Marc and Toffee peered into the darkness after George as he proceeded toward the bank and finally reappeared, in silhouette again, against one of the bank's huge plate glass windows, which was dimly illuminated by a night light somewhere inside.
George seemed to hover uncertainly before the window for a time, then he bent down and seemed to take an intense interest in a trash container standing nearby. Finally he straightened up, fumbling with the bags.
"What's he doing?" Toffee asked. "He wouldn't have the nerve to pocket that money, would he?"
"I don't know," Marc replied. "He seems more to be putting something into the sacks. Rocks or something." Then he stiffened as George's motives suddenly became hideously clear. "No!" he yelled. "Don't, you fool!"
But it was too late. Already, George had swung the sacks over his head and hurled them at the window. Marc's cry rang out just as they completed their grisly mission. A horrible crashing sound was instantly followed by a loud clamor of bells, the bank's burglar alarm was heralding the awful news with a din that froze Marc and Toffee in their tracks. For one panicky moment their blood seemed to stand still in their veins.
As though by magic, the scene was suddenly filled with bounding, milling figures, most of which had a nasty, official-looking cut to them. They swarmed down on Marc and Toffee, forcing them back toward the taxi, which promptly streaked away from the curb, withdrawing its sanctuary. Apparently, the little driver had at last begun to see his new-found friends in a different light ... a prison grey, for instance. Marc and Toffee were promptly surrounded.
"We got two of 'em!" a voice yelled. "You get the other one?"
"No!" another voice answered bewilderedly. "We thought we had him but he got away somehow. Darned if I can figure out how he did it. One minute he was right here in our hands, next minute he was gone. He's a slippery rat, that one." A dull whack interrupted the voice briefly. "Ouch!" it continued. "Which one of you wise guys slugged me in the nose?"
There ensued a whole series of whacking sounds, followed by accusations, counter-accusations and athletic retaliations. Departmental jealousies and prejudices suddenly flared into the open, and the result was a sort of policemen's brawl. Later, one of the participants was heard to proclaim, whilst nursing a black eye, that he had seen a disembodied fist flying about delivering blows willy-nilly in all directions, without any noticeable favoritism to any of the various contestants. For his very accurate reportorial work, the fellow was quickly hustled off to the police psychiatrist.