"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.

"I want your watch," said the mask. The drummer reached eagerly for
his waistcoat.

"Hold up your hands!" roared the road agent. "By the eternal, if you
play any rough-house tricks on me I'll--" He flourished his weapon
until it flashed luminously.

An exclamation from Hunk Smith, opportunely uttered, saved the
drummer from what was apparently instant annihilation. "Say, Rider,"
cried the driver, "I can't hold my arms up no longer. I'm going to
put 'em down. But you leave me alone, an' I'll leave you alone. Is
that a bargain?" The shrouded figure whirled his weapon upon the
speaker. "Have I ever stopped you before, Hunk?" he demanded.