where he held him down by main force, he heard the workman give an exultant shout of victory:
“Ah, ha! I’ve got you, you hound!”