the others when there was a second sharp crack, then the
whine of a ricochetting chunk of lead as it zipped from the asphalt to
sing over our heads.

"Beat it!" I yelled. "Stop the car and get to cover!"

Edwards slowed. A moment Worth hung on the running board, peering in the
direction of the sounds. I started to climb out after him. There came
another shot from up ahead, and then a shout. As I tumbled to my feet in
the dark road, Worth had started away on the jump. And I saw then, what
I'd missed before, that the man who had burst from the hedge, was
running zig-zag down the open roadway toward us. He was making his legs
spin, and dodging from side to side as if to duck bullets. Worth headed
straight for him, as though it wasn't plain that some one out of sight
somewhere was making a target of the runner.

Not the kind of a scrap I care for; in a half light you can't tell
friend from foe; but Worth went to it--and what was there to do but
follow? I shouted and blew my whistle, hoping our men would hear, heed,
and let up shooting. At the moment of my doing so, Worth closed with the
man, who dropped something he was carrying, and tackled low, lunging at
the boy's knees, aiming I could see to let Worth dive over and scrape up
the pavement with his face.

No dodging that tackle; it caught Worth square; he even seemed to spring
up for the dive; and somehow he carried his opponent with him to soften
the fall. They came down together in the middle of the hard road with
the shock of a railway collision; rolled over and over like dogs in a
scrap, only there wasn't any growling or yelping. It was deadly quiet;
not for an instant could you tell which was which, or whether the
whirling, pelting tangle of arms and legs was man, beast or devil.
That's why, even when I got near enough, I didn't dare plant a large,
thick-soled boot in the mess.

The fight was up to Worth; nothing else for it. Capehart came rolling
from the hedge where I had seen the pistols flash; Eddie Hughes,
inconceivable in pink puffings, bounded after; Jim Edwards chased up
from his car; but all any of us could do was to run up and down as the
struggle whirled about, and grunt when the blows landed. These sounded
like a pile-driver hitting a redwood butt. Out of the melee an arm would
jerk, the fist at the end of it come back to land with a thud--on
somebody's meat.

"Who the devil is it?" I bellowed at Capehart, as the two grappled,
afoot, then down, no