"No tricks, now!" continued the voice. "Pull your feet out of that mess, and keep your hands up! Slip on the nippers, Tom. Better go through him here. They always manage to lose somethin' goin' over." McAllister wondered where "Over" was. Before he could protest, he was unceremoniously seated upon the body of the dead horse and the officers were going rapidly through his clothes. "Thought so!" muttered Tom, as he drew out of McAllister's coat-pocket a revolver and a jimmy. "Just as well to unballast 'em at the start." A black calico mask and a small bottle filled with a colorless liquid followed. Tom drew a quick breath. "So you're one of those, are ye?" he added with an oath. The victim of this astounding adventure had not yet spoken. Now he stammered: "Look here! Who do you think I am? This is all a mistake." Tom did not deign to reply. The officer on horseback had dismounted and was poking among the pieces of cab. "What's this here?" he inquired, as he dragged a large bundle covered with black cloth into the circle of light, and, untying a bit of cord, poured its contents upon the pavement. A glittering silver service rolled out upon the asphalt and reflected the glow of the lanterns. "Gee! look at all the swag!" cried Tom. "I wonder where he melts it up." Faintly at first, then nearer and nearer, came the harsh clanging of the "hurry up" wagon. "Get up!" directed Tom, punctuating his order with mild kicks. Then, as the driver reined up the panting horses alongside, the officer grabbed his prisoner by the coat-collar and yanked him to his feet. "Jump in," he said roughly. "My God!" exclaimed our friend half-aloud, "where are they going to take me?" "To the Tombs--for Christmas!" answered Tom. III McAllister, hatless, stumbled into the wagon and was thrust forcibly into a corner. Above the steady drum of the rain upon the waterproof cover he could hear the officers outside packing up the silverware and discussing their capture. The hot japanned tin of the wagon-lamps smelled abominably. The heavy breathing of the horses, together with the sickening odor of rubber and damp straw, told him that this was no dream, but a frightful reality. "He's a bad un!" came Tom's voice in tones of caution. "You can see his lay is the gentleman racket. Wait till he gets to the precinct and hear the steer he'll give the sergeant. He's a wise un, and don't you forget it!"