“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.
“Because,” replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of
