Christmas was ten days away. Every evening we dressed for our parts, got barbered, shined, and slicked up, and walked about the block prepared to go into the store when it looked right. We made sure every day that the getaways I had located were still open.

“I could make it now,” said Sanc as we stood across the street the third evening, “but I’ll wait; it’s getting better every day.”

His last instructions were: “Now, don’t get nervous. If you get your hands on the junk walk out quietly and away. If they tumble me up before I get the tray out you fade away. I’ll do the best I can alone. If there’s a tumble after you get the tray and you are chased, hang on to it and get into one of the spots you have picked out and when you get on the other street don’t run; walk briskly direct to the room. If I’m not there five minutes after you, I’ll be in jail. I don’t like to think of that, but the pitcher can go to the well once too often, and it’s better to know beforehand what you are going to do when it breaks. If I don’t appear you put the stones away safely and wait till I send you word. Don’t try to connect with me.”