HEMMED IN BY THE BRAVOS
Suddenly out of a doorway lurched a big Sicilian, seemingly
intoxicated.
He lurched against Dave, then drew back, scowling fiercely at the
young ensign.
"Your mistake, sir," spoke Darrin, purposely using English.
Dave would have passed, but now the fellow placed himself squarely in
Darrin's way.
"You have struck me!" snarled the Sicilian in his own language. "Why?"
Then, uttering a peculiar cry, the man, with a movement of wonderful
swiftness, drew a knife. In the dim light that blade flashed like
subdued fire.
"One, two, three--out!" gritted Dave Darrin, leaping forward.
Striking up the fellow's arm, Dave caught at the knife-wrist. He
twisted it savagely and the weapon clattered to the rough pavement.
Bump! Dave struck the fellow hard between the eyes, sending him to
earth, where he lay still.
Dan, now keenly alert, discovered that the pretended shop-keeper had
also drawn a knife.
"To quarters!" yelled Danny Grin.
"Back to back!" shouted Dave, placing his shoulders close to his
chum's. "Dan, we must fight for our lives. The lives of all these
cattle are not worth a scratch on our bodies! Down 'em!"
"We'll make ten-pins of 'em," hissed Dalzell.
And Monsieur Dalny? That honorable gentleman was now scuttling down
the street to safety.
The fight that followed was a mixture of boxing, football tactics and
sheer Yankee grit that Dave and Dan now employed as they faced more
than half a dozen scoundrels armed with the long, thin knives of the
bravos of Naples.
Bump! Ensign Darrin struck up the arm of the first scoundrel to reach
for him. In a twinkling Dave had broken that rascal's right wrist,
forcing the fellow to drop his weapon.
Like a flash Dave caught his victim up, holding him overhead and
sending the bravo, heels first, into the face of another scoundrel.
The man, struck by this human missile, went to earth dazed, and with a
broken jaw to boot.
Dalzell, too, was proving the stuff that was in him. Dodging a
descending hand that held a knife, then landing a smashing blow over
the fellow's heart, Dan sent him to earth. At that instant a knife
would have gone through Danny Grin's ribs had not Dalzell let one of
his feet fly with such speed and skill as to break another bravo's
shin-bone.
Crouching low, Dave received still another assailant. Seizing him
below the knees, then rising, he hurled the ruffian over backward on
his head, the fall nearly snapping the owner's spine at the neck and
leaving him unconscious.
Two more men were quickly downed, and seemed inclined to stay there.
The young ensigns had not received a scratch so far, which was due as
much to luck as to their own skill.
Now a wail of terror rose on the air. Two of the bravos took fairly to
their heels. The rest wavered, then gave way, glaring with sullen
looks at these young Americans who could fight so terribly without
weapons.
"Come on!" urged Dave, in a low voice. "Let's get out of here! There
is no credit in staying here and taking on more fighting. Let's hurry
while the hurrying is good."
Only one of the bravos was ahead of them as the young naval officers
began their sprint. That fellow was trying to get out of harm's way,
but hearing pursuit at his heels, the frightened fellow halted
suddenly, wheeled and struck out with his knife at Ensign Darrin.
Dave dodged, then landed both fists against the ruffian's ribs,
knocking the fellow clean through a window with a great crashing of
glass.
"Hustle!" muttered Dalzell, as he halted to wait for his chum. "There
may be a hundred more of these fellows who can be called out on a
single block."
But there was no pursuit. The bravos had had enough. Afterwards it was
a matter of local report that two of the rascals handled by Darrin and
Dalzell all but died of their injuries. The Strada di Mara contained
no bravos reckless enough to follow these incredible Americans on this
wild night of trouble.
Still sprinting, Dave, with Dan at his heels, overhauled a running
figure. Dave shot out his right hand, gathering in, by the coat
collar, Monsieur Dalny.
"My friend," uttered Dave grimly, as he halted the fugitive, "this
does not appear to be one of your best fighting nights."
"I--I--I--" stammered M. Dalny, his face white. "I--I--"
"So you said before," Dave retorted dryly. "Let it go at that."
"Do you mean to charge that I ran away?" demanded Dalny, with a show
of injured dignity.
"Certainly not," retorted Dave, ironically. "You were merely trying to
show two scared Americans the shortest way back to a safe part of
Naples."
"It's not safe here," whispered Dalny, trembling. "We are almost
certain to be followed by an enraged mob. Let us use discretion."
The word "discretion" recalled Darrin to the fact that he must not be
too rough with the fellow through whom he hoped to learn something of
great interest to Admiral Timworth.
"You are right, Monsieur Dalny," agreed the young ensign. "Let us
waste little time in getting away from this part of Naples."
No walk could have been too brisk, just then, for Dalny. He was not a
coward in all things, but he felt a deadly terror of cold steel.
In addition, this international plotter had, just then, a lively
conviction that friends of the men whom these American officers had
handled so roughly might, if they overtook him, feel a decided thirst
for vengeance upon the man who had led such giants against the bravos
of the Strada di Mara.
"Why are you looking back so often?" Dave asked, as the three gained
the next corner.
"To see if we are pursued," confessed Dalny.
"That is prudent," Darrin smiled, "yet hardly necessary."
"What do you mean?" asked the international plotter.
[Illustration: "Dave shot out his right hand."]
"Because," explained Dan, grinning, "the only bravos who have any
reason to be afraid of us to-night are those who might get in front
of us. Those who keep behind us will have every chance to get away
unharmed."
"You are a droll pair," muttered Dalny.
"And, unless I am greatly in error, my fine fellow, you led us into
that trap for the purpose of having something bad happen to us,"
muttered Dave, but he kept the words behind his teeth, for he did not
care, as yet, to come to an open quarrel with this fellow.
Before long the three reached one of the broader, well-lighted
thoroughfares. Here they engaged a driver and carriage, and were soon
once more in the Riviera di Chiaja.
As they passed one of the larger buildings, Mender, looking down upon
the avenue through the blinds of a window of a room at the hotel, saw
the three as they drove past an arc light.
"What can be the matter with that simpleton Dalny?" muttered the
arch-plotter. "Did he, at the last moment, fail in the courage
necessary to lead the Americans into the trap that I had baited for
them?"
Ten minutes later Dalny, closeted with his chief, was relating to that
astounded leader the story of what had happened in the Strada di Mara.
"I cannot understand it," muttered Mender.
"No more can I," rejoined Dalny. "The Americans are demons when it
comes to fighting."
"At some point, my good Dalny, you must have bungled the affair."
"Why not say that the fault must have been with your choice of
bravos?" jeered the subordinate. "Why did you pick out alleged bravos
who would allow themselves to be put to flight by unarmed men?"
"I must wait until I have a fuller report of this night's
misadventure," declared Mender. "I dare say that, within a few hours,
I shall have more exact information."
In this belief Mender was quite right. Before daylight he was visited
by the leader of the bravos of the Strada di Mara, who announced that
he must be paid two thousand _lira_ (about four hundred dollars) as
extra money to be divided among his outraged followers.
In the case that this extra money was not forthcoming, declared the
leader of the bravos, Mender and his friends might find Naples much
too dangerous a city for them.