J. Archibald McKackney
sailor grabbed a bottle of mucilage from the writing table. As I withdrew a small tray on which the clustered gems gleamed like drops of blood, Mr. Hank Wilkins swept up a handful, let a stream of mucilage fall on them, and rolled the gems in his two fists. Then, two and three at a time, he stowed the rubies in the burrowed depths of his Titian beard. It was the work of seconds only to scoop up another fistful of treasure, smear the rubies with the gummy fluid and bury or cache them in this same flaming jungle where they clung secure and wholly invisible.
"Shut the safe and sit down calm and easy, sir," he commanded me. "If the coast is clear, we may make a run for it yet."
But as the sailor slipped toward the nearest window, hoping to find a way of retreat, three masked men appeared in the hall doorway. Three blue-barreled revolvers were leveled at me, and their muzzles looked to be as big as megaphones. The leader cried:
"Hands up. And you with the red whiskers, put 'em over your head. Ride herd on
