That there would be a fight he did not question. Why? He had not the remotest idea.
Johnny did not mind a fight, a clean fight. He kept himself fit for just such an occasion as this. He was always in training.
“But four of them!” He groaned.
No ringside rules here. One of the men was fat. Like a battering-ram, Johnny aimed his head square at that one’s stomach. The man went over with a groan. But not Johnny. Regaining his balance in a flash, he swung his good right arm to bring his heavy package squarely down upon a second man’s head.
The package flew from his hand. In a fair fight with one man, or even two, Johnny needed only two well-formed fists. As the third man sprang at him, he squared away to give him an uppercut under the chin that closed his jaws with the snap of a steel trap and put him out for a count of twice ten.
But at that instant something crashed down upon Johnny’s skull. The fourth member of the gang, he who had hovered in the shadows, had gone into action.
Ten minutes later when a detective threw the beam of his flashlight down that alley it fell upon a lone figure huddled against the wall.
He was about to pass on, thinking it was some poor wanderer fast asleep, when something about the person’s clothes caused him to look again. Two long strides and he was beside the prostrate form.
“Johnny Thompson, as I live!” he muttered after bending over for a look.
“And somebody’s got him! I wonder if it’s for keeps?”