A dozen hands reached to grasp the urchin by the shirt and pull him ahead.
“Pass up the key,” ordered the marshal.
“But I ain’t got it—it wasn’t there,” explained the boy, as rapidly as he could. “They said they didn’t have it any more!”
“Sold it for old iron, I bet you,” remarked a joker. His hearers laughed, and as this hit at Fleischmann went from mouth to mouth guffaws went, too.
“Break in the door! Bust the padlock!” suggested a stout, white-aproned man—Schmidt, the butcher.
“Smash a window and climb in,” suggested somebody else.
“What good would that do?” inquired Mr. Schmidt, scornfully.
“Here’s the key—here’s the key!” arose the cry, and the throng eddied and swirled as a man elbowed his path through to the door, and applied a key to the lock.
The crowd pressed forward when, with an impatient motion, the man jerked open the padlock, and hurled aside the sliding door. So many zealous helpers offered themselves that much confusion resulted.