Читать книгу The Running Fight онлайн

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Wilkinson started toward the blue machine, bent on interviewing the chauffeur.

"Look here, my man——" he began; but whatever imprecations he intended to hurl at the chauffeur's head never passed his lips, for then it was that something happened: a strange, dishevelled figure dashed suddenly into the group, threw itself upon Wilkinson and seized him by the throat. With almost maniacal energy the assailant forced Wilkinson up against the blue machine, and digging his fingers into that gentleman's wind-pipe, he cried:

"Now, Wilkinson, I'm going to even up matters with you!"

Wilkinson's face turned blue—almost as blue as the machine—and his eyes bulged out almost like the headlights in front of it.

"Help! Help!" implored Wilkinson, tugging at the wrists of iron that held him.

His call was quickly answered. And in an incredibly short space of time, the Pinkerton men had broken the madman's grip and held him fast. Wilkinson quickly regained his composure. Then half-wondering, half-fearful, he riveted his eyes upon this enemy who seemed to have dropped from the skies, while Flomerfelt came out from behind the touring car where he had warily awaited the outcome of the sudden onslaught.