I was morally certain Pete’s money was in it. I saw him put it there the night before, but on this last night I had kept away, not caring to be seen about his place. There was one chance in a million that he hadn’t locked the register, so before attacking it with the ax I touched one of the keys. The bell did not ring, but the cash drawer opened. But to my dismay it did not slide out with the slow, labored, obese movement of a cash drawer loaded with heavy gold and silver; instead it shot out with a thin, empty, hollow jerk that told me there was nothing in it.

With numb and freezing fingers I explored the little cups only to find them bare of coin. The compartments in the back gave up no fat bankroll. The thing was as empty and as inviting as a new-dug grave. This last blow was too much for my philosophy. Cursing the snow and sleet and every organic thing, I started back determined to go into Pete’s bedroom and search for his money. I was too late. At the door I looked into the hall and saw the porter limbering up for another day’s work.

Sad and sore I turned away and trudged through the storm to my room at Irish Annie’s where I found food and drink and light and heat and the consoling hop layout.

I was out early the next afternoon to find out what had happened at Swede Pete’s that caused him to shift his money. He was around town drunk as a ragman, going from one bar to another, buying drinks for all hands, and telling with great relish how he had saved his bankroll from the “burglars.” I heard his boisterous laugh as I was passing one of the saloons and went in to get an earful. He threw an American twenty-dollar piece on the bar, and as it bounced up and down, roared: “Yump, you beggar, yump! Many times I ha’ to yump for you.” Then everybody was invited to drink and listen to his tale.