Then each man stuck one revolver into its convenient holster, and, covering the passengers with the other, proceeded to frisk away valuables with a speed and agility that would have looked prettier if those impatient-looking muzzles had not pointed here, there and everywhere with such venomous threats. And so they worked from each end of the car toward the middle. Their hands ran swiftly over bodies with a loathsome familiarity that could only be resented, not revenged. Their hands dived into pockets, and up sleeves, and into women's hair, everywhere that a jewel or a bill might be secreted. And always a rough growl or a swing of the revolver silenced any protest. Their heinous fingers had hardly begun to ply, when the solemn stillness was broken by a chuckle and low hoot of laughter, a darkey's unctuous laughter. At such a place it was more shocking than at a funeral. "What ails you?" was the nearest robber's demand. The porter tried to wipe his streaming eyes without lowering his hands, as he chuckled on: "I--I--just thought of sumpum funny." "Funny!" was the universal groan. "I was just thinking," the porter snickered, "what mighty poor pickings you-all are goin' to git out of me. Whilst if you had 'a' waited till I got to 'Frisco, I'd jest nachelly been oozin' money." The robber relieved him of a few dimes and quarters and ordered him to turn round, but the black face whirled back as he heard from the other end of the car Wedgewood's indignant complaint: "I say, this is an outrage!" "Ah, close your trap and turn round, or I'll----" The porter's smile died away. "Good Lawd," he sighed, "they're goin' to skin that British lion! And I just wore myself out on him." The far-reaching effect of the whole procedure was just beginning to dawn on the porter. This little run on the bank meant a period of financial stringency for him. He watched the hurrying hands a moment or two, then his wrath rose to terrible proportions: "Look here, man," he shouted at the robber, "ain't you-all goin' to leave these here passengers nothin' a tall?" "Not on purpose, nigger." "No small change, or nothin'?" "Nary a red." "Then, passengers," the porter proclaimed, while the robber watched him in amazement; "then, passengers, I want to give you-all fair warnin' heah and now: No tips, no whisk-broom!" Perhaps because their hearts were already overflowing with distress, the passengers endured this appalling threat without comment, and when there was a commotion at the other end of the line, all eyes rolled that way. Mr. Baumann was making an effort to take his leave, with great politeness. "Excoose, pleass. I vant to get by, pleass!" "Get by!" the other robber gasped. "Why, you----" "But I'm not a passenger," Mr. Baumann urged, with a confidential smile, "I've been going through the train myself." "Much obliged! Hand over!" And a rude hand rummaged his pockets. It was a heart-rending sight.