work, so I put him on.”
“Well, he’s through tonight.”
English Johnny again accosted the man who had sided with Harry.
“I’m boss around here,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re not my boss.”
“I own this lunch wagon.”
“You don’t own me.”
English Johnny pushed the man aside.
“Grab him, boys,” he said. “Grab him if he tries to start anything.”
English Johnny turned his attention again to Harry Vincent. Lashing out with his right -
But a long, white-clad arm flashed through the air. A terrific blow caught English Johnny on the side of his jaw to send him reeling against the counter.
“Get him, boys,” cried the big man, spluttering with rage.
English Johnny leaped forward himself, but another smash landed squarely in the midst of his beefy face. He dropped to the floor in front of the counter.
Then the mob closed in on the man who had taken Harry’s part. There was a swirl of fists, and among them two arms in white cloth swung heavily and well.
Harry had straightened up, and as one of the battlers was propelled in his direction, he grappled with the rowdy and hurled him against a stool.
The mob had broken; three men were groveling on the tile floor. The others, too, had been beaten back by a white-armed cyclone that struck with the speed and power of lightning.
The door was pulled back, and Harry was thrust through it.
“Get your car,” commanded his new friend. “We’ll have to run for it.”
English Johnny had arisen. Screaming a curse, he hurled his huge bulk at the man in white.
Harry ran for the car. As the door slid shut, he heard a terrific crash - English Johnny had been flung over the counter to come cascading down amid a chorus of falling plates.
It was but a few yards to the gasoline station. Harry reached the wheel of his car. He tossed a five-dollar bill to the astonished service man; spun the starter, and shot the coupe to the front of the lunch wagon. He could hear the sounds of fresh conflict within. He leaped to the ground and pulled back the door.
A lone fighter was engaged with two opponents. He flung them aside, then beyond him came the flash of a revolver, drawn by a man in the background.
But before the gunman could draw a bead with his weapon, the white-coated stranger galvanized into action. His long, remarkably strong fingers stabbed out like the beak of a vulture. In a flash he had wrested the revolver from the gunny - it all happened so quickly that the latter barely had time to marshal his amazement.
So, with a path clear to possible safety, and with Harry waiting for his unexpected savior, the astounding stranger darted through the doorway. Then Harry sent the door crashing shut.
Leaping for the wheel of his car, Harry got under way. The stranger vaulted into the seat beside him.
As the motor’s drumming increased, the lunch wagon’s door opened. Three men barged forth, brandishing lead spillers in their hands.
Again The Shadow’s forces had scored.
CHAPTER XXVI
A RACE FOR LIFE
“Speed up,” came a terse voice from Harry’s side. “They’ve got a car. They’re following us.”
As he pressed the accelerator, Harry marveled at the power of his companion. Virtually alone - for Harry’s help had been trivial - this man had handled eight opponents and had disposed of five of them.
While the brawl had lasted, not a man in the crowd had had an opportunity to draw his gun. But when the mob had been scattered about the floor, the danger of a pistol shot had made flight the only reasonable course.
The motor hummed as Harry gave it full power. The coupe was heavy, and held the road well. It was built for speed. They flashed through the countryside like a whirlwind. Vincent had not chosen the direction. He had taken the nearest highway that had appeared before him.
The other car was gaining. Harry could sense that from his companion’s actions. He could not see the other man, for his eyes were focused on the road ahead, where the bright lights of the car opened a brilliant path. Yet he knew that his companion was peering from the opened window, back along the highway.
The road seemed endless. Vincent knew nothing of the car that was behind. It must be a powerful automobile if it could overtake his speedy coupe. A turn from the highway might be advantageous, but he doubted if it would prove practical. He kept straight on, trusting to speed alone.
Yet still he knew that the other car was gaining. He knew it first by a glare reflected in the mirror in front of him. The light increased. Miles were flying by; and with every mile the pursuers were coming closer!
Then he could hear the roar of the automobile in the rear. He felt a great helplessness. He was at the wheel of a powerful, swift machine, forging ahead at rocket-like speed. Yet in back was another mighty engine of the highway - superior to his by just the smallest percentage; and in the final test he would be overtaken.
There was a further disadvantage. When they reached the end of this stretch of well-paved road, Harry would have to slow his pace. If the distance became short by then, the coupe would be overtaken, and its occupants would be at the mercy of the merciless gangsters.
But these thoughts were useless. Harry bit his lips in grim tension as he spurred the car to its limit.
He was at the center of the road. The highway was almost deserted. But occasionally he would see a car coming from the other direction, and would bear down into the glare of its lights without slackening his speed. Each time the oncoming automobile would swing to the side of the road and let him pass.
There was another sign that the race was closing up. The roar of the pursuing motor had become louder; and above it came sharp, quick reports. The gangsters were firing at the coupe. But the fast-moving target eluded their shots. But would their aim improve when the range had become less?
It was a time for action. But what else could Harry do?
He listened for a sound from his companion. But there was none. Had the man been struck by a bullet? No; Harry would have heard the steel messenger crash through the back of the coupe. Perhaps - the thought was chilling - the man had been clipped by a revolver shot as his head had been thrust from the window.
Harry dropped his right hand from the wheel. He touched the body of his companion.
“Easy,” came a whisper. “Watch the wheel. I’m all right.”
The man had divined Harry’s thoughts. Somehow Harry felt that this wild ride might have a happy ending. His companion had shown amazing strength during the battle in the lunch wagon. Perhaps in the next emergency he would again display some unexpected power. That would be soon, Harry knew, for the pursuers had lost no ground.
The road began to wind. The course was slightly uphill. It was harder to control the car, but it was an unexpected advantage for the occupants of the fleeing coupe. As a target, their car was more elusive than before.
The highway now curved steadily to the left. The voice spoke beside Harry.
“Keep to the left of the road.”
This was strange advice. It would throw them into the path of any car that might be coming from the opposite direction. Yet Harry obeyed. The voice had carried a command. It was different from the voice of the man who had fought in the lunch wagon. It sounded like a voice that Vincent had heard before - where he could not recall, for his mind was feverish from strain.
The voice spoke again an instant later.
“Close to the left.”
The turn in the road was becoming sharper. Harry held tightly to the wheel. There was a hill at the left, and it was difficult to stay close. But the lights of the pursuing car were almost lost behind the bend.
Another command from Harry’s right.
“Use your brakes. A sharp turn to the left. Take it close. Slow down quickly.”
