Galpy and Perkins went down. Von Plaanden tottered
in his saddle, but quickly recovered. Instantly Perkins was up
again, the blood streaming from the side of his head. He was
conscious of brown hands clutching at the cricketer, to drag him
away. He himself seized the cockney's legs and braced for that
absurd and deadly tug of war. Then Von Plaanden's saber descended,
and he was able to haul Galpy back into safety.
The situation was desperate now. Mr. Brewster was pinned against
the wall and disarmed, but still fighting with fist and foot. Half
a dozen peons were struggling with Cluff across the bodies of as
many more whom he had knocked down. Sherwen, almost under the
cavalryman's mount, was protecting his rear with the fallen
Galpy's cricket bat, and the two other cricketers were fighting
back to back on the other side. Carroll was clubbing his way
toward Mr. Brewster, but his weapon was now in his left hand.
Matters looked dark indeed, when there shrilled fiercely from
above them the whirring peal of a silver whistle.
Polly Brewster had remembered Raimonda. It seemed a futile signal,
for as she ran to the railing and gazed across at the Club
Amicitia, she saw all its windows and doors tight closed, as
befits an aristocratic club that has no concern with the affairs
of the rabble.
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