On Sunday night, or, rather, Monday morning, within a few minutes of the hour of three (Captain Aaron Quinn afterward swore it was at six bells precisely) occurred the explosion which, although muffled and faintly heard by two persons only, was of sufficient importance to shake Oakdale village to its very foundations. The only person actually to hear the explosion, besides the old sailor, who could not sleep well on account of his rheumatism, was Jonas Sylvester, the fat and pompous village night-watch. With the establishment of the bank the town authorities had decided that a night guard must be employed to patrol the streets, and Sylvester, whose qualifications may be summed up briefly by the statement that he weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had no regular employment, was chosen for the job.

With his greatcoat brass-buttoned tightly to the chin, Officer Sylvester had paused at the end of Main Street bridge, the southern limit of his beat, and was stamping his feet and thumping his mittened hands together when, as he stated later, he heard something like the closing of a distant heavy door, which seemed accompanied by a slight shock or jarring of the ground. Wondering vaguely what it was, and recalling that he had heard that earthquakes, however slight, almost always manifested themselves by several recurring detonations, Jonas ceased stamping and thumping and stood quite still in the muffling darkness, his lips parted as he listened.

“Hokey!” he muttered presently. “What was it? ’Twasn’t thunder, for it’s out of season, and I’m too fur away to hear a horse kicking up in the livery stable. The bank——”

Immediately he started puffingly up the street toward the new bank building.

The clock in the steeple of the Methodist church struck three.

In the meantime, Captain Quinn had been further aroused by his monkey. Chattering excitedly, the creature leaped upon the old sailor’s breast and began tweaking at his hair.

“Quit it, ye swab!” rasped the old salt, thrusting the monkey away. “Back to the fo’cas’le, you imp of mischief. Leave me alone, you scrub, or I’ll give you a douse of bilge-water.”

But Jocko refused to be repulsed by his irascible master. His chattering rose to a squeaking shriek as he returned with a bound and gave a distressing tug at the captain’s whiskers.

“Keelhaul me!” roared Quinn, struggling up and casting the animal to the floor. “I’ll throw you into the hold and keep you under the hatches for the rest of the voyage if you try it again, you spawn!”

Even though he now kept beyond his master’s reach, the monkey persisted in such a chattering uproar and dashed about the dark room in such a frantic manner that the wondering man, groaning at the necessity, hoisted himself out of bed, struck a match and looked at the brass-bound ship’s clock which hung near at hand upon the wall.

“There’s something the matter,” decided Quinn, dropping the burning match as the flame threatened to scorch his fingers. Then, forgetting that he was undressed, from force of habit he placed his bare foot upon the match to extinguish it.

The racket made by the monkey was nothing in comparison to the roar that broke from the lips of the now thoroughly awakened man, and had anyone witnessed the tremendous jump which Captain Quinn made he would have fancied the old tar suddenly cured of his rheumatism. The language which burst in a torrent from Quinn’s lips was of a decidedly sulphurous nature.

“You imp of the Old Nick!” he bellowed, making a dive and a grab for the elusive monkey. “I’ll wring your neck if I get my two hooks on it!”

Jocko, however, bounding over the furniture, skimming the length of a shelf, and seeming to swing himself along one of the bare walls of the room, perched on a window ledge beyond immediate reach. If possible, Captain Quinn was further aroused and enraged by barking his shins upon a chair.

“Furies!” he breathed. “Where’s my gun? I’ll blow a porthole in the hide of that infernal pest!”

As if realizing the peril to his very life, Jocko yanked away a mass of old rags which had completely filled the opening left by a broken windowpane, and darted through the aperture.

At about this moment Officer Sylvester, hastily approaching the front of the bank, fancied he saw a dark figure dart around a corner of the building and disappear. Shivering, more from excitement and exertion than from the cold, the night-watch pursued that shadowy figure, weapon in hand. At the back of the building he paused, hearing the voice of the old sailor raging within the nearby shanty.

“I s’pose it’s that old fool that’s made the disturbance,” muttered Jonas doubtfully. “Still, I kinder thought I saw something.”

Producing the electric torch he always carried while on duty, he flashed the light around him, making almost a complete arc of a circle. Suddenly the light stopped, bearing full upon an iron-barred window in the rear of the bank building, and there it hung quivering, revealing to Sylvester’s bulging eyes a most astounding and disturbing fact.

Three of the bars had been cut completely off and bent outward, and beyond them an entire section of the window glass was missing, leaving an opening large enough to admit the body of a man.

Almost paralyzed by this amazing discovery, Officer Sylvester felt his thick knees growing weak beneath him.

“Robbers,” he gasped—“robbers, by the jumping jingoes!”

That very instant there was a flash in the nearby shadows, and, with the report of a pistol, a bullet almost grazed the torch in Sylvester’s hand.

The night-watch did not hesitate upon the order of his going, but went at once. With a yell of terror he took to his heels, and his wild shout of “Robbers! robbers!” resounded through the main part of the village as he dashed toward the public square near the post-office. Reaching the square, he increased his efforts to arouse the townspeople by firing his revolver several times into the air.

“Marlin spikes and belaying pins!” spluttered Captain Quinn, still groping for his shotgun. “There’s blazes to pay! The monk wasn’t such a fool, after all.”

Presently, gun in hand, he flung open his door and stood peering into the night. He could hear the courageous night-watch shouting from the square and firing his revolver. But what interested Aaron Quinn far more was the sight of two figures which seemed to drop from the rear window of the bank and run away into the darkness.

“Shades of Neptune!” said Captain Quinn. “It’s piracy on the high seas!”

Somewhat tardily, he got into action, lifting the gun and firing into the darkness which had swallowed the fleeing figures.