His opponent followed, feinting. Close to Clif’s ear a voice bellowed: “Bore into him, Tom! Don’t let him swing that right on you!” The voice was Jack Cooper’s. Maybe, above the many other voices, Tom heard it. At all events, he sprang forward, took a blow on his head and landed once, twice on the body. Green gave back and Blue followed. Tom ducked a wide swing and darted a straight right to the chin. It was short and they clinched again. Once more the referee parted them. Tom didn’t retreat this time. He took punishment and gave it. Green left a wide opening and Blue shot a short jab to the face, ducked and planted a hard one on Green’s ribs. Green faltered, looked worried, dropped his right for an instant and then it was all over. Tom swung up with his left, there was a sound like “_Ugh!_” and the referee jumped forward, an outstretched arm motioning Tom back. But Tom knew that his job was finished, and, while the audience still retained its attitude of neutrality, still shouted applause for the victor, he dived into the line where Clif and Jack were. “Come on,” he panted. “Let’s beat it before they get sore!” “I’ll say so!” agreed Jack, put his shoulder against a neighbor and led the way. No one tried to detain them, although many stared and some applauded, and a moment later they were outside the crowd and the village street lay before them. Behind them the crowd was dissolving, still ahum with excitement. Small boys, surmising the identity of the hatless youth with the red, contused countenance, proclaimed their discovery loudly. Disapproving looks from scandalized but lingering citizens marked their hasty retreat. The bodyguard of urchins increased embarrassingly, and Jack threatened the leaders with dire things if they didn’t “beat it.” But that didn’t prevail against the youthful hero-worshipers. They went ahead and behind and alongside, noisily discussing the event and the hero’s personal appearance, the latter not always flatteringly. The trio walked as fast as they could, but the spectators of the recent fray had sighted them and set forth in pursuit. Clif looked back. “There’s a bunch of them,” he announced uneasily. “They’re running now. Gosh, we can’t fight them all!” “I guess they won’t trouble us,” said Jack. But his tone lacked conviction. Tom drew a swollen hand from a pocket, turned and viewed the situation appraisingly. “If they don’t make trouble they’ll razz us like the dickens. How far’s the station, Clif?” “About four or five blocks, I think. Let’s run, Tom.” “Aw, what for?” Jack protested. “I’m not afraid of that gang.” “You,” replied Tom, “stay here and tell ’em about it. I’m off!” And so was Clif, and, after an instant, so, too, was Jack! CHAPTER XI TOM HITS A “JOLLY CRASH”