A Bad Man

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One day a young man in an almost brimless fedora burst into the office where Feldman was dictating a letter to his secretary. He pointed a gun and said, “Reach, the jig is up, Feldman.” They were working in front of Feldman’s safe, where his department store’s daily receipts were kept. The secretary, whose name was Miss Lane, immediately pressed a button on an underledge of Feldman’s desk, and loud bells rang.

“That will bring the police before there’s time to open the safe,” she announced in the dinging din. But Feldman, who until this time had been sitting in his chair, elbows on the desk, his cheeks pushed into his palms in a position of concentration, slowly began to raise his arms.

“I’m afraid I shan’t require your services for a while, Miss Lane,” Feldman shouted.

“One false move,” the young man said, “and I’ll plug you.”

“You’ve got me covered,” Feldman admitted.

Miss Lane looked from one to the other. “What is this?” she demanded.

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