dusk … black as pitch. He began to walk quickly back toward town, not waiting to remove the mask but watching the road with difficulty through the jagged eye-holes. He was not conscious of any nervousness . . . the only tension was caused by a desire to do the thing as soon as possible.
He reached the first sidewalk, continued on until he saw a hedge far from any lamp-post, and turned in behind it. Within a minute he heard several series of footsteps—he waited—it was a woman and he held his breath until she passed … and then a man, a laborer. The next passer, he felt, would be what he wanted … the laborer's footfalls died far up the drenched street … other steps grew nears grew suddenly louder.
Dalyrimple braced himself.
"Put up your hands!"
The man stopped, uttered an absurd little grunt, and thrust pudgy arms skyward.
Dalyrimple went through the waistcoat.
"Now, you shrimp," he said, setting his hand suggestively to his own hip pocket, "you run, and stamp—loud! If I hear your feet stop I'll put a shot after you!"
Then he stood there in sudden uncontrollable laughter as audibly frightened footsteps scurried away into the night.
After a moment, he thrust the roll of bills into his pocket, snatched of his mask, and running quickly across the street, darted down an alley.
