It was the labor of an instant. With both hands I turned out the lights; then stuffing my entire fortune into my pockets I began to push through the ranks of bewildered gentlemen who stood swearing in frightened undertones expecting evil. Silently and with a cat’s stealth, I found my way in the pitch blackness to the lounge. As I had foreseen, no one was about it to discover or to interfere. Softly I raised the cover; in a moment I was within. Lying on my side for comfort’s sake, I again turned ear to passing events. I had locked the lounge and believed myself insured. Meanwhile, within the room and in the hall beyond my grated door, the tumult gathered and grew. There came various exclamations. “Who doused those glims?” “Light up, somebody.” Also, there befell a volley of blows and kicks and thumps on The Shotgun’s iron portals; and gruff commands: “Open the door!” Then some one produced a match and relighted the gas. I might tell that by a ray about the size and color of a wheat-straw which suddenly bored its yellow way through a hole in my shelter. The clamor still proceeded at the door; it seemed to augment. Since there could be no escape--for every soul saw himself caught like a rat in a trap--the door was at last unbarred and opened, desperately. Of what avail would it be to force the arresting party to break its way? In despair the door was thrown wide and each of those within braced himself to meet his fate. After all, to visit a gambling place was not the great crime; the cornered ones might feel fairly secure. It was the “proprietor” for whom the law kept sharpest tooth! When the door opened, it opened to the admission of a most delightful disappointment. There appeared no police; no grim array of those sky-hued watch-dogs of the city’s peace and order rushed through in search of quarry. Instead came innocently, deviously, and with uncertain, shuffling steps, five separate drunken gentlemen. There had been a dinner; they had fed deeply, drunk deeply; it was now their pleasure to relax themselves at play. That was all; they had sought The Shotgun with the best of motives; the confusion on the stair was the offspring of darkness and drink when brought to a conjunction. Now they were within, and reading in the faces about them--even through the mists of their condition--the terrors their advent inspired, the visiting sots were much abashed; they stood silent, and like the lamb before the shearer, they were dumb and opened not their mouths. But discovering a danger past, the general mood soon changed. There was a space of tacit staring; then came a rout of laughter. Every throat, lately so parched, now shouted with derision. The common fear became the common jeer. Then up started the surprised question: “Where’s Jack?” It had origin with one to be repeated by twenty. “Where’s Jack?”