felt lay on the floor by the table.
The cut of the coat was poor, and the fit of it spoiled by a bulge
in one of the pockets. Diagnosing this bulge correctly, Jimmy
inserted his hand, and drew out a dingy revolver.
“Well?” he said, rising.
Like most people, he had often wondered what he should do if he were
to meet a burglar; and he had always come to the conclusion that
curiosity would be his chief emotion. His anticipations were proved
perfectly correct. Now that he had abstracted his visitor’s gun, he
had no wish to do anything but engage him in conversation. A
burglar’s life was something so entirely outside his experience! He
wanted to learn the burglar’s point of view. Incidentally, he
reflected with amusement, as he recalled his wager, he might pick up
a few useful hints.
The man on the floor sat up, and rubbed the back of his head
ruefully.
“Gee!” he muttered. “I t’ought some guy had t’rown de buildin’ at
me.”
“It was only little me,” said Jimmy. “Sorry if I hurt you at all.
You really want a mat for that sort of thing.”
The man’s hand went furtively to his pocket. Then, his eye caught
sight of the revolver, which Jimmy had placed on the table. With a
sudden dash, he seized it.
“Now, den, boss!” he said, between his teeth.
Jimmy extended his hand, and unclasped it. Six shells lay in the
palm.
“Why worry?” he said. “Sit down and let us talk of life.”
“It’s a fair cop, boss,” said the man, resignedly.
“Away with melancholy,” said Jimmy. “I’m not going to call the
police. You can beat it whenever you like.”
The man stared.
“I mean it,” said Jimmy. “What’s the trouble? I’ve no grievance. I
wish, though, if you haven’t any important engagement, you would
stop and talk awhile first.”
A broad grin spread itself across the other’s face. There was
something singularly engaging about him when he grinned.
“Gee! If youse ain’t goin’ to call de cops, I’ll talk till de
chickens roost ag’in.”
“Talking, however,” said Jimmy, “is dry work. Are you by any chance
on the wagon?”
“What’s dat? Me? On your way, boss!”
“Then, you’ll find a pretty decent whiskey in that decanter. Help
yourself. I think you’ll like it.”
A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the
statement had been tested and proved correct.
“Cigar?” asked Jimmy.
“Me fer dat,” assented his visitor.
“Take a handful.”
“I eats dem alive,” said the marauder jovially, gathering in the
spoils.
Jimmy crossed his legs.
“By the way,” he said, “let there be no secrets between us. What’s
your name? Mine is Pitt. James Willoughby Pitt.”
“Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me.”
“And you make a living at this sort of thing?”
“Not so woise.”
“How did you get in here?”
Spike Mullins grinned.
“Gee! Ain’t de window open?”
“If it hadn’t been?”
“I’d a’ busted it.”
Jimmy eyed the fellow fixedly.
“Can you use an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?” he demanded.
Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.
“What’s dat?” he said.
“An oxy-acetylene blow-pipe.”
“Search me,” said Spike, blankly. “Dat gets past me.”
Jimmy’s manner grew more severe.
“Can you make soup?”
“Soup, boss?”
“He doesn’t know what soup is,” said Jimmy, despairingly. “My good
man, I’m afraid you have missed your vocation. You have no business
to be trying to burgle. You don’t know the first thing about the
game.”
Spike was regarding the speaker with disquiet over his glass. Till
now, the red-haired one had been very well satisfied with his
methods, but criticism was beginning to sap his nerve. He had heard
tales of masters of his craft who made use of fearsome implements
such as Jimmy had mentioned; burglars who had an airy
acquaintanceship, bordering on insolent familiarity, with the
marvels of science; men to whom the latest inventions were as
familiar as his own jemmy was to himself. Could this be one of that
select band? His host began to take on a new aspect in his eyes.
“Spike,” said Jimmy.
“Huh?”
“Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics–“