A second man swiftly followed the first, but after that there was no time for picking and choosing. With a howl of rage, the crowd rushed forward in a body, bent on getting their hands on their prey and crushing him bodily. Luckily only three men could face Locke at once, and for a brief space he held them back by sheer skill and trained muscles. With fine precision he wasted not a single effort, but broke through clumsy guarding arms, to land on some vital spot with a jolt which sent his man reeling back against the others, or else crumpled him to the floor. In about three minutes those in the front rank were seeking to escape the deadly accuracy of his blows by dodging to one side or trying to push back through the crowd. Unfortunately for Locke, those in the rear continued to force their way forward, and thus slowly but inexorably the ring closed in. Lefty’s arms moved faster and faster. He had long ago ceased to pick and choose――it was impossible. Several times he had leaped back before it occurred to him to wonder what had become of Elgin. That was but a fleeting thought, however. He had never counted on the fellow’s aid, so it was just as well that he was not in the way. A number of glancing blows had struck home, one cutting his lips. At last he began to wonder how long he could keep it up, and what the end would be. He knew he might expect no mercy from the maddened crowd, all of whom supposed, by this time, that he was the one who had started the fracas. Unless the police came soon, or some other help―― Suddenly he felt a movement behind him. His first thought was that his enemies had found a way to get him at the rear; but even before he could whirl about to face them, two hands caught his shoulders, and a familiar voice sounded in his ear: “Lemme have a whack at ’em, kid.” It was Buck Fargo, the big catcher of the Hornets. CHAPTER V FRIENDLY BUCK FARGO Dazed, bewildered, a sudden overpowering weakness gripping his limbs, Lefty felt himself thrust against the wall, and saw the massive form of the man who had baited him so successfully on the field that morning leap into the front place, eyes blazing and huge fists doubled for action. Perhaps it was the sight of him――burly, menacing, and fresh――which turned the tide. More likely it was that sudden panicky awakening which comes to every mob when the first outburst of passion has run its course. At all events, Fargo had no more than time to land his fist with precision and force on the faces of two men, before some one at the rear started a yell that the cops were coming.