He looked round hastily, wildly, out of his pale blue eyes. He threw up his arms on high, and shook them, indicating that all was lost. Then he composed himself, pulled his hat straight over his forehead, drew down his waistcoat and coat-sleeves, arranged his blue tie, and clearing his throat with a deep loud sound, stepped quickly to the wicket, where for a moment he moved his feet rapidly about to give the newly-levelled sand an appearance of ordinary use.
With great noise and indications of effort he unlocked the door and opened it.
A low-sized man, with grizzled hair and mutton-chop whiskers and blue spectacles, dressed in seedy black, and looking like a schoolmaster broken in health and purse, stood in the doorway.
Timmons stared at the man in amazement first, anger next, and lastly rage.
"Well?" he bellowed fiercely; "who are you? What do you want?"
The man did not speak. He coolly stepped over the bar of the wicket and stood close to Timmons in the dimly-lighted store.
The dealer was staggered. Was this a policeman come to arrest him? If he was, and if he had come alone, so much the worse for him!
Timmons put his hand on the man's shoulder, drew the man quickly clear of the wicket, shut the door and locked it. Then turning menacingly on the intruder, who had taken a couple of paces into the store, he said ferociously, "Now, sir! What is it?"
Quick as lightning the man drew a revolver from his waist-band under his coat and presented it at Timmons's head.
The latter fell back against the shutters with an oath and a shout of dismay.