"Robbers—in the—bank!" he gasped, taking the gun from its rack by the kitchen door.
"Gracious me! What are you going to do?"
"Go to the help of Mr. Harris, of course."
"Henry Farnam, are you a fool? Will you never learn to mind your own business? Go to Harris' rescue, will you? Well, I guess not. If you stay here, the robbers'll probably not hurt him. I know him too well to think he'd refuse to do what they said. But if they see you rushing at them with a gun, they'll like as not kill him and put a bullet into you for your pains. And your insurance premium hasn't been paid for this year! No, sir. You just put that gun back in its rack and stay in the house!"
Accustomed to the domination of his energetic spouse, Farnam meekly returned the weapon to its place by the kitchen door and followed his wife into the front room to watch proceedings from a safe position behind the closed blinds.
"There they go! Mercy, how fierce they look! Henry, Henry, I've saved your life!" babbled the woman, as the outlaws strode away from the bank, throwing her arms around her husband's neck.
But Farnam was more interested in the robbers and wriggling from the hysterical embrace, saw them mount their horses and dash madly up the street.
Sure that they were gone, he rushed from his house and gave the alarm.
From all sides men ran in response to his frenzied shouts and the excitement was increased by the appearance of the cashier in the door of the looted bank, crying for dynamite, gunpowder and sledge hammers.