So now, as he saw the white stranger coming toward him at frantic speed and utterly beyond self-control, Chick curled himself up in the path, planted his two feet firmly against some slight equalities of rock near him, and prepared for a tremendous concussion. He got it. Hardly had he taken the position in which he hoped to be able to stop the helpless man, when the latter plunged down the last few feet. “Throw yourself flat!” yelled Chick. “Come at me headfirst! Come on! I can hold you! Right down!” Before Chick had finished shouting his instructions, the man had obeyed the first one. He let himself go like a ball player sliding to first base. Flat on his stomach he hurled himself, and into the diaphragm of Chick went his head. The shock was tremendous. Chick had braced himself to receive the charge, so that not all the breath was knocked out of him. He had not much left, but what he had he utilized in warning the man he had saved to hold on for dear life. “Lie still!” he shouted. “You’re all right! Don’t stand up! They’re after you!” Chick had seen that three of the pursuing natives were dashing down the mountainside. Each of them carried a spear, and there was no reason to doubt that he could hurl it with the precision of Jai Singh himself. The only reason they did not send their weapons ahead of them now seemed to be that they had not time. At least, that was Chick’s first reading of it. Then he changed his mind, as he saw that the spears were fastened to them by a cord that passed around their neck and over one shoulder. The cords had become entangled in some way, and all three of the men were trying desperately to get them loose. Down they came! Then--just as they were going to throw themselves upon Chick and the young man he had saved, and neither of whom had had time to get to his feet--there was a bang, and the foremost of the three rascals threw up his hands, whirled around, and went over the precipice! “Get the other two!” roared the familiar voice of Patsy Garvan, as his good-tempered face appeared above the edge of the rocks at the back. He was seen to be hurrying along to get to the narrow ledge, and his rifle was ready to send another shot at the companions of the fellow he had shot. “Hold on!” roared Jefferson Arnold. “Don’t shoot! You might hit my son!” “Your son?” cried Patsy. “Yes,” replied Jefferson. Then darting forward until he was close to the young fellow who had come tearing down the rocks, he held out both hands, as, in sob-choked tones, he cried: “My boy!” It was Nick Carter who saved Jefferson Arnold from pitching over the precipice, by throwing both his arms around the millionaire as he leaped forward to grasp the hands of his son. “What? Is this Leslie Arnold?” shouted Chick, bewildered. It was not necessary to repeat this question, for the two Arnolds, father and son, had dropped each other’s hands, and Leslie now had his arms around his father’s shoulders.