"Bunch together, lads," cautioned the Senior Cadet, "keep in the middle of the road clear of the sidewalk. Yes, I thought so; we're going to have a bit of excitement."
Less than fifty yards ahead, dark indistinct forms moved in the shadows—men not going to and fro on their lawful pursuits, but gathering in a compact mass across the width of the street.
The crowd that followed the cadets from the Babylonia had also increased in numbers. They, too, were pressing into the narrow thoroughfare, thereby cutting off the lads' retreat.
The cadets halted.
"Don't stop," ordered Fairclough. "If those fellows in front give trouble go for them bald-headed. They're the ones we're up against. Those behind us have only rolled up to see the fun."
Angry cries came from the human barrier. Some one shouted to them, and although the cadets could not understand the words, the meaning sounded clear enough. Nor had they now any doubt as to the identity of the leader of the mob. The conjurer, smarting with physical and mental distress, had gathered his pals—mostly mestizos and negroes, to avenge him.
The cadets, although their hearts were thumping wildly, walked as unconcernedly as they could until they were about twenty yards from the foremost of the gang.
A shower of sticks and stones left no doubt as to the nature of the lads' reception. They were entirely unarmed. They had not even a stick amongst them. Most of them were aware that the mob had knives and probably razors lashed to sticks. But it was no use turning back. The only thing to do was to dash right through the crowd of assailants.
"At 'em!" shouted Fairclough.
The cadets broke into a wild rush—a dozen against fifty cowardly wretches, part of the scum of Rio. It was more than the latter expected. Accustomed to waylay foreign seamen, who, after a carouse ashore, were unable to take care of themselves, the concerted attack took them completely aback.
The centre of the line gave way until held up by those behind. It was then that the cadets got to work.
Geoff, on Fairclough's left, found himself confronted by a burly, woolly-haired mulatto armed with a long knife. The fellow raised his arm to strike. Even as he did so, Geoff dealt him a terrific straight right to the point of the chin. The lad had a reputation for being a hard hitter. There was weight and scientific knowledge behind that blow. It would have knocked a white man senseless.
But beyond jolting the mulatto a little the blow had hardly any appreciable effect. The fellow answered by a vicious downward jab with the glittering steel. It missed Geoff's shoulder by a fraction of an inch, ripping the sleeve of his borrowed patrol jacket from the shoulder to the elbow.
At that moment Fairclough sent an assailant spinning by means of a neat hook. The fellow, falling heavily against the mulatto, knocked Geoff's adversary completely off his feet. The lad jumped over the writhing pair and managed to return the Senior Cadet's good turn by dropping a greasy, hook-nosed Brazilian, who was about to deal Fairclough a blow from behind.
A couple of men seized little Merrifield, and although the youngster put up a stiff fight he was in danger of being separated from his chums. Out of the corner of his eye Geoff saw the danger that threatened the lad. Gripping one fellow by the scruff of the neck he banged his head against the second of Merrifield's attackers. Merrifield shook himself free.
"Keep behind me!" bawled Geoff, in order to make himself heard above the din. Then, making a grab at a mulatto who had vainly attempted to evade him, Geoff, using him as a human buckler, pushed him headlong into the press.
For how long the fight lasted, Geoff had not the slightest idea. Before it began the lad would not have hesitated to admit that he had cold feet. In the heat of the contest he found himself enjoying it. He was no longer a law-abiding member of the community, but a hot-blooded fighter conscious of his prowess. Yet the while he never lost sight of the fact that he was one of a party—a member of a team, as it were—ready to fight not solely for himself, but with the definite object of forcing a way through the mob without allowing the weakest member to fall into the clutches of the cowardly canaille.
The cadets won through. Heated, breathless, dishevelled, they found themselves at the landing-place on the water-front. Bernard, Davis and Fairclough were bleeding from knife wounds which, fortunately, were but slight. Almost everyone had received contusions from sticks and stones. Geoff's knuckles were raw. He was beginning to be aware of a throbbing pain in his shin. In the mêlée he had received a hack that had laid bare his shinbone from knee to ankle.
But the business was far from finished. The mob, augmented by dozens of quayside loafers, were keen to avenge their defeat at the hands of a dozen mere striplings. They closed round in the form of a semicircle at a distance of about ten yards from the knot of well-nigh breathless cadets. For the latter there was no retreat except to take to the water. Even then there seemed scant chance of being picked up.
It was now eleven thirty-five; twenty-five minutes before the Golden Vanity's boat was due to take them off to the ship.
In vain the harassed cadets looked for signs of the gorgeously attired civil guards. They had seen plenty during the evening, but no doubt these magnificent gentlemen deemed it best to keep out of harm's way when it came to dealing with an angry mob on the quays.
Urged on by the taunts and encouragements of the spectators the mob advanced slowly to renew the attack. They heralded the hand-to-hand part of the business by discharging a shower of missiles—mostly garbage, since the flagged quays provided few facilities in the way of stones. Against this form of attack the cadets could do nothing but screen their heads with their arms and wait till direct blows would tell. They had to be strictly on the defensive. The breakthrough tactics that had served them so well, were no longer of use. There was no place of refuge for which they could make. To allow themselves to be enveloped by the mob was courting disaster. The question was whether they could hold out until the Golden Vanity's boat arrived?
They realized that after the punishment they had inflicted upon their cowardly foes they could expect no mercy—no fair play. Still the crowd hesitated to close. Presently a couple of negroes forced their way to the front of the semicircle. Each carried a bundle of short sticks with the ends wrapped in tow. The tow was saturated with kerosine.
Grinning delightedly the blacks proceeded to set light to the firebrands, distributing the fiercely burning flares to their fellows. It was not for purposes of illumination that the ferocious negroes and half-castes held the flambeaux. They were to be hurled at the still unconquered little band of British lads.
The first of the hissing, flaming torches fell at Fairclough's feet. In a trice the Senior Cadet picked it up and hurled it back. It fell in the midst of the mob, scattering it in all directions. But the diversion was only temporary. Except for two or three who were dancing and yelling with pain, the crowd closed the gap and prepared to open an intensive bombardment.
Suddenly there was a retrograde movement of one horn of the semicircle. Part of the mob was pushed back against the rest. Shouts of alarm mingled with cheers—that did not sound exactly British—told the cadets that some attempt at rescue was on hand.
Panic seized the cowardly throng. They simply fled helter-skelter, urged on by a mere handful of men armed with stout cudgels. In a couple of minutes the cadets were alone save for half a dozen wretches left writhing on the pavement. Their rescuers, whoever they might be, were not content with dispersing the mob. They were following the panic-stricken half-castes, dealing hard knocks on the rearmost of the coffee-coloured throng.