The young man resumed his seat, and Miss Wainwright her listless inspection of the flying stretches of brown desert. Dusk was beginning to fall, and the porter presently lit the lamps. Collins bought a magazine from the newsboy and relapsed into it, but before he was well adjusted to reading the Limited pounded to a second unscheduled halt. Instantly the magazine was thrown aside and Collins’ curly head thrust out of the window. Presently the head reappeared, simultaneously with the crack of a revolver, the first of a detonating fusillade. “Another of your impatient citizens eager to utilize the unspeakable convenience of rapid transit,” suggested the clergyman, with ponderous jocosity. “No, sir; nothing so illegal,” smiled the cattleman, a whimsical light in his daredevil eyes. He leaned forward and whispered a word to the little girl in front of him, who at once led her younger brother back to his section. “I had hoped it would prove to be more diverting experience for a tenderfoot,” condescended the gentleman of the cloth. “It’s ce’tainly a pleasure to be able to gratify you, sir. You’ll be right pleased to know that it is a train hold-up.” He waved his hand toward the door, and at the word, as if waiting for his cue, a masked man appeared at the end of the passage with a revolver in each hand. CHAPTER II. TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION “Hands up!” There was a ring of crisp menace in the sinister voice that was a spur to obedience. The unanimous show of hands voted “Aye” with a hasty precision that no amount of drill could have compassed. It was a situation that might have made for laughter had there been spectators to appreciate. But of whatever amusement was to be had one of the victims seemed to hold a monopoly. Collins, his arm around the English children by way of comfort, offered a sardonic smile at the consternation his announcement and its fulfillment had created, but none of his fellow passengers were in the humor to respond. The shock of an earthquake could not have blanched ruddy faces more surely. The Chicago drummer, fat and florid, had disappeared completely behind a buttress of the company’s upholstery. “God bless my soul!” gasped the Pekin-Bostonian, dropping his eyeglass and his accent at the same moment. The dismay in his face found a reflection all over the car. Miss Wainwright’s hand clutched at her breast for an instant, and her color ebbed till her lips were ashen, but her neighbor across the aisle noticed that her eyes were steady and her figure tense. “Scared stiff, but game,” was his mental comment. “Gents to the right and ladies to the left; line up against the walls; everybody waltz.” called the man behind the guns, with grim humor. The passengers fell into line as directed, Collins with the rest. “You’re calling this dance, son; it’s your say-so, I guess,” he conceded. “Keep still, or I’ll shoot you full of holes,” growled the autocrat of the artillery.