As if his voice was meant to guide them, the injured man at this instant gave a heartrending groan. If Jack had felt any hesitation in following the rough-looking customer who had apprised them of the accident, all doubt left him now. The man who uttered that moan must be badly hurt.
The blinky-eyed man reached a small opening in the brush. Tom flashed the rays of the detached oil lantern hither and yon against the background of closely growing bushes and scrub timber.
“I don’t seem to see any one,” he was beginning, when Jack detected a sudden footstep behind him.
“There he is, guv’ner, poor old Jim, right there,” urged Blinky, pointing in the direction opposite that from which Jack had heard the footfall.
Tom pressed forward; but Jack, prompted by some impulse he could not explain, disregarded Blinky’s instructions and turned about. It was well for him that he did so. As he turned his head a dark figure bounded toward him from behind.
Jack felt a club, or some other weapon, “swis-s-s-s-s-h!” by his ear.
A fierce growl broke from the man as his blow missed. Before he could poise the implement for another, Jack had closed with him.
At the same instant, from beyond, came another voice. Even in Jack’s predicament he realized that this new tone held something familiar. But he had little time to think of that.
“Blinky! Duggan! Have you got ’em?” hailed the new voice.
“Not yet, but in a jiffy,” came from Jack’s assailant as he wrested himself free of Jack’s grip and, with a roar like a wild bull, intended to frighten the lad, launched his bulky form full at the boy.