From Boniface to Bank Burglar; Or, The Price of Persecution: How a Successful Business Man, Through the Miscarriage of Justice, Became a Notorious Bank LooterWhite, George M. (George Miles)
History
From Boniface to Bank Burglar; Or, The Price of Persecution: How a Successful Business Man, Through the Miscarriage of Justice, Became a Notorious Bank Looter
White, George M. (George Miles)
Bank robberies -- United States; Criminals -- Biography; White, George M. (George Miles)
A careful reconnoitre of the bridge entrance showed us that an alarm
had been sent abroad, for a guard of police was waiting in the
neighborhood to arrest suspicious characters. Had my original plan
succeeded, we would have had none of this,--we would have been in the
United States before the robbery was discovered. But that fact cut no
figure in the present dilemma. To the American side we must get, and
mighty soon, or we would find ourselves in a Canadian trap. The old
suspension bridge, beyond doubt, was not a safe passage for us. It
occurred to me that it might be worth while to examine the new bridge;
perhaps we could pick our way across it. No one had made the attempt
save a few workmen accustomed to that sort of climbing, as monkeys are
used to gambolling in tree-tops. Verily workers on suspension bridges
and the like, it seemed to me, were never quite at home unless they
were dangling at the end of a wire many feet above water or _terra
firma_.
We approached the entrance cautiously, and, fortunately, were soon
convinced that there wasn’t a police guard in that neighborhood.
Undoubtedly they believed that no sane man would attempt to travel
the new bridge under the most favorable weather conditions, and
certainly not on such a night as we confronted it. But escape we must,
and somehow I determined we would. With this feeling we began an
investigation. The wind was howling, and at intervals filled almost
to suffocation with clouds of powdery snow that fairly beat its
way through our clothing. It had rained the day before, a freezing
temperature following, and every inch of the bridge work was covered
with a veneering of ice, much of it as smooth as glass, rendering
foothold extremely uncertain. The night, or rather the morning, for
it was going on four o’clock, was dark, there being no moon above the
storm. What little light there was to pierce the darkness came from the
snow. As for the bridge, the wind swept it clean, as well it might, for
at times we kept our feet with great difficulty when a powerful gust
came upon us unawares.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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