He returned in a week, very enthusiastic. The box looked good. There were guns and ammunition in the store. The jail was empty. There was a blacksmith shop where other necessary tools could be had, the town was dead at night. He had fitted keys to the padlocks on both the jail cells (all this would have been my work if I had not been known in the town), and had planted his “dan,” caps, and fuse safely near the jail. He had picked out another spot near the jail where the money was to be planted. Their plan was to buy tickets to the town nearest the one where I was arrested, on the same passenger train, then to get out and on the baggage, where the hostile constable would find them. I was given enough money to supply my wants till the business was over. They secreted the jail keys carefully in their shoes. The cautious Johnnie had also planted in the empty jail files and blank keys to be used in case they lost those they were carrying. “The only danger is,” said Sanc, “that some other bums may be picked up and thrown into this jail with us.” “In that case,” Johnnie replied, “we’ll have to do our ten days and crush right back in again and stay there till we can get the jail all to ourselves.” “Kid,” said Sanc, as they were leaving, “watch the papers. If it goes all right we’ll be back in about two weeks. If it goes wrong, and you never can tell, you will know from the papers what happened. Then send somebody up to the ‘stir’ to see George and he will tell you what to do.” Ten days later the burglary was reported in the papers. Four thousand dollars had been taken from the general store and the man hunt was on. The burglars had worked quietly. The theft was not discovered till opening-up time the next morning. The thieves were evidently experts, and left behind them the most complete set of safe-breaking tools seen in years, etc., etc. They had escaped by taking a hand car from the section house. It was found wrecked several miles down the railroad track. Johnnie and Sanc had strengthened their alibi and strangled any suspicion that might fall on them by taking the “John O’Brien”—the bums’ term for hand car, so called because every other section boss in those days was named O’Brien—and starting it down the railroad. There was a slight grade and it traveled several miles before jumping the track into the ditch, where it was found wrecked, “abandoned by the burglars.”