When Frank Merriwell, in a great hurry, flung open the door of his room and sprang in, he was little prepared for the reception that followed.
From all sides they leaped upon him, clutched him, surrounded him, hemmed him in. There were exactly thirteen of them, and he was alone and unarmed.
Never before had Merriwell quailed in the face of odds, but now he took one look at them and then flung up his hands, crying:
“I surrender!”
They clutched those uplifted hands and dragged them down. They grasped him about the body, around the neck, anywhere, everywhere. Howls of joy arose.
“We’ve got you!” they yelled.
Then they wrenched at his hands, one after another, as if trying to tear his arms from their sockets. Then they thumped him on the back, the shoulders, and the chest.
On the outskirts of the attacking mob one wild-eyed fellow fought like a demon to get at Merry.
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