At the same time Nicky and Tom sprang from the door to catch the Spaniard but found their coat collars in the powerful grip of the copper colored one behind them. He swung them off their balance and started to run them toward the steps, backward, scratching, clawing, trying to break his hold.
As Cliff recovered himself, still clinging to his letter he saw the man scramble into the room. He made a fresh clutch at the envelope but Cliff sent it spinning into a corner, then felt powerful fingers grasp his arm.
At the same time a small automobile turned into the street. Nicky shouted, “Mr. Whitley!” as Tom, fighting ferociously, tore loose from his captor. He made a stroke but the Indian flung them both away at the top of the steps and vaulted the porch rail at one end with a shout as the car brakes screamed and the tires smoked. Before the car was at a standstill its occupant, his strong face set and intent, was coming with long strides up the path.
“Let him go,” Tom called as the rescuer swerved to pursue the Indian. Tom saved Nicky a nasty fall down the steps and turned to see how Cliff was faring, shouting to the newcomer to come with him. Nicky, catching his equilibrium, went with them through the cottage door.
Within, Cliff was striving to hold back while his captor, who clung to Cliff as Cliff clung to him, pulled steadily and surely to where he could reach for the letter on the floor.
Cliff felt that he must act swiftly; he heard the noise on the porch but could not tell what had happened. He used a jui-jitsu trick taught him by a young Japanese student at Amadale, and the Spaniard, with a muttered word, crumpled for an instant; it was enough; Cliff had caught the letter and put the table between them by the time his adversary was up.
He was trapped; Cliff blocked the window; three were entering the door. Nevertheless, with a final, futile snatch at the object in Cliff’s hand, the Spaniard caught up a chair and sent it sidewise against the legs of his advancing attackers; in their scuffle and scramble he avoided them, got to the door and was gone before they could right themselves.
“Don’t chase him,” Cliff panted. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Whitley. Everything is all right. They wanted this letter—but they did not get it!”
They all observed one another. Mr. Whitley was the youngest instructor at Amadale; he taught history and was a great friend of Cliff. His method of teaching made him popular with all the youths and boys at the Academy. His classes were more like round-a-camp-fire gatherings, with chats and anecdotes, than like cold, matter-of-fact history lessons. The boys all liked and respected Mr. John Whitley. He was hardly more than twenty-four and had a companionable manner and clear honest eyes. His sense of fairness made him mark examinations so justly that no student ever complained of favoritism.
“What is it all about?” he asked, “If that is any of my affair.”