The shock of an earthquake could not have blanched ruddy faces
more surely. The Chicago drummer, fat and florid, had disappeared
completely behind a buttress of the company's upholstery.
"God bless my soul!" gasped the Pekin-Bostonian, dropping his
eyeglass and his accent at the same moment. The dismay in his
face found a reflection all over the car. Miss Wainwright's hand
clutched at her breast for an instant, and her color ebbed till
her lips were ashen, but her neighbor across the aisle noticed
that her eyes were steady and her figure tense.
"Scared stiff, but game," was his mental comment.
"Gents to the right and ladies to the left; line up against the
walls; everybody waltz." called the man behind the guns, with
grim humor.
The passengers fell into line as directed, Collins with the rest.
"You're calling this dance, son; it's your say-so, I guess," he
conceded.
"Keep still, or I'll shoot you full of holes," growled the
autocrat of the artillery.
"Why, sure! Ain't you the real thing in Jesse Jameses?" soothed
the sheriff.
At the sound of Collins' voice, the masked man had started
perceptibly, and his right hand had jumped forward an inch or two
to cover the speaker more definitely.
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