THE MAN OF MYSTERY.
With an apology to the man whom he could have sworn was Jack Weeden,
Nick once more fought his way through the excited crowd.
He went back to see what had become of Harry Block, the farmer. The
wagon and its two occupants were gone.
Nick was inclined to be angry, but after a moment laughed, and said:
“Well, the fellow saved my life, and, besides that, I can pick him up at
almost any time.”
All round him was the scene of conflict.
Suddenly a bloodcurdling yell was heard. The mob, angry at being robbed
of its prey, had turned on the policemen that were in the center and a
terrific struggle was on.
The police were using their clubs to clear a passage that they might
take the prisoner they had to the patrol wagon that was waiting for them
at the corner.
The prisoner that they had was the man that had shot his wife.
The poor wretch was bleeding from a dozen different wounds that he had
received at the hands of the mob. His hat had been torn from his head
and his clothes were in shreds.
The man was crouching in terror by the side of the brave officers that
were endeavoring to protect him from the savage onslaughts of the crowd
that was intent on taking his life.
Nick saw that something must be done at once, or the policemen, as well
as their prisoner, would be crushed to death under the heels of the
infuriated crowd.
“Down with the police!” yelled a woman, from a point of vantage on the
sidewalk. “They are protecting a murderer!”
A volley of paving stones followed this advice.
More than one brave policeman fell senseless to the ground.
Nick was enraged beyond measure when he saw one great, burly ruffian
draw a revolver from his pocket and point it at the head of the officer
who was nearest to him. Before Nick had a chance to dash the weapon from
his hand, he had fired, and the officer fell to the ground a corpse.
The sight seemed to give Nick the strength of a dozen men.
He threw men right and left, until he reached the place where the man
stood, the smoking revolver in his hand.
Nick grabbed him by the throat.
The man grew black in the face, and vainly gasped for breath.
Seeing that two other men were coming to the rescue of the man that he
held, Nick raised him clear of the ground and hurled him at the oncoming
men.
The men dodged, and the fellow struck, headfirst, against a pile of
stones that lay on the side of the street.
His skull was fractured.
This served to awe the crowd, but only for a moment. They returned to
the attack with greater fierceness than before.
It seemed as if all the officers and Nick would be ground to death under
the heels of the maddened throng.
“Heavens! Cannot something be done to stop this hellish work?” cried
Nick.
“Since you are so powerful, why don’t you do it yourself?” said a
mocking voice at his elbow.
It was the voice of Jack Weeden.
Nick turned, and saw before him the face of Wright, the man he had taken
for Jack Weeden but a short time before.
“I am not mistaken,” thought Nick. “That man is Jack Weeden, and I shall
take him dead or alive.
“You dog,” he cried, “you are Jack Weeden, and you are my prisoner!”
He made a step forward and clutched at the man’s throat.
As he did so, he was struck on the head with a blackjack in the hands of
a man that stood at the side of the automobile repairer.
The man who struck the blow was Billy Young, the companion of Jack
Weeden.
Nick sank to the ground insensible.