Phil heard a warning shout, as he rushed headlong.
But his toe caught on an iron girder and he came down heavily on his face. As he sprang to his feet again he heard further shouting all about him. He turned his head. Hanson was springing toward him and making on him with a speed Phil could not realise in a man so weighty; a speed he could not begin to emulate.
The great hairy hands were almost on his coat, when something happened.
He staggered, balanced himself and stood up sheepishly.
Hanson was on the ground, struggling, cursing and kicking viciously at a rope which Royce Pederstone had cast smartly round his left foot.
Pederstone tugged with all his strength, and his horse lent her weight, but together they could do no more than hold their own with the fallen Vulcan. Hanson brought out a clasp-knife from his clothes, opened it and slashed at the rope. He had it almost cut through, when Brenchfield, who had been sitting on his horse an inactive and silent spectator––in response to Pederstone’s urgent call, whirled his rope around his head several times and dropped it deftly over Hanson’s shoulders, pinning his arms helplessly to his side.
Brenchfield then tugged in one direction and Royce Pederstone in the other, each tying the end of his rope tightly to a stake at his side of the yard, with the result 81 that the madman was half hamstrung and reduced to impotence.
Langford came round the side of the building with fresh ropes. These were quickly bound round Hanson, until he was unable to move hand or foot, although he still struggled violently, the veins in his neck and head standing out in blue knots, the perspiration running over his shapely forehead and the frothy slither again oozing from his lips.
“Say, Graham!––what went wrong? Why didn’t you rope him? Thought you said you would take first throw.”
“Did I?” asked Brenchfield calmly.