A HUMAN WHEEL.
Chick had thrown himself to one side to ease the pressure on his back.
Accordingly, he struck the floor on his left side.
Chester and Graves dropped heavily upon him before he had more than
touched the boards, the former at his feet, the latter on his shoulders.
Their bony knees crushed him down, and Graves used his weight to try to
pull Chick over on his back.
Nick’s assistant had twisted his left wrist out of Chester’s grasp as he
fell, but the renegade physician had clung for dear life to the hand
which held the automatic.
Chick allowed himself to be pulled over on his back--for a very good
reason: His free arm had been under him as he lay on his side, and he
wanted an opportunity to use it.
Graves grabbed at it at once, but Chick stretched it--all but the upper
arm--out of his antagonist’s reach. Graves would have to lean far over
Chick in order to reach the latter’s left wrist, and, in so doing, he
would expose himself not a little. Or else he would be obliged to edge
around on his knees, behind Chick’s head.
He chose to try the latter maneuver, but Chick feinted with his left
arm. Graves dodged, and Chick’s hand darted in behind the other’s guard,
grasping Graves firmly by the hair.
Almost at the same instant the young detective jerked his right foot
loose and gave the startled Chester a tremendous kick in the stomach.
The master of the house gave a grunt and doubled up like a jackknife.
His grip on Chick’s right wrist relaxed simultaneously, and its owner
tore it away.
Chester had involuntarily lurched forward, and the act had brought his
head well within the reach of Chick’s right hand, which was now once
more at liberty.
While Nick’s assistant held the struggling Graves at arm’s length by the
hair, with one hand, he brought down the butt of the automatic, with all
the strength he could bring to bear, on Chester’s lowered poll.
He had juggled the weapon in a twinkling, so that it was clubbed when it
descended. The blow was surprisingly effective, considering the
circumstances.
Chester groaned and toppled forward, over Chick’s legs.
The detective’s assistant was ready to follow up his advantage at once.
He wriggled about until he was facing Graves, and then he began pulling
that individual toward him by the hair.
Tears of pain were in Graves’ eyes, and he struck out blindly in a
desperate effort to break Chick’s relentless hold. The attempt was a
failure, however. Despite all of Graves’ struggles, he was irresistibly
drawn nearer and nearer. The fact that he wore his hair rather long
helped Chick to maintain his grip.
Presently the young physician’s head was near enough to allow Chick to
strike it with his clubbed weapon. He drew the latter back for the blow,
but his enemy, seeing what was coming, suddenly changed his tactics.
Instead of trying to pull away any more, he ducked and threw himself
into Chick’s arms.
The revolver butt naturally missed its mark, and, for a time, they
fought at too close quarters to permit such a blow to be tried again.
Graves had seized Chick around the body as he closed in, and he drew
himself close, burying his head on Chick’s chest. Chick still maintained
his hold of his opponent’s hair, however, and now retaliated by rolling
over on Graves, working his feet from under the unconscious Chester as
he did so.
Graves snuggled as close as he could to avoid the dreaded blow, but
Chick, now being on top, was able to hold Graves’ head on the floor by
main force, while he arched his own powerful back and began to tear his
body from his antagonist’s straining arms.
Graves was game; there was no doubt about that. The pulling of his hair
must have been torture to him, but he did not relinquish his hold about
Chick’s waist.
His eyes were closed, his face drawn and twisted with pain, but he clung
obstinately, and without a whimper.
Slowly but surely, nevertheless, Chick raised himself, and the space
between their laboring breasts widened. Graves’ hold was being loosened
bit by bit, but it had not broken.
As a matter of fact, Chick did not wait for it to break. It was not
necessary, for one thing; and, for another, he realized that it would be
a kindness to Graves to end the painful struggle as soon as possible.
Accordingly, as soon as he had raised himself enough to deliver a
reasonably effective blow with the clubbed automatic, he struck
downward, with carefully controlled aim and strength.
The butt of the little weapon landed in the middle of the physician’s
forehead. A gasp followed, and the tugging arms fell away.
Chick had floored his two opponents.
He got quickly to his feet and looked to see if Nick needed him. Chester
and Graves ought to be handcuffed before they had time to revive, but
that could wait a little if necessary.
It was well that Chick finished his business just when he did, for Nick
was in trouble.
Doctor Grantley was not an athlete, and his long, lanky build gave
little promise of success against Nick Carter’s trained muscles and
varied experience in physical encounters of all sorts.
On the other hand, the convict was possessed of amazing wiriness and
endurance, and, although he was not cut out for a fighting man, his
keen, quick mind made up for most of his bodily deficiencies.
His original attack, for instance, was an example of unconventional but
startlingly successful strategy. On the surface, it would have seemed
that such a man, without weapons, had precious little chance of gaining
any advantage over Nick Carter, armed as the latter was, and a good four
feet away.
But Grantley followed up his impetuous dive in a most surprising way.
His long arms closed about Nick’s legs, but, instead of endeavoring to
pull the detective down in the ordinary way, Grantley unexpectedly
plucked his legs apart with all his strength.
The detective’s balance instantly became a very uncertain quantity, for
the surgeon’s abnormally long, gorillalike arms tore his legs apart and
pushed them to right and left with astonishing ease.
Nick felt like an involuntary Colossus of Rhodes as he was forced to
straddle farther and farther. He threw one hand behind him to brace
himself against the wall, reversed his automatic and leaned forward,
bent upon knocking the enterprising Grantley on the head.
The fugitive had other plans, however. Just as Nick bent forward,
Grantley suddenly thrust his head and shoulders between the detective’s
outstretched limbs, and heaved upward and backward.
The detective was lifted from his feet and pitched forward, head
downward. His discomfiture was a decided shock to him, but he neither
lost his presence of mind nor his grip on his weapon.
Had he struck on his head and shoulders, as Grantley evidently intended
he should, the result might have been exceedingly disastrous. The
detective would almost certainly have been plunged into unconsciousness,
and his neck might easily have been broken.
Nick saw his danger in a flash, though; drew his head and shoulders
sharply inward and downward, and at the same time grasped one of
Grantley’s thighs with his left hand.
The result would have been ludicrous under almost any other
circumstances. The detective’s lowered head went, in turn, between
Grantley’s legs, and their intertwined bodies formed a wheel, such as
trained athletes sometimes contrive.
This countermove of Nick’s was as much of a surprise to the surgeon as
the latter’s curious mode of attack had been to the detective.
They rolled over and over a couple of times, until Nick, finding himself
momentarily on top, brought them to a stop. So awkward were their
positions that neither was able to strike an effective blow at the
other.
Nick had the upper hand temporarily, however, and proceeded to wrench
himself loose. He had been busily engaged in this when Willard had
rushed to Grantley’s assistance.
That put still another face on the situation at once.