XIX
TOMMY’S BURGLAR
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 portières 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
