FullReads

At ten o’clock P. M. Felicia, the maid, left by the basement door with the policeman to get a raspberry phosphate around the corner. She detested the policeman and objected earnestly to the arrangement. She pointed out, not unreasonably, that she might have been allowed to fall asleep over one of St. George Rathbone’s novels on the third floor, but she was overruled. Raspberries and cops were not created for nothing.

The burglar got into the house without much difficulty; because we must have action and not too much description in a 2,000-word story.

In the dining room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With a brace and centrebit he began to bore into the lock of the silver-closet.

Suddenly a click was heard. The room was flooded with electric light. The dark velvet portieres parted to admit a fair-haired boy of eight in pink pajamas, bearing a bottle of olive oil in his hand.

“Are you a burglar?” he asked, in a sweet, childish voice.

“Listen to that,” exclaimed the man, in a hoarse voice. “Am I a burglar? Wot do you suppose I have a three-days’ growth of bristly beard on my face for, and a cap with flaps? Give me the oil, quick, and let me grease the bit, so I won’t wake up your mamma, who is lying down with a headache, and left you in charge of Felicia who has been faithless to her trust.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tommy, with a sigh. “I thought you would be more up-to-date. This oil is for the salad when I bring lunch from the pantry for you. And mamma and papa have gone to the Metropolitan to hear De Reszke. But that isn’t my fault. It only shows how long the story has been knocking around among the editors. If the author had been wise he’d have changed it to Caruso in the proofs.”

“Be quiet,” hissed the burglar, under his breath. “If you raise an alarm I’ll wring your neck like a rabbit’s.”

“Like a chicken’s,” corrected Tommy. “You had that wrong. You don’t wring rabbits’ necks.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” asked the burglar.

“You know I’m not,” answered Tommy. “Don’t you suppose I know fact from fiction. If this wasn’t a story I’d yell like an Indian when I saw you; and you’d probably tumble downstairs and get pinched on the sidewalk.”

“I see,” said the burglar, “that you’re on to your job. Go on with the performance.”

Tommy seated himself in an armchair and drew his toes up under him.

“Why do you go around robbing strangers, Mr. Burglar? Have you no friends?”

“I see what you’re driving at,” said the burglar, with a dark frown. “It’s the same old story. Your innocence and childish insouciance is going to lead me back into an honest life. Every time I crack a crib where there’s a kid around, it happens.”

“Would you mind gazing with wolfish eyes at the plate of cold beef that the butler has left on the dining table?” said Tommy. “I’m afraid it’s growing late.”

The burglar accommodated.

“Poor man,” said Tommy. “You must be hungry. If you will please stand in a listless attitude I will get you something to eat.”

The boy brought a roast chicken, a jar of marmalade and a bottle of wine from the pantry. The burglar seized a knife and fork sullenly.

“It’s only been an hour,” he grumbled, “since I had a lobster and a pint of musty ale up on Broadway. I wish these story writers would let a fellow have a pepsin tablet, anyhow, between feeds.”

“My papa writes books,” remarked Tommy.

The burglar jumped to his feet quickly.

“You said he had gone to the opera,” he hissed, hoarsely and with immediate suspicion.

“I ought to have explained,” said Tommy. “He didn’t buy the tickets.” The burglar sat again and toyed with the wishbone.

“Why do you burgle houses?” asked the boy, wonderingly.