They were quiet, looking about them with eager faces, interested and amused at this surprise.

In his berth, the fat gentleman with whiskers snored profoundly.
"Say, I'm going out there," suddenly declared one of the drummers, flourishing a pocket revolver.
His friend caught his arm.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Max," he said.
"They won't come near us," observed the well-dressed young man; "they are after the Wells-Fargo box and the registered mail.

You won't do any good out there." But the other loudly protested.

No; he was going out.

He didn't propose to be buncoed without a fight.