Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.

Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely.  It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.

“Look out, boys!  He’ll kill you!” shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.

“Will he?” grunted Dick grimly.  “Greg, I’ll tackle the fellow—–­you be ready to fall on him.  Head down, now—–­charge!”

As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy’s goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.

“Get outer my way!” roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.

Dick’s head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair.

“Get out of my way, you kid!” gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him.

Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter

But Dick sailed straight in.  As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side.

Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott.

But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man.  The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists.

Dick wasn’t hit, however.  Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat—–­all quick as a flash.

That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled.  Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse.

As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow’s chest.  In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow.

“Keep him down, boys!” yelled Coach Morton.

Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then Tom Reade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray.

When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold.

The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could.

“Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?” asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets.

“Will we?” ejaculated Dave.  “Whoop!”

“Roll the fellow over!” called Dick Prescott.

With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back.  There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped.  A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place.

In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm.