Curiously enough only two came--the young freight conductor and the youth who was a clerk in the time-keeper's office at the yards. Shamefacedly the freight conductor stooped, flinching away from the gun muzzles which pointed almost in his right ear, and picked out certain bills. “I lost an even hundred--more'n I can afford to lose,” he mumbled. “I'm takin' just my own hundred.” He retired rearward after the manner of a crab. The boy wore an apologetic air as he salvaged twenty-two dollars from the cache. After he had crawfished back to the table where the others were, none else offered to stir. “Anybody else?” inquired the collector of loot. “Well, I squandered a little coin here this evenin', but I'm satisfied,” spoke Josh Herron, now grinning openly. “I'm gittin' my money's worth.” He glanced sidewise toward the suffering proprietor. “All done?” Nobody answered. “Here, boy, come here then!” Babe Givens came--upon his knees. “Close that bag.” Babe fumbled the rusted claps shut. “Now, shove it up close to me along the floor.” Babe, he shoved it. “Now get back yonder where you were.” I leave it to you whether Babe got back yonder. The figure swooped downward briskly, and two fingers of the hand which gripped the forearm of the gun caught in the looped handles of the black bag and brought it up dangling and heavy laden. And now the custodian of these delectable spoils was backing toward the door, but still with weapon poised and ready. “Stay right where you are for five minutes,” was the final warning from behind the cambric mask. “Five minutes, remember! Anybody who tries to come down those steps before that five minutes is up is going to get shot.” The door slammed. Through the closed door the crap-shooters, each in his place and all listening as intently as devout worshippers in a church, heard the swift footsteps dying away. Josh Herron brought down his arms and took two steps forward. “Wait, Josh, the time limit ain't up yit,” counselled a well-wisher. “Oh, I ain't goin' nowheres jest yit--I'm very comfortable here,” said Josh. He stooped and seemed to pick up some small object from the bare planks. Five minutes later--or perhaps six--a procession moving cautiously, silently and in single file passed down the creaky stairs. It was noted--and commented upon--that the owner of the raided place, heaviest loser and chief mourner though he was, tagged away back at the tail of the line. Only Babe Givens was behind him, and Babe was well behind him too. At the foot of the stairs the frontmost man projected his head forth into the night, an inch at a time, ready to jerk it back again. But to his inquiring vision Franklin Street under its gas lamps yawned as empty as a new made grave.