As
has been said, there was an excellent editorial against corporal
punishment in that morning's issue, and no doubt it had its effect.
After this can any one doubt the power of the press?
XIX
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.
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