"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."Iwonder 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.4per 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 juven-iles 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 Ican't help myself any more than you can.It's one of the canons of household fiction that no burglar shall be suc-cessful.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 Idon'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."A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT
The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing.
At the end of that time it was worth it.
Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sun-down Ranch you would have heard of it.It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook.The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch.
There came riding on red roan steeds -- or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel -- two wooers.
One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid, But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of special nomenclature-His name was simply Johnny McRoy.
It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita's admirers.The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch.Many were the sheeps'-eves that were cast in those savannas that did not belong.
to the flocks of Dan McMullen.But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny MeRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled.
Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race.He and Rosita were married one Christmas day.Armed, hilarious, vociferous, mag-nanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion.
Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.
But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it Johnny MeRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.
"I'll give you a Christmas present," he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his.45 in his hand.Even then he had some reputation as an offhand shot.
His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane's right ear.The barrel of his gun moved an inch.The next shot would have been the bride's had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers somewhat well oiled and in repair.The guns of the wedding party had been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat at table, as a concession to good taste.But Carson, with great promptness, hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim.The second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a Spanish dagger flower suspended two feet above Rosita's head.
The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons.It was considered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding.In about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in the direction of Mr.McRoy.
