On the floor by the counter at their right was a heavy sledge.

Gilmore called Harbison's attention to this.
"I guess the job was done with that," he said.
"Possibly," agreed Harbison.
Gilmore picked up the sledge and examined it narrowly.
"Yes, you can see, there is blood on it." He handed it to Harbison, who stepped under the nearest lamp with the clumsy weapon in his hand.
"You are right, Andy!" and he glanced at the rude instrument of death with a look of repugnance on his keen sensitive face, then he carefully, placed it under the wooden counter.

"Horrible!" he muttered to himself.
"It was no joke for him!" said the gambler, catching the last word.

"But some one was bound to try this dodge sooner or later.

Why, as far back as I can remember, people said he kept his money hidden away at the bottom of nail kegs and under heaps of scrap-iron." He took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and struck a match.