“Hands up!” ordered the tramp hoarsely.
Elder’s hands flew into the air. Immediately, despite his fright, there returned a remembrance of his boast that morning. He half made as though to bring his hands down. Instantly the cold muzzles of the pistols were pressed close beneath his nose. With a wild flutter Elder’s fingers shot upward to their fullest stretch.
“Come out!” ordered the tramp.
Quaking, and almost on tiptoes in his effort to keep his hands aloft, Elder obeyed. Lowering one of the pistols and thrusting it into his belt, the tramp reached forward and secured the clerk’s revolver, dropping it to the ground beneath his feet.
“Now, Mr. Superintendent,” he ordered gruffly, “hand over your roll!”
“Why, I’m not the superintendent,” quavered Elder hopefully. “I am—only a clerk.”
“Clerk nothing! Don’t you think I know a superintendent when I see one? Out with those yellowbacks you drew yesterday, or by gum—” The pistol was again thrust under his nose, and Elder blanched.
“But I’m not the superintendent! Honestly I’m not!” he protested. “I’m only a clerk. And I only get—only get—”
“Yes, come on! You only get?” thundered the tramp.
“I only get thirty-five dollars a month,” whispered the clerk.