“Suppose,” said the burglar, thoughtfully, “that Tony Pastor turns out earlier than usual to-night, and your father gets in from ‘Parsifal’ at 10.30.  I am thoroughly repentant 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 prattling to the pale-cheeked 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 admiration.

“You’re on, all right,” he said.

“And there’s another mistake 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, pouting.

“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 mighty little I get out of these fictional 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 unities.”

“So’ve you,” said the burglar, rather glumly.  “Instead of sitting here talking impudence and taking the bread out of a poor man’s mouth, what you’d like to be doing is hiding under the bed and screeching at the top of your voice.”

“You’re right, old man,” said Tommy, heartily.  “I wonder what they make us do it for?  I think the S. P. C. C. ought to interfere.  I’m sure it’s neither agreeable nor usual for a kid of my age to butt in when a full-grown burglar is at work and offer him a red sled and a pair of skates not to awaken his sick mother.  And look how they make the burglars act!  You’d think editors would know—­but what’s the use?”