"Fight," he said simply, and swinging both arms like battering arms sailed into the nearest adversary.
"Don't strike him!" called out Ralph instantly—"he's wrong in his head!"
"We'll right it for him!" announced one of the crowd.
The speaker swung a bag as he spoke. It seemed to contain something bulky, for as it just missed Van's head and bounded on the shoulders of one of the user's own friends, the latter went down like a lump of lead.
Van never stopped. In a kind of windmill progress he struck out, sideways, in all directions. In two minutes' time he had cleared the field, every combatant was in flight, and leaning over and seizing the big bully squirming under Ralph, he weighted him on a dead balance for a second, and then sent him sliding ten feet along the ground after his beaten fellows.
Ralph released the other two and let them run for safety, actually afraid that his friend Van would do them some serious injury with that phenomenal ox-like strength stored up in his sturdy arms.
But Van was as cool as an iceberg. He was not even out of breath.
"More," he said.
