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 "All right." I ventured; "but that is not our car. It will probably be the one following; or the next after that."

From the moment of leaving the postoffice, I had been planning as to just how and when I should attempt to reach my revolver, which was in a rear trousers pocket, and difficult to get hold of on account of the long, heavy overcoat I was wearing. I must, of necessity, get my hands on it, and at the same time avoid arousing suspicion—but how?

Burns' uneasiness and the excitement under which he was laboring gave me much encouragement, and was just the kind of stimulant I required for action.

The corner upon which we were standing was a very busy one, more especially at this time of evening, as it was now shortly after 6 o'clock.

The accompanying cut shows the Fenway postoffice, located at the corner of Boylston street and Massachusetts Avenue, in the State Street Trust Company's branch building.

As the cars were coming thick and fast, crowded with passengers, most of whom were obliged to transfer at this particular point, and secure transfers from the agent who stood at the electric pole to the left, as shown in the photograph, and in doing so, were obliged to pass directly by where Burns and myself were standing, I concluded, because of the rush and confusion incident to the situation, that my opportunity had arrived.

I was watching with eagerness the cars as they came from every direction, and particularly the one upon which we were supposed to depart. Waiting patiently for that supreme moment when I could decide that our surroundings had reached the climax of all possible expectation in the way of a crowded condition, ever hoping that the moment might arrive when the congestion of moving humanity would become still more intense—as I stood thus, all hope, all expectancy, I could see our car nearing the corner, with but one in advance. As through providential kindness, it was crowded to the very limit. It would, in common with others, unload its human burden, and the transfer man would again become overwhelmed with business.

Some ruse, some excuse, something, anything—but what? Happy thought! My handkerchief, which was in an inside pocket of my overcoat, was soon in hand, and after apparently mopping my face, I proceeded to replace it, but not, however, from whence it came. The hind pocket of my trousers would prove a better receptacle, so carelessly thrusting the flap of my overcoat to one side. I made a pretense of executing this intention.

The scene changed! The handkerchief fluttered carelessly to the sidewalk, and from the recesses of my pocket came a murderous looking object that must have struck terror in the heart of my captor, if his subsequent conduct is any criterion. In leveling the weapon at his head, I had broken from his grasp, but quick as a flash, and doubtless inspired by fear, as I cannot account for his foolhardiness upon any other hypothesis, Burns pounced upon me in an effort to secure possession of the weapon.

Thereupon I seized him by the shirt collar and held him at arm's length with my left hand, while with the other I still kept him securely covered. Our position at this time enabled me to obtain a glimpse of his supposed assistant, who stood some ten feet away and directly behind him. although making no apparent effort to aid his chief, if such he proved to be. The policeman, whose station was at the intersection of the streets, was some ten or fifteen feet further back, and somewhat to the right, and evidently too deeply engrossed with his duties in caring for the crowd to note what was occurring. As to his knowledge of existing conditions. I cannot speak authoritatively. I do know, however, that he failed to take an active part in the lively scrimmage, or in fact pay any heed to it whatsoever.

Burns continued to struggle desperately with me that he might gain a more advantageous position, hoping, no doubt, to close in on me and secure the weapon; but my hold upon his collar was too firm, and the best he could do was Page 244