Bud hurled himself on Mugs.
Taken off guard, the shorter thug staggered and went down under a hail
of punches. Bud grabbed his wrist and twisted it mercilessly while he
pinned him to the ground.
Mugs screeched with pain. "C-c-cut it out!"
"Then drop your gun!" Bud snapped.
Tom, meanwhile, had followed up his first advantage with a stunning blow
to the solar plexus. Packy grunted for breath, then came back viciously
with several well-aimed punches that staggered Tom.
As the young inventor stumbled backward, Packy dived for his gun. Though
still groggy, Tom managed to kick the weapon out of reach. Before Packy
could straighten up, Tom followed with a sweeping uppercut that caught
him squarely on the chin.
Packy went down like a felled tree!
Tom picked up the gun before his groaning victim could recover. By this
time, Bud had pounded his own opponent into submission. Within a few
moments, both thugs were lined up against the wall of the cabin. Their
wrists were tightly strapped behind them with their own belts.
"Oh ... thank goodness!" Sandy gasped.
Tom gave the girls a reassuring grin. "Are you two all right?"
"I g-guess so." Phyl gave a nervous smile.
Now that the tables were turned, it was the thugs' turn to "march."
The boys herded them warily back down the hillside toward the road,
where Bud had parked his red convertible.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122