Marc made his appearance on the scene of strife in a confused sprawl that was far from heroic. Then, he sat up, bewilderment written into every line of his face. Not until this moment had he stopped to consider the course that he was about to take. Clearly, to be seen in close association with those demented sacks would be to invite disaster. The implication would be entirely clear to everyone, especially to the irate bank president. The only safe procedure, then, was to stay clear of the whole affair and let the money bags shift for themselves, which they seemed to be doing with remarkable agility from the sound of things behind the enclosure. Then he started with shock as a hand fell to his shoulder. He glanced up to find Toffee standing beside him. "Don't do that!" he fairly screamed. "Don't scare me like that!" "I don't blame you for being jumpy," Toffee said. "At the moment I could easily vault a twelve story building by sheer nerve power. That's the most soul-shattering thing I've ever witnessed." "Help me up," Marc begged. He extended a hand toward Toffee, then promptly leaped to his feet, unaided. Victorious at last, the dashing bags suddenly emerged around the end of the clerk's enclosure and sailed through the hinged barrier like a pair of high-spirited, slightly drunken seagulls. At the sight of them, the two policemen, who had finally managed to disengage their guns from their holsters, suddenly turned on each other in panic. "Do something," one of them hissed. "Call a cop ... I mean, yell at 'em to stop. Say halt or you'll shoot. That's always good." The other fidgeted self-consciously. "I'd feel silly," he demurred. "You yell at 'em." "I'd feel silly, too," the other admitted grudgingly. "Silly as hell." He gave the matter his thoughtful attention. "Tell you what," he said finally. "Let's just turn the other way and make out we don't see. It's nothing no human eyes should be gazing at anyway. It's indecent to say the least." * * * * * Simultaneously, the cops turned their broad backs on the fearful spectacle and pretended to engage each other in casual conversation. "Tell me," one of them was heard to say in a strained voice, "and how is that charming wife of yours? And those two darling children?" This chatty arrangement, however, was not destined to endure. The president's voice rang down from the mezzanine with such a volley of scalding invective and personal criticism that the two reluctant officers decided it would be the lesser evil to face their duty and do it, even if their souls fried in hell as the result. By now the flying bags had singled out Marc and Toffee and were headed toward them in an affectionate rush. "Go way!" Marc yelled desperately. "Beat it!" But the bags were not to be put off so easily. They continued forward, dancing through the air in a sort of bottom-heavy samba.