A massive fist shot out, and Jack, taken utterly unawares, was knocked from his feet into the dust.
Before he could recover himself, Duke was darting for the gate, but with Tom clinging to him like a bulldog to a cat.
“Good for you, Tom!” shouted Jack, gathering himself together and regaining his feet.
He was about to follow Tom and the man Duke when a moan from within the shed from which Duke had darted arrested him.
“Mr. Dancer or somebody is in pain or injured,” he exclaimed. “My first duty is to him.”
Flinging a quick word of encouragement to Tom, the boy ran into the shed.
“Mr. Dancer! Mr. Dancer! Are you there?” he cried as he entered the place which was in semi-darkness.
“Who is it? Oh, who is it?” came in a moaning, broken voice from some corner of the dark shed.
“It’s Jack Chadwick! I’ve come to help you,” rejoined Jack as his eyes, growing more accustomed to the gloom, made out a figure huddled in a half shapeless mass in one corner of the place.
“I fear you are too late, my lad. The scoundrel Duke has—has——”