with the big lower jaw whose entrance had started the cyclone.
And, then, in theatrical parlance, the entire company “held the
picture.” Up-stage, with his hand still on the door, stood the man
with the jaw; downstage, Jimmy; center, Spike and the bull-dog,
their noses a couple of inches apart, inspected each other with
mutual disfavor. On the extreme O. P. side, the bull-terrier, who
had fallen foul of a wicker-work table, was crouching with extended
tongue and rolling eyes, waiting for the next move.
The householder looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder.
Spike and the bull-dog looked at each other. The bull-terrier
distributed his gaze impartially around the company.
“A typical scene of quiet American home-life,” murmured Jimmy.
The householder glowered.
“Hands up, you devils!” he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.
The two marauders humored his whim.
“Let me explain,” said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily around in
order to face the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his
direction with an ill-assumed carelessness.
“Keep still, you blackguard!”
Jimmy kept still. The bull-terrier, with the same abstracted air,
was beginning a casual inspection of his right trouser-leg.
Relations between Spike and the bull-dog, meanwhile, had become more
strained. The sudden flinging up of the former’s arms had had the
worst effects on the animal’s nerves. Spike, the croucher on all-
fours, he might have tolerated; but Spike, the semaphore, inspired
him with thoughts of battle. He was growling in a moody, reflective
manner. His eye was full of purpose.
It was probably this that caused Spike to look at the householder.
Till then, he had been too busy to shift his gaze, but now the bull-
dog’s eye had become so unpleasing that he cast a pathetic glance up
at the man by the door.
“Gee!” he cried. “It’s de boss. Say, boss, call off de dawg. It’s
sure goin’ to nip de hull head off’n me.”
The other lowered the revolver in surprise.
“So, it’s you, you limb of Satan!” he remarked. “I thought I had
seen that damned red head of yours before. What are you doing in my
house?”
Spike uttered a howl in which indignation and self-pity were nicely
blended.
“I’ll lay for that Swede!” he cried. “I’ll soak it to him good!
Boss, I’ve had a raw deal. On de level, I has. Dey’s a feller I
know, a fat Swede–Ole Larsen his monaker is–an’ dis feller an’ me
started in scrapping last week, an’ I puts it all over him, so he
had it in for me. But he comes up to me, like as if he’s meanin’ to
be good, an’ he says he’s got a soft proposition fer me if I’ll give
him half. So, I says all right, where is it? An’ he gives me de
number of dis house, an’ says dis is where a widder-lady lives all
alone, an’ has got silver mugs and t’ings to boin, an’ dat she’s
away down Sout’, so dere ain’t nobody in de house. Gee! I’ll soak it
to dat Swede! It was a raw deal, boss. He was just hopin’ to put me
in bad wit’ you. Dat’s how it was, boss. Honest!”
The big man listened to this sad story of Grecian gifts in silence.
Not so the bull-dog, which growled from start to finish.
Spike eyed it uneasily.
“Won’t you call off de dawg, boss?” he said.
The other stooped, and grasped the animal’s collar, jerking him
away.
“The same treatment,” suggested Jimmy with approval, “would also do
a world of good to this playful and affectionate animal–unless he
is a vegetarian. In which case, don’t bother.”
The big man glowered at him.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name,” began Jimmy, “is–”
“Say,” said Spike, “he’s a champion burglar, boss–”
The householder shut the door.
“Eh?” he said.
“He’s a champion burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From
Lunnon. Gee, he’s de guy! Tell him about de bank you opened, an’ de
jools you swiped from de duchess, an’ de what-d’ye-call-it blow-
pipe.”
It seemed to Jimmy that Spike was showing a certain want of tact.
When you are discovered by a householder–with revolver–in his
parlor at half-past three in the morning, it is surely an