“Lay still,” said the burglar in conversational tone.  Burglars of the third type do not hiss.  The citizen in the bed looked at the round end of the burglar’s pistol and lay still.

“Now hold up both your hands,” commanded the burglar.

The citizen had a little, pointed, brown-and-gray beard, like that of a painless dentist.  He looked solid, esteemed, irritable, and disgusted.  He sat up in bed and raised his right hand above his head.

“Up with the other one,” ordered the burglar.  “You might be amphibious and shoot with your left.  You can count two, can’t you?  Hurry up, now.”

“Can’t raise the other one,” said the citizen, with a contortion of his lineaments.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Rheumatism in the shoulder.”

“Inflammatory?”

“Was.  The inflammation has gone down.”  The burglar stood for a moment or two, holding his gun on the afflicted one.  He glanced at the plunder on the dresser and then, with a half-embarrassed air, back at the man in the bed.  Then he, too, made a sudden grimace.

“Don’t stand there making faces,” snapped the citizen, bad-humouredly.  “If you’ve come to burgle why don’t you do it?  There’s some stuff lying around.”

“’Scuse me,” said the burglar, with a grin; “but it just socked me one, too.  It’s good for you that rheumatism and me happens to be old pals.  I got it in my left arm, too.  Most anybody but me would have popped you when you wouldn’t hoist that left claw of yours.”

“How long have you had it?” inquired the citizen.

“Four years.  I guess that ain’t all.  Once you’ve got it, it’s you for a rheumatic life—­that’s my judgment.”

“Ever try rattlesnake oil?” asked the citizen, interestedly.

“Gallons,” said the burglar.  “If all the snakes I’ve used the oil of was strung out in a row they’d reach eight times as far as Saturn, and the rattles could be heard at Valparaiso, Indiana, and back.”

“Some use Chiselum’s Pills,” remarked the citizen.

“Fudge!” said the burglar.  “Took ’em five months.  No good.  I had some relief the year I tried Finkelham’s Extract, Balm of Gilead poultices and Potts’s Pain Pulverizer; but I think it was the buckeye I carried in my pocket what done the trick.”

“Is yours worse in the morning or at night?” asked the citizen.

“Night,” said the burglar; “just when I’m busiest.  Say, take down that arm of yours—­I guess you won’t—­Say! did you ever try Blickerstaff’s Blood Builder?”

“I never did.  Does yours come in paroxysms or is it a steady pain?”

The burglar sat down on the foot of the bed and rested his gun on his crossed knee.

“It jumps,” said he.  “It strikes me when I ain’t looking for it.  I had to give up second-story work because I got stuck sometimes half-way up.  Tell you what—­I don’t believe the bloomin’ doctors know what is good for it.”