ing things. Perhaps the mysterious cowboy pianist was studying a plan of Cosgrove's jewelry store, or perhaps he was bending over a fascinating assortment of jimmies and files and—yes, there'd be an acetylene torch for burning a hole in the steel safe, and there'd be dynamite or nitro-glycerine or something equally useful to a safe-breaker! If only he might somehow get a momentary peek into that room over there! He was so full of his interesting neighbor that he ate almost no supper and incurred the anxious displeasure of his mother.
"Aren't you feeling well, Perry?" she asked.
"No'm—I mean, yes'm!"
"I think, Father, you'd better have a look at him after supper. His face looks feverish to me."
"I'm all right, honest, Ma! I—I just ain't hungry."
"Don't say 'ain't,' Perry. Have you been eating this afternoon?"
"No'm."
"I wouldn't worry about him," said the Doctor. "These first spring days are likely to interfere with one's appetite. Have you started that sprinting yet? Been doing too much running to-day?"
"No, sir, we don't start until to-morrow. Dad, did you ever see a burglar?"
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