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Dave Darrin on Mediterranean Service, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 11. Hemmed In By The Bravos |
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_ CHAPTER XI. HEMMED IN BY THE BRAVOS Dave and Dan are attacked by a mob of Sicilian bravos and fight a desperate battle to save their own lives.
He lurched against Dave, then drew back, scowling fiercely at the young ensign. "Your mistake, sir," spoke Darrin, purposely using English. Dave would have passed, but now the fellow placed himself squarely in Darrin's way. "You have struck me!" snarled the Sicilian in his own language. "Why?" Then, uttering a peculiar cry, the man, with a movement of wonderful swiftness, drew a knife. In the dim light that blade flashed like subdued fire. "One, two, three--out!" gritted Dave Darrin, leaping forward. Striking up the fellow's arm, Dave caught at the knife-wrist. He twisted it savagely and the weapon clattered to the rough pavement. Bump! Dave struck the fellow hard between the eyes, sending him to earth, where he lay still. Dan, now keenly alert, discovered that the pretended shop-keeper had also drawn a knife. "To quarters!" yelled Danny Grin. "Back to back!" shouted Dave, placing his shoulders close to his chum's. "Dan, we must fight for our lives. The lives of all these cattle are not worth a scratch on our bodies! Down 'em!" "We'll make ten-pins of 'em," hissed Dalzell. And Monsieur Dalny? That honorable gentleman was now scuttling down the street to safety. The fight that followed was a mixture of boxing, football tactics and sheer Yankee grit that Dave and Dan now employed as they faced more than half a dozen scoundrels armed with the long, thin knives of the bravos of Naples. Bump! Ensign Darrin struck up the arm of the first scoundrel to reach for him. In a twinkling Dave had broken that rascal's right wrist, forcing the fellow to drop his weapon. Like a flash Dave caught his victim up, holding him overhead and sending the bravo, heels first, into the face of another scoundrel. The man, struck by this human missile, went to earth dazed, and with a broken jaw to boot. Dalzell, too, was proving the stuff that was in him. Dodging a descending hand that held a knife, then landing a smashing blow over the fellow's heart, Dan sent him to earth. At that instant a knife would have gone through Danny Grin's ribs had not Dalzell let one of his feet fly with such speed and skill as to break another bravo's shin-bone. Crouching low, Dave received still another assailant. Seizing him below the knees, then rising, he hurled the ruffian over backward on his head, the fall nearly snapping the owner's spine at the neck and leaving him unconscious. Two more men were quickly downed, and seemed inclined to stay there. The young ensigns had not received a scratch so far, which was due as much to luck as to their own skill. Now a wail of terror rose on the air. Two of the bravos took fairly to their heels. The rest wavered, then gave way, glaring with sullen looks at these young Americans who could fight so terribly without weapons. "Come on!" urged Dave, in a low voice. "Let's get out of here! There is no credit in staying here and taking on more fighting. Let's hurry while the hurrying is good." Only one of the bravos was ahead of them as the young naval officers began their sprint. That fellow was trying to get out of harm's way, but hearing pursuit at his heels, the frightened fellow halted suddenly, wheeled and struck out with his knife at Ensign Darrin. Dave dodged, then landed both fists against the ruffian's ribs, knocking the fellow clean through a window with a great crashing of glass. "Hustle!" muttered Dalzell, as he halted to wait for his chum. "There may be a hundred more of these fellows who can be called out on a single block." But there was no pursuit. The bravos had had enough. Afterwards it was a matter of local report that two of the rascals handled by Darrin and Dalzell all but died of their injuries. The Strada di Mara contained no bravos reckless enough to follow these incredible Americans on this wild night of trouble. Still sprinting, Dave, with Dan at his heels, overhauled a running figure. Dave shot out his right hand, gathering in, by the coat collar, Monsieur Dalny. "My friend," uttered Dave grimly, as he halted the fugitive, "this does not appear to be one of your best fighting nights." "I--I--I--" stammered M. Dalny, his face white. "I--I--" "So you said before," Dave retorted dryly. "Let it go at that." "Do you mean to charge that I ran away?" demanded Dalny, with a show of injured dignity. "Certainly not," retorted Dave, ironically. "You were merely trying to show two scared Americans the shortest way back to a safe part of Naples." "It's not safe here," whispered Dalny, trembling. "We are almost certain to be followed by an enraged mob. Let us use discretion." The word "discretion" recalled Darrin to the fact that he must not be too rough with the fellow through whom he hoped to learn something of great interest to Admiral Timworth. "You are right, Monsieur Dalny," agreed the young ensign. "Let us waste little time in getting away from this part of Naples." No walk could have been too brisk, just then, for Dalny. He was not a coward in all things, but he felt a deadly terror of cold steel. In addition, this international plotter had, just then, a lively conviction that friends of the men whom these American officers had handled so roughly might, if they overtook him, feel a decided thirst for vengeance upon the man who had led such giants against the bravos of the Strada di Mara. "Why are you looking back so often?" Dave asked, as the three gained the next corner. "To see if we are pursued," confessed Dalny. "That is prudent," Darrin smiled, "yet hardly necessary." "What do you mean?" asked the international plotter. [Illustration: "Dave shot out his right hand."] "Because," explained Dan, grinning, "the only bravos who have any reason to be afraid of us to-night are those who might get in front of us. Those who keep behind us will have every chance to get away unharmed." "You are a droll pair," muttered Dalny. "And, unless I am greatly in error, my fine fellow, you led us into that trap for the purpose of having something bad happen to us," muttered Dave, but he kept the words behind his teeth, for he did not care, as yet, to come to an open quarrel with this fellow. Before long the three reached one of the broader, well-lighted thoroughfares. Here they engaged a driver and carriage, and were soon once more in the Riviera di Chiaja. As they passed one of the larger buildings, Mender, looking down upon the avenue through the blinds of a window of a room at the hotel, saw the three as they drove past an arc light. "What can be the matter with that simpleton Dalny?" muttered the arch-plotter. "Did he, at the last moment, fail in the courage necessary to lead the Americans into the trap that I had baited for them?" Ten minutes later Dalny, closeted with his chief, was relating to that astounded leader the story of what had happened in the Strada di Mara. "I cannot understand it," muttered Mender. "No more can I," rejoined Dalny. "The Americans are demons when it comes to fighting." "At some point, my good Dalny, you must have bungled the affair." "Why not say that the fault must have been with your choice of bravos?" jeered the subordinate. "Why did you pick out alleged bravos who would allow themselves to be put to flight by unarmed men?" "I must wait until I have a fuller report of this night's misadventure," declared Mender. "I dare say that, within a few hours, I shall have more exact information." In this belief Mender was quite right. Before daylight he was visited by the leader of the bravos of the Strada di Mara, who announced that he must be paid two thousand _lira_ (about four hundred dollars) as extra money to be divided among his outraged followers. In the case that this extra money was not forthcoming, declared the leader of the bravos, Mender and his friends might find Naples much too dangerous a city for them. _ |
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