But he had no time in which to dwell on his sensations. As the voice which had struck Jack as familiar boomed out, Blinky made a rush at Tom not unlike the other rogue’s onslaught. But Blinky was more skillful with his fists than his companion.
Tom speedily found that it was all he could do to defend himself, strive as he might with every ounce of trained strength in him. He defended his face to good purpose against a tornado-like rain of blows. Blinky could not beat down his guard there.
Nevertheless, all about his body the rascal’s fists played like lightning. Tom pluckily defended himself, his grit rising as the odds against him grew more desperate. But at last, in warding off a heavy blow aimed at his ribs, he, for an instant, relaxed his guard on his face.
Instantly, with the snake-like swiftness of a fencer’s foil, Blinky’s burly arm shot forward. But if it had the swiftness and precision of a sword, it had also the force of a battering ram. Tom was lifted right off his feet and fell blunderingly into a patch of brush. It was lucky for him that the tangle of bushes broke his fall, saving his head from coming in contact with the ground.
“He’s safe for a while,” muttered Blinky, examining poor Tom’s white face and closed eyes by the light of the lantern which had been knocked over but not extinguished.
“Hey, Blinky! Gimme a hand here! This kid’s too much for me,” came from the rascal’s companion, who was busily engaged now, not in attack, but in defending himself.
The owner of the voice which had urged Blinky and his companion on, was not in evidence. Perhaps he thought discretion the better part of valor, and kept himself carefully out of the fray. However that may have been, he was not to be seen.
At his companion’s appeal for aid, Blinky, with a haste worthy of a better cause, hurried to his side.
“Rush him!” he cried.
Together they charged on Jack like the forward rush of a football team sweeping across the gridiron.