“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.

“Because,” replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears.  “God bless my little brown-haired 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 managed to support my wife and child by passing confederate money; but, alas!  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?”