"Aw, take a wheel off their tin wagon!" a laughter-hoarse voice
bettered the plan.

"Hold 'em up and take a nickel off 'em--if they carry that much on
their persons after dark," another suggested.

"You're on, bo! This is a hold-up. Hist!"

A hold-up they proceeded to make it. They halted the little car with a
series of explosions as it passed. The driver was alone, and as he
climbed out to inspect his tires, he confronted what looked to his
startled eyes like a dozen masked men. Solemnly they went through his
pockets while he stood with his hands high above him. They took his
half-plug of chewing tobacco and a ten-cent stick-pin from his tie,
and afterwards made him crank his car and climb back into the seat and
go on. He went--with the throttle wide open and the little car loping
down the boulevard like a scared pup.

"Watch him went!" shrieked one they called Hen, doubling himself
together in a spasm of laughter.

"'He was--here--when we _started_, b-but he was--gone--when we got
th'ough!'" chanted another, crudely imitating a favorite black-faced
comedian.

Jack, one arm thrown across the wheel, leaned out and looked back,
grinning under the red band stretched across the middle of his face.
"Ah, pile in!" he cried, squeezing his gum between his teeth and
starting the engine. "He might come back with a cop."