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 hardluck 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
