The man was but a few feet from Miss Post, and
the light fell full upon her. Of him she could see only two black
eyes that flashed as evilly as his weapon. For a period of suspense,
which seemed cruelly prolonged, the man stood motionless, then he
lowered his weapon. When he opened his lips the mask stuck to them,
and his words came from behind it, broken and smothered. "Sorry to
trouble you, miss," the mask said, "but I want that man beside you to
get out."
Miss Post turned to the travelling salesman. "He wants you to get
out," she said.
"Wants me!" exclaimed the drummer. "I'm not armed, you know." In a
louder voice he protested, faintly: "I say, I'm not armed."
"Come out!" demanded the mask.
The drummer precipitated himself violently over the knees of the
ladies into the road below, and held his hands high above him. "I'm
not armed," he said; "indeed I'm not."
"Stand over there, with your back to that rock," the mask ordered.
For a moment the road agent regarded him darkly, pointing his weapon
meditatively at different parts of the salesman's person. He
suggested a butcher designating certain choice cuts. The drummer's
muscles jerked under the torture as though his anatomy were being
prodded with an awl.
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