Hezekiah moved on, still full of his new idea of crime.  Down the street was a novelty shop, the window decked with New Year’s gifts.

“Sell me a revolver,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said the salesman.  “Would you like something for evening wear, or a plain kind for home use.  Here is a very good family revolver, or would you like a roof garden size?”

Hezekiah selected a revolver and went out.

“Now, then,” he muttered, “I will burglarise a house and get money.”

Walking across to Fifth Avenue he selected one of the finest residences and rang the bell.

A man in livery appeared in the brightly lighted hall.

“Where is your master?” Hezekiah asked, showing his revolver.

“He is upstairs, sir, counting his money,” the man answered, “but he dislikes being disturbed.”

“Show me to him,” said Hezekiah, “I wish to shoot him and take his money.”

“Very good, sir,” said the man deferentially.  “You will find him on the first floor.”

Hezekiah turned and shot the footman twice through the livery and went upstairs.

In an upper room was a man sitting at a desk under a reading-lamp.  In front of him was a pile of gold.

“What are you doing?” said Hezekiah.

“I am counting my money,” said the man.

“What are you?” asked Hezekiah sternly.

“I am a philanthropist,” said the man.  “I give my money to deserving objects.  I establish medals for heroes.  I give prizes for ship captains who jump into the sea, and for firemen who throw people from the windows of upper stories at the risk of their own; I send American missionaries to China, Chinese missionaries to India, and Indian missionaries to Chicago.  I set aside money to keep college professors from starving to death when they deserve it.”

“Stop!” said Hezekiah, “you deserve to die.  Stand up.  Open your mouth and shut your eyes.”

The old man stood up.

There was a loud report.  The philanthropist fell.  He was shot through the waistcoat and his suspenders were cut to ribbons.

Hezekiah, his eyes glittering with the mania of crime, crammed his pockets with gold pieces.

There was a roar and hubbub in the street below.

“The police!” Hezekiah muttered.  “I must set fire to the house and escape in the confusion.”

He struck a safety match and held it to the leg of the table.

It was a fireproof table and refused to burn.  He held it to the door.  The door was fireproof.  He applied it to the bookcase.  He ran the match along the books.  They were all fireproof.  Everything was fireproof.

Frenzied with rage, he tore off his celluloid collar and set fire to it.  He waved it above his head.  Great tongues of flame swept from the windows.

“Fire!  Fire!” was the cry.

Hezekiah rushed to the door and threw the blazing collar down the elevator shaft.  In a moment the iron elevator, with its steel ropes, burst into a mass of flame; then the brass fittings of the door took fire, and in a moment the cement floor of the elevator was one roaring mass of flame.  Great columns of smoke burst from the building.