“All right!” hissed the other. On came the runner. Like a bird he sailed over the weakest part of the old wall, wholly unaware of the masked ruffians who were lying in wait for him at that point. They rose as he came over, and both leaped at him. He saw them before his feet again touched the ground. With his upflung arms he sought to protect his head. The moment his feet touched the earth he ducked. They were on him. One struck him a blow that staggered him, although it did not land full and fair. The other missed him entirely. But Frank went down to one knee, and they followed him up. “Lay him stiff, pal!” snarled one. “Stiff an’ cold!” panted the other. Instead of seeking to rise, as they expected him to do, Frank shot out a foot and caught one of the men fairly in the pit of the stomach, doubling him up and hurling him backward. Then he turned instantly on his back, with his feet toward the other, who sought to fling himself on Frank as he lay thus. Both of Merry’s legs shot up from the ground as the man came down upon him. They caught the legs of the ruffian across the shins. A surprising result followed. The man’s feet went upward and he turned over in the air, falling on his back beyond Merry, with his head toward Frank’s head. By this time Merriwell was up and had the wretch by the throat. He held him thus with one hand, tearing off his mask with the other. “I want to see your features, my fine bird!” he said. “A trip to the stone jug will cure you of your pranks, perhaps.” In the meantime, the other fellow had been flung back toward the weak point in the stone wall, and Bramwell, following Merry over, landed on the wretch with both feet and stretched him quivering on the ground. “This one is cooked, Merriwell!” he cried. “Go on, Bramwell—go on!” urged Merry. “Leave them to me! I’m out of the race now.” The Ashport man hesitated a moment. He saw that Frank was in a position to make the ruffians his captives. If he lingered to give aid there would be no chance of defeating Huntley. Away he went. Frank was on his feet now. He limped to the spot where the second man lay, stripped off his mask and looked at him. “I’ll know you both,” he muttered, and shot away in pursuit of Bramwell. The waiting crowd had grown weary when, from the observatory of the clubhouse, came a cry. Then followed the announcement that the first runner had appeared in sight. Word ran down the line. The road was cleared again. People began to cheer and stand on tiptoes. Bart Hodge, watching in the observatory, had found it difficult to repress an exclamation of bitterest disappointment when he turned his glass on the runner far away across the fields and discovered it was not Merry. “It’s Huntley!” he mentally groaned. “Where is Frank?” “There’s another!” shouted Paul Proctor. “Who is it? Who is it? It’s one of our boys!” “I believe it is,” said Robert Ashley.