"Hold up your hands!"

One of the passengers had already lifted his, in a weary, perfunctory
way. The others did the same reluctantly and awkwardly, but apparently
more from the consciousness of the ludicrousness of their attitude
than from any sense of danger. The rays of a bull's-eye lantern, deftly
managed by invisible hands, while it left the intruders in shadow,
completely illuminated the faces and figures of the passengers. In spite
of the majestic obscurity and silence of surrounding nature, the group
of humanity thus illuminated was more farcical than dramatic. A scrap of
newspaper, part of a sandwich, and an orange peel that had fallen from
the floor of the coach, brought into equal prominence by the searching
light, completed the absurdity.

"There's a man here with a package of greenbacks," said the voice, with
an official coolness that lent a certain suggestion of Custom House
inspection to the transaction; "who is it?" The passengers looked at
each other, and their glance finally settled on Hale.

"It's not HIM," continued the voice, with a slight tinge of contempt on
the emphasis. "You'll save time and searching, gentlemen, if you'll tote
it out. If we've got to go through every one of you we'll try to make it
pay."

The significant threat was not unheeded. The passenger who had first
moved when the stage stopped put his hand to his breast.

"T'other pocket first, if you please," said the voice.