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 detested1 the police- man and objected earnestly to the arrangement. She pointed2 out, not unreasonably3, 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. Rasp- berries 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 descrip- tion in a 2,000-word story.
In the dining room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With a brace4 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 velvet5 portières parted to admit a fair-haired boy of eight in pink pajamas6, 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 hoarse7 voice. "Am I a burglar? Wot do you suppose I have a three- days' growth of bristly bread 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 Metropolitan8 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," hissed9 the burglar, under his breath. "If you raise an alarm I'll wring10 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. Burg- lar? 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 innocence11 and childish insouciance12 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 sullenly13.
"It's only been an hour," he grumbled14, "since I had a lobster15 and a pint16 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, hoarsely17 and with immediate18 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.
"Because," replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears. "God bless my little brown-baired boy Bessie at home."
"Ah," said Tommy, wrinkling his nose, "you got that answer in the wrong place. You want to tell your hard- luck story before you pull out the child stop."
"Oh, yes," said the burglar, "I forgot. Well, once I lived in Milwaukee, and -- "
"Take the silver," said Tommy, rising from his chair.
"Hold on," said the burglar. "But I moved away." I could find no other employment. For a while I man- aged19 to support my wife and child by passing confederate money; but, alas20! I was forced to give that up because it did not belong to the union. I became desperate and a burglar."
"Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?" asked Tommy.
"I said 'burglar,' not 'beggar,'" answered the cracksman.
"After you finish your lunch," said Tommy, "and experience the usual change Of heart, how shall we wind up the story?"
"Suppose," said the burglar, thoughtfully, "that Tony Pastor21 turns out earlier than usual to-night, and your father gets in from 'Parsifal' at 10.30. I am thoroughly23 repentant24 because you have made me think of my own little boy Bessie, and -- "
"Say," said Tommy, "haven't you got that wrong?"
"Not on your coloured crayon drawings by B. Cory Kilvert," said the burglar. "It's always a Bessie that I have at home, artlessly prattling25 to the pale-checked burglar's bride. As I was saying, your father opens the front door just as I am departing with admonitions and sandwiches that you have wrapped up for me. Upon recognizing me as an old Harvard classmate he starts back in -- "
"Not in surprise?" interrupted Tommy, with wide, open eyes.
"He starts back in the doorway," continued the burglar. And then he rose to his feet and began to shout "Rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah!"
"Well," said Tommy, wonderingly, "that's, the first time I ever knew a burglar to give a college yell when he was burglarizing a house, even in a story."
"That's one on you," said the burglar, with a laugh. "I was practising the dramatization. If this is put on the stage that college touch is about the only thing that will make it go."
Tommy looked his admiration27.
"You're on, all right," he said.
"And there's another mistalze you've made," said the burglar. "You should have gone some time ago and brought me the $9 gold piece your mother gave you on your birthday to take to Bessie."
"But she didn't give it to me to take to Bessie," said Tommy, pouting28.
"Come, come!" said the burglar, sternly. "It's not nice of you to take advantage because the story contains an ambiguous sentence. You know what I mean. It's mighty29 little I get out of these fictional30 jobs, anyhow. I lose all the loot, and I have to reform every time; and all the swag I'm allowed is the blamed little fol-de-rols and luck-pieces that you kids hand over. Why, in one story, all I got was a kiss from a little girl who came in on me when I was opening a safe. And it tasted of molasses candy, too. I've a good notion to tie this table cover over your head and keep on into the silver-closet."
"Oh, no, you haven't," said Tommy, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Because if you did no editor would buy the story. You know you've got to preserve the unities31."
"So've you," said the burglar, rather glumly32. "Instead of sitting here talking impudence33 and taking the bread out of a poor man's mouth, what you'd like to be doing is hiding under the bed and screeching34 at the top of your voice."
"You're right, old man," said Tommy, heartily35. "I wonder what they make us do it for? I think the S. P. C. C. ought to interfere36. I'm sure it's neither agreeable nor usual for a kid of my age to butt37 in when a full-grown burglar is at work and offer him a red sled and a pair of skates not to awaken38 his sick mother. And look how they make the burglars act! You'd think editors would know -- but what's the use?"
The burglar wiped his hands on the tablecloth39 and arose with a yawn.
"Well, let's get through with it," he said. "God bless you, my little boy! you have saved a man from committing a crime this night. Bessie shall pray for you as soon as I get home and give her her orders. I shall never burglarize another house -- at least not until the June magazines are out. It'll be your little sister's turn then to run in on me while I am abstracting the U. S. 4 per cent. from the tea urn22 and buy me off with her coral necklace and a falsetto kiss."
"You haven't got all the kicks coming to you," sighed Tommy, crawling out of his chair. "Think of the sleep I'm losing. But it's tough on both of us, old man. I wish you could get out of the story and really rob somebody. Maybe you'll have the chance if they dramatize us."
"Never!" said the burglar, gloomily. "Between the box office and my better impulses that your leading juven- iles are supposed to awaken and the magazines that pay on publication, I guess I'll always be broke."
"I'm sorry," said Tommy, sympathetically. "But I can't help myself any more than you can. It's one of the canons of household fiction that no burglar shall be suc- cessful. The burglar must be foiled by a kid like me, or- by a young lady heroine, or at the last moment by his old pal26, Red Mike, who recognizes the house as one in which he used to be the coachman. You have got the worst end of it in any kind of a story."
"Well, I suppose I must be clearing out now," said the burglar, taking up his lantern and bracebit.
"You have to take the rest of this chicken and the bottle of wine with you for Bessie and her mother," said Tommy, calmly.
"But confound it," exclaimed the burglar, in an annoyed tone, "they don't want it. I've got five cases of Chateau40 de Beychsvelle at home that was bottled in 1853. That claret of yours is corked41. And you couldn't get either of them to look at a chicken unless it was stewed42 in champagne43. You know, after I get out of the story I don't have so many limitations. I make a turn now and then."
"Yes, but you must take them," said Tommy, loading his arms with the bundles.
"Bless you, young master!" recited the burglar, obedient. "Second-Story Saul will never forget you. And now hurry and let me out, kid. Our 2,000 words must be nearly up."
Tommy led the way through the hall toward the front door. Suddenly the burglar stopped and called to him softly: "Ain't there a cop out there in front somewhere sparking the girl?"
"Yes," said Tommy, "but what -- "
"I'm afraid he'll catch me," said the burglar. "You mustn't forget that this is fiction."
"Great head!" said Tommy, turning. "Come out by the back door."
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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unities
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| n.统一体( unity的名词复数 )；（艺术等） 完整；（文学、戏剧） （情节、时间和地点的）统一性；团结一致 | |
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glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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