O. Henry



   Tommy's Burglar

    At ten o'clock P. M. Felicia, the maid, left by the basement door with  the 
policeman to get a raspberry phosphate around  the  corner.  She  detested  the 
policeman and objected earnestly to  the  arrangement.  She  pointed  out,  not 
unreasonably, that she might have been allowed  to  fall  asleep  over  one  of 
St. George Rathbone's novels  on  the  third  floor,  but  she  was  overruled. 
Raspberries and cops were not created for nothing.
    The burglar got into the house without much  difficulty;  because  we  must 
have action and not too much description in a 2,000-word story. In  the  dining 
room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With a  brace  and  centrebit  he 
began to bore into the lock of the silver-closet.
    Suddenly a click was heard. The room was flooded with electric  light.  The 
dark velvet portieres parted to admit  a  fair-haired  boy  of  eight  in  pink 
pajamas, bearing a bottle of olive oil in his hand.
    "Are you a burglar?" he asked, in a sweet, childish voice.
    "Listen to that," exclaimed the man, in a hoarse voice. "Am  I  a  burglar? 
Wot do you suppose I have a three-days' growth of bristly beard on my face for, 
and a cap with flaps? Give me the oil, quick, and let me  grease  the  bit,  so 
I won't wake up your mamma, who is lying down with a headache, and left you  in 
charge of Felicia who has been faithless to her trust."
    "Oh, dear," said Tommy, with a sigh. "I thought you would  be  more  up-to-
date. This oil is for the salad when I bring lunch from the pantry for you. And 
mamma and papa have gone to the Metropolitan to hear De Reszke. But that  isn't 
my fault. It only shows how long the story has been knocking around  among  the 
editors. If the author had been wise he'd have changed  it  to  Caruso  in  the 
proofs."
    "Be quiet," hissed the burglar, under his breath. "If you  raise  an  alarm 
I'll wring your neck like a rabbit's."
    "Like a chicken's," corrected Tommy. "You had that wrong. You  don't  wring 
rabbit's necks."
    "Aren't you afraid of me?" asked the burglar.
    "You know I'm not," answered Tommy. "Don't you suppose  I  know  fact  from 
fiction. If this wasn't a story I'd yell like an Indian when  I  saw  you;  and 
you'd probably tumble downstairs and get pinched on the sidewalk."
    "I see," said the burglar, "that you're on to your  job.  Go  on  with  the 
performance."
    Tommy seated himself in an armchair and drew his toes up under him.
    "Why do you go around robbing strangers, Mr. Burglar? Have you no friends?"
    "I see what you're driving at," said the burglar, with a dark frown.  "It's 
the same old story. Your innocence and childish insouciance is going to lead me 
back into an honest life. Every time I crack a crib where there's a kid around, 
it happens."
    "Would you mind gazing with wolfish eyes at the plate of cold beef that the 
butler has left on the dining table?" said  Tommy.  "I'm  afraid  it's  growing 
late."
    The burglar accommodated.
    "Poor man," said Tommy. "You must be hungry. If you will  please  stand  in 
a listless attitude I will get you something to eat."
    The boy brought a roast chicken, a jar of marmalade and a  bottle  of  wine 
from the pantry. The burglar seized a knife and fork sullenly.
    "It's only been an hour," he grumbled, "since I had a lobster and a pint of 
musty ale up on Broadway. I wish these story writers would let  a  fellow  have 
a pepsin tablet, anyhow, between feeds."
    "My papa writes books," remarked Tommy.
    The burglar jumped to his feet quickly.
    "You said he had gone to the opera," he hissed, hoarsely and with immediate 
suspicion.
    "I ought to have explained," said Tommy. "He didn't buy the tickets."
    The burglar sat again and toyed with the wishbone.
    "Why do you burgle houses?" asked the boy, wonderingly.
    "Because," replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears. "God bless  my 
little brown-haired boy Bessie at home."
    "Ah," said Tommy, wrinkling his nose, "you got that  answer  in  the  wrong 
place. You want to tell your hard-luck story before  you  pull  out  the  child 
stop."
    "Oh, yes," said the burglar, "I forgot. Well, once I  lived  in  Milwaukee, 
and - "
    "Take the silver," said Tommy, rising from his chair.
    "Hold on," said the burglar. "But I moved  away.  I  could  find  no  other 
employment. For a while I managed to support  my  wife  and  child  by  passing 
confederate money; but, alas! I was forced to give that up because it  did  not 
belong to the union. I became desperate and a burglar."
    "Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?" asked Tommy.
    "I said 'burglar,' not 'beggar,'" answered the cracksman.
    "After you finish your lunch," said Tommy, "and experience the usual change 
of heart, how shall we wind up the story?"
    "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?"
    The burglar wiped his hands on the tablecloth and arose with a yawn.
    "Well, let's get through with it," he said. "God bless you, my little  boy! 
You have saved a man from committing a crime this night. Bessie shall pray  for 
you as soon as I get home and give her her orders.  I  shall  never  burglarize 
another house - at least not until the June magazines are out.  It'll  be  your 
little sister's turn  then  to  run  in  on  me  while  I  am  abstracting  the 
U. S. 4 per cent. from the tea urn and buy me off with her coral necklace and a 
falsetto kiss."
    "You haven't got all the kicks coming to you," sighed Tommy,  crawling  out 
of his chair. "Think of the sleep I'm losing. But it's tough on both of us, old 
man. I wish you could get out of the  story  and  really  rob  somebody.  Maybe 
you'll have the chance if they dramatize us."
    "Never!" said the burglar, gloomily. "Between the box office and my  better 
impulses that your leading juveniles are supposed to awaken and  the  magazines 
that pay on publication, I guess I'll always be broke."
    "I'm sorry," said Tommy, sympathetically. "But I can't help myself any more 
than you can. It's one of the canons of household fiction that no burglar shall 
be successful. The burglar must be foiled by a kid like me, or by a young  lady 
heroine, or at the last moment by his old pal, Red  Mike,  who  recognizes  the 
house as one in which he used to be the coachman. You have got the worst end of 
it in any kind of a story."
    "Well, I suppose I must be clearing out now," said the burglar,  taking  up 
his lantern and bracebit.
    "You have to take the rest of this chicken and the bottle of wine with  you 
for Bessie and her mother," said Tommy, calmly.
    "But confound it," exclaimed the burglar, in an annoyed tone,  "they  don't 
want it. I've got five cases of Chateau de Beychsvelle at home that was bottled 
in 1853. That claret of yours is corked. And you couldn't get either of them to 
look at a chicken unless it was stewed in champagne. You know, after I get  out 
of the story I don't have so many limitations. I make a turn now and then."
    "Yes, but you must take them,"  said  Tommy,  loading  his  arms  with  the 
bundles.
    "Bless you, young master!" recited  the  burglar,  obedient.  "Second-Story 
Saul will never forget you. And now hurry and let me out, kid. Our 2,000  words 
must be nearly up."
    Tommy led the way through the hall toward  the  front  door.  Suddenly  the 
burglar stopped and called to him softly: "Ain't there a cop out there in front 
somewhere sparking the girl?"
    "Yes," said Tommy, "but what - "
    "I'm afraid he'll catch me," said the burglar.  "You  mustn't  forget  that 
this is fiction."
    "Great head!" said Tommy, turning. "Come out by the back door."

_______________________________________________________________________________