Two other peons, who
had seized the athlete around the knees, were all but brained by a
stoneware gin bottle in the hands of Sherwen. Meanwhile, Mr.
Brewster was performing prodigies with a niblick which he had
extracted, at full run, from a bag opportunely resting against the
hat-rack. Almost before they knew it, the rescue party had broken
the intercepting wing of the mob, and had joined the others.
Cluff threw a gorilla-like arm across the Unspeakable Perk's
shoulder,
"Hurt, boy?" he cried anxiously.
"No, I'm all right. Who's left with Miss Brewster?"
"Nobody. We must get back."
Sherwen's cool voice cut in:--
"Close together, now. Keep well up. Herr von Plaanden, will you
cover us at the end?"
"It is the post of honor," said the Hochwaldian.
"You've earned it. But for you, they'd have got our colors."
The foreigner bowed, and swung his horse toward a Caracunan who
had pressed forward a little too near. But, for the moment the
fight had oozed out of the mob.
Without mishap the group got across the street, Perkins still
clinging to the flag.
Suddenly, from the rear rank, came a shower of stones, followed by
the final rush.
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