The Snowflake herald., 1918-04-26
CHAPTER XIX.
In the Dead of Night.

In the Dead or Night.
While Kusiak slept that night the
wind shifted. 1t came roaring across
the range and drove before it great
scudding clouds heavily laden with
sleety snow. From dark till dawn the
roar of the wind filed the night. Be
fore morning heavy drifts had wiped
out the roads and sheeted the town in
virgin white unbroken by trails or fur
rows.
With the coming of daylight the
tempest abated Kusiak got into it's
working clothes and dug itself out
from the heavy blanket of white that
had tucked it in. BY noon the busi-
ness of the town was under way again.
That which would have demoralized
the activities of a Southern city made
little difference to these Arctic Circle
dwellers. Roads were cleared, paths
shoveled, stores opened. Children in
parkas and fur coats trooped to school
and studied through the short after
noon by the aid of electric light.
Dusk fell early and with it came a
scatter of more snow. Mrs. Selfridge
gave a dinner-dance at the club that
night and her guests came in furs
Of great variety and much value. The
nUouUoo UutuIu nerseIf to make the af-
fair the most elaborate of the season.
Nobody in Kusiak of any social i'm
pOrtance was omitted from the list of
invited except Gordon Elliot. Even
the grumpy old cashier of MacdOnald's
bank-an old bachelor who lived by
himself in rooms behind those in which
the banking was done-was persuaded
to break his custom and appear in
rusty old dress suit of the vintage of
'95.
The grizzled cashier-his name was
Robert Milton-left the clubhouse
early for his rooms. 1t was showing,
but the wind had died down. Contrary
to his custom, he had taken two or
three glasses of wine. His brain was
excited so that he knew he could not
sleep. He decided to read "Don
Quixote' by the stove for an hour or
two.
Arrived at the bank, he let himself
into his rooms and locked the door. He
stopped to open the draft of the stove
when a sound stopped him halfway.
The cashier stood rigid, stiE crouched,
waiting for a repetition of the noise.
1t came once more-the low, dull rasp-
ing of a file.
Shivers ran down the spine of Mil
ton and up the back of his head to
the roots of his hair. Somebody was
in the bank-at two o'clock in the
tools for burglary. He
was scholarly old fellow, brought up
in New England and cast out to the
uttermOst frontier by the malign trag-
edy of poverty. Adventure offered no
appeal to him.
But though his knees trembled be-
meath him and the sickness of fear
was gripping his heart, Robert Mil
ton had in him the dynamic spark that
makes a man. He tiptoed to his desk
and with shaking fingers gripped the
revolver that lay in a drawer.
The cashier braced himself for the
plunge, then slowly trod across the
room to the inner, locked door. The
palSied fingers of his left hand could
scarce turn the key.
1t seemed to him that the night was
alive with the noise he made in turning
he lock and opening the door. The
hinges grated and the floor squeaked
beneath the fall of his foot as he stood |
1t the threshold.
Two men were in front of the wire
grating which protected the big safe
hat filed the alc0ve to the right. One
leld a file and the other a candle. |
Their blank, masked faces were turned
toward Milton, and each of them Gov
cred him with. a weapon.
''Wwhat are you doing here?'
quavered the cashier.
drop that gun," came the low,
sharp command from one of them.
Some old ancestral instinct in the
bank cashier rose out of his panic to
destroy him. He wanted to lie down
quietly in a faint. But his mind as
serted Its mastery over the weakling
BODY. In spite of his terror, of his
1accid will, he had to keep the faith.
He was guardian of the bank funds.
At all costs he must protect them. /