“There he is!” exclaimed the learned bystander. Then he added with a note of pride, albeit shaky as to voice: “What did I tell youse?”
The figure in the doorway strode forward. It was Spanish. A second figure—hat over eyes—. followed hard on his heels. With a flourish, possible only to the close student of Mr. Beadle's dime literature, Spanish drew two Colt's pistols.
“Come through wit' that ten!” said he to Mersher's brother.
Mersher's brother came through, and came through swiftly.
“I thought so!” sneered Spanish, showing his side teeth like a dog whose feelings have been hurt. “Now come through wit' th' rest!”
Mersher's brother eagerly gave him the contents of the cash drawer—about eighty dollars.
Spanish, having pocketed the money, wheeled upon the little knot of customers, who, after the New York manner when crime is afoot, had stood motionless with no thought of interfering.
“Hands up! Faces to the wall!” cried Spanish. “Everybody's dough looks good to me to-night!”
The customers, acting in such concert that it seemed as though they'd been rehearsed, hands held high, turned their faces to the wall.
“You keep them covered,” said Spanish to his dark companion in arms, “while I go through 'em.”