A dozen of them surged forward.

The first of them swung a lariat to slip it over Tom Reade's neck.
Bump! Hawkins's sledge-hammer right hand shot out, landing on that fellow's face.

With a moan the fellow collapsed on the sidewalk, his jaw broken.
Then Tom and Harry wheeled like a flash, eyeing the idlers and roughs sternly.
"Don't go any further," proposed Tom, his eyes growing steely, "unless you mean it." Something in the attitude of the trio of athletic figures standing ready before them disquieted the crowd of roughs.

There were armed men in that crowd, but all felt that they had been put in the wrong, so far, and none of them dared draw the first weapon or fire the first shot.
"Take that injured man to a surgeon and have his jaw set," spoke Tom quietly.

"Let the surgeon send me the bill.