went.

The red-kerchiefed robber whooped when they came to the car
conductor. "Dig up, Mr. Pullman. Go way down into your jeans.
It's a right smart pleasure to divert the plunder of your bloated
corporation back to the people. What! Only fifty-seven dollars.
Oh, dig deeper, Mr. Pullman."

The drummer contributed to the sack eighty-four dollars, a
diamond ring, and a gold watch. His hands were trembling so that
they played a tattoo on the sloping ceiling above him.

"What's the matter, Fatty? Got a chill?" inquired one of the
robbers, as he deftly swept the plunder into the sack.

"For--God's sake--don't shoot. I have--a wife--and five
children," he stammered, with chattering teeth.

"No race suicide for Fatty. But whyfor do they let a sick man
like you travel all by his lone?"

"I don't know--I--Please turn that weapon another way."

"Plumb chuck full of malaria," soliloquized the owner of the
weapon, playfully running its business end over the Chicago man's
anatomy. "Shakes worse'n a pair of dice. Here, Fatty. Load up
with quinine and whisky. It's sure good for chills." The man
behind the bandanna gravely handed his victim back a dollar.
"Write me if it cures you. Now for the sky-pilot. No white chips
on this plate, parson. It's a contribution to the needy heathen.