Quick as he was, however, the situation had already developed. A big, burly man, clutching another by the collar, had staggered back against the wall of the pub, where, with his disengaged arm, he was endeavouring to defend himself as best he could against a rain of blows and kicks.
Striking out mercilessly right and left, Colin forced his way through the gang. He was only just in time, for exactly as he arrived a vicious kick in the ribs sent the big stranger sprawling to the pavement, his fingers still gripping the collar of his half-throttled prisoner.
The man who had laid him out—a truculent-looking scoundrel in a blue suit—was stepping in to complete his work when a smashing swing from Colin caught him full in the mouth. Reeling back from the blow, he collided violently with one of his friends, and for a second the whole attacking party were thrown into confusion.
Before they could recover the shrill note of a police whistle rang out close behind them. They all spun round instinctively, and through a gap in their ranks Colin caught sight of the slim figure of a girl stooping over the prostrate body of the constable. It was only a brief glimpse, for the next moment one of the ruffians sprang backward and lashed out at her with his belt. Dropping the whistle, she sank forward on to her knees, and with a wild, clattering rush the entire gang took to their heels.
In two strides Colin was at the girl's side. He was not easily upset, but the sight of that cowardly blow had filled him with such a sudden wave of fury that he found it difficult to control his voice as he bent down over the crouching figure.
"Are you much hurt?" he asked.
She raised her head, and a pair of beautiful but rather bewildered blue eyes looked up into his.
"No," she said. "I don't think I am. Is it all over?"
In spite of his anger Colin began to laugh.
"Yes," he added, "it's all over. They've bolted like a lot of rabbits, thanks to you."