"
"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 rabbits' 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.
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