“This is the bunk. Let’s us extras get out and do our wrangling from the street.”

He thought that a good idea, and gave orders:

“Pile out, some of you hombres, and take them from the pavements.”

I was the first man out, with my eye on a dark alley entrance.

Fat followed me to it. In my shelter, I turned on him and growled:

“Don’t pile up on me. Pick your own hole. There’s a cellarway that looks good.”

He agreeably trotted off toward it, and was shot down at his third step.

I explored my alley. It was only twenty feet long, and ended against a high board fence with a locked gate.