The boy flung up his manacled hands
to shield himself, and the light from a street lamp showed blood
flowing where the chains had cut. The whole proceeding was so
unprovoked, so sickening in its cruelty, that Kirk, who until this
instant had looked upon the affair as a rather enjoyable lark,
flew into a fury and, disregarding his own captors, leaped forward
before the policeman could strike a third time. He swung his fist,
and the man with the club hurtled across the street as if shot
from a bow, then lay still in the gutter. With another blow he
felled one of the handcuff-men, but at the same time other hands
grasped at him and he was forced to lay about vigorously on all
sides.
They rushed him with the ferocity of mad dogs, and he knocked them
spinning, one after another. A whistle blew shrilly, other
uniforms came running, more whistles piped, and almost before he
realized it he found himself in the centre of a pack of lean-faced
brown men who were struggling to pull him down and striking at him
with their clubs. With a sudden wild thrill he realized that this
was no ordinary street fight; this was deadly; he must beat off
these fellows or be killed. But, as fast as he cleared them away,
others appeared as if by magic, until a dozen or more were
swarming upon him like hungry ants.
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