They confronted six masked men, three of them displaying six-shooters.
"Throw up your hands!" commanded a carefully disguised voice.
The driver obeyed--but his right hand came up with an automatic pistol in it.

He fired straight into the bunch--foolishly, perhaps; at any rate harmlessly, though they heard the bullet sing as it went by.
Startled, one of the six fired back impulsively, and the other two followed his example.

Had they tried to kill, in the night and drunk as they were, they probably would have failed; but firing at random, one bullet struck flesh.

The man with the automatic flinched backward, reeled forward drunkenly and went down slowly, his companion grasping futilely at his slipping body.
"Hey, you darn mutts, whatcha shootin' for?
Hell of a josh, that is!" Jack shouted angrily and unguardedly.

"Cut that out and pile in here!" While the last man was clawing in through the door, Jack let in the clutch, slamming the gear-lever from low to high and skipping altogether the intermediate.