Bowlder's wife and offspring were away at the time; and the time was a night last summer. Mrs. B. was in Long Branch, and Bowlder, left lonely and forlorn, to look after the house and earn money, was having a sad, bad time, indeed.
Not that Bowlder really lacked anything; but he missed his wife and little ones. Where before the merry prattle of his children made the racket of a boiler shop, all was solemn peace and hush. The Bowlder mansion was like a graveyard.
Naturally Bowlder felt lonesome; and to avoid, as much as might be, having his loneliness thrust upon him by the empty desolation of the house, he made it a rule during his wife's absence not to go home until 3 o'clock A. M.
He was “dead on his legs” by that time, as he expressed it, and went at once to sleep, before the absence of Mrs. B. began to prey upon him.
On the night, or more properly morning, in question, Bowlder wended homeward at sharp 3. He had been missing Mrs. B. painfully all the evening, and, to uphold himself, subscribed to divers drinks. These last Bowlder put safely away within his belt, and they cherished him and taught him resignation, and he didn't miss his wife as much as he had.
The hoary truth is that as Bowlder drew near his home, he had so far conquered his sense of abandonment that he wasn't even thinking of his wife. He was plodding along in the middle of the street for fear of footpads, whom he fancied might be sauntering in the shadows on either side, and was really in quite a happy, fortunate frame of mind. As Bowlder turned in toward his door he was softly repeating the lines:
“'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark,
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and grow brighter when we come.”
Not that Bowlder had a watch dog, honest or otherwise, to bay him deep-mouthed welcome. And inasmuch as they had discharged the exile from Erin, who aforetime did service as the Bowlder maid-of-all-work, when Mrs. B. took flight for the summer, there was slight hope of an eye on the premises to grow brighter when he came.
No; it was not that Bowlder was really looking for deep-mouthed bays or brightening eyes; he was naturally musical and poetical, and the drinks he had corralled had unlocked his nature in that behalf. Bowlder was reciting the lines quoted for the pleasure he drew from their beauty; not from the prophecy they put forth of any meeting to which he looked forward. A remark which escaped Bowlder as he climbed his steps and dexterously fitted his night key to the day keyhole showed this.
“I ought to have stayed at a hotel,” said Bowlder. “There's nobody here to rake me over the coals for it, and I'm going to have a great head on me when I wake up.”
Bowlder at last by mistake got his latchkey into the keyhole to which it related, and the door swung inward. This was a distinct success and Bowlder heaved a breath of relief. This door, which had grown singularly obdurate since Mrs. B.'s departure, had been known to hold Bowlder at bay for twenty minutes.
Bowlder had just cast his hat on the hall floor—he intended to hang it up in the morning when he would have more time—and got as far on a journey to the second story as one step, when a noise in the basement dining-room enlisted Bowlder's attention. His curiosity rather than his fears was aroused; another happy effect of his libations.
Without one thought of burglars, Bowlder deferred his journey upstairs, and repaired instead to the dining-room below. Bowlder would investigate the untoward noises which, while soft and light, were still of such volume as might tell upon the ear.
“Wonder 'f the houshe is haunted?” observed Bowlder as he went deviously below.
It has already been noted that Bowlder not once bethought him of burglars. In truth he had often scoffed at burglars while conversing with Mrs. B. on this subject so interesting to ladies. Bowlder had said that no burglar could make day wages robbing the house.
It had all the thrill of perfect surprise then when, as Bowlder turned into his dining-room, he beheld a bull's-eye lantern shedding a malevolent stream of light in his face, and caught the shadowy outlines of a tall man behind it who seemed engaged in pointing a pistol at him.
“Hold up your hands!” said the tall man, “and don't come a step further, or out goes your light!”
0307
“Well! I like thish!” squeaked Bowlder, in a tone of querulous complaint, at the same time, however, clasping his hands above his head; “I like thish! What's the row here?”
The tall man made no reply, but came across and deftly ran his hands over Bowlder for possible arms. Bowlder had no gun. The tall man seemed satisfied, and stepping back, told Bowlder he might sit down on a chair and rest his hands in his lap. Bowlder took advantage of the permission.
“Any 'bjections to me lighting a shegar?” queried Bowlder.
“Not at all,” said the tall man.
Bowlder was soon puffing away. Being friendly, not to say polite by nature, Bowlder bestowed one on his visitor.
“Is it a mild cigar?” asked the burglar.
“Colorado claro,” said Bowlder.
“That's all right!” assented the other. “I don't like a strong smoke; it makes my head ache.”
As the visitor lighted the cigar, Bowlder noticed that he wore a black mask across his eyes, and that the latter shone through the apertures cut for their convenience like beads. The mask gave Bowlder a chill which the pistol had not evoked. Indeed, it came very near destroying the whole force of the drinks he had accumulated.
When the stranger had lighted his cigar, Bowlder and he puffed at each other a moment without a word.
“What are you doing in my houshe?” at last demanded Bowlder.
The stranger smiled and puffed on. Then he kicked a large sack with his foot. Bowlder had not observed this sack before. As the stranger touched it with his foot, it gave out a metallic clinking.
Bowlder's eyes roamed instinctively to the sideboard. There wasn't much light; enough, however, to show Bowlder that the sideboard's burden of silverware was gone. With such a start, Bowlder was able to infer a great deal.
“Made a clean shweep, eh?” remarked Bowlder.
The masked stranger nodded.
“If you've got all there is loose and little in the houshe,” said Bowlder—he was talking plainer every moment now—“you've got $1,500 worth. Been up-shtairs yet?”
Again the man of the mask nodded. Also he exhibited symptoms of being about to depart.
“Don't go yet!” remonstrated Bowlder. “Want to talk to you. Did you get the old lady's jewellery upstairs?”
Again the burglar nodded. He seemed disinclined to use his voice unless it was necessary.
“Thash's bad!” remarked Bowlder reflectively; referring to the conquest of his wife's jewellery. “The old lady won't do a thing but make me buy her some more. And the worst of it is, she'll put up the figures on what jimcracks you've got, and insisht they're worth four times their true value. I'm lucky if she don't put it higher than $1,000. And they ain't worth $200; you'll be lucky if you get that on 'em.”
The burglar looked hopeful as well as he could with a mask, but retorted nothing to Bowlder. The latter mused sorrowfully over his wife's jewels.
“You see it putsh me in the hole!” said Bowlder. “I get it going and coming. You come along and rob me; and then Mrs. B. comes home and robs me again. Don't you think that's a little rough?”
The stranger said it was rough. He didn't nod this time, but used his voice. Encouraged by the agreement with his views, Bowlder urged the return of his wife's jewellery.
“Just gimme back what's hers,” said Bowlder, “and you can keep the rest. That'll let me out with her, and I don't care for the balance.”
But the man of midnight stoutly objected. It would be a dead loss of $200, he said, and worse yet, it would be unprofessional.
Bowlder thought deeply a moment. Then he took a new tack.
“Any 'bjections to taking a drink with me?” he asked.
“None in the world!” said the burglar.
Bowlder explored his coat pocket for a bottle he'd brought home to restore him after his sleep. He proffered the bottle to the burglar.
“After you is manners!” said that person.
Bowlder drank and then the burglar did the same.
“You a Republican?” demanded Bowlder suddenly. “I s'pose even burglars have their politics!”
“Administration Republican!” said the burglar; “that's what I am. I believe in Imperialism and a sound currency.”
“I'm an Administration Republican, too,” remarked Bowlder. “I knew we'd find common ground at last. Now, as a member of the same party as yourself, I want to ask a favour of you. You've got about $1,500 worth of plunder there; and yet, you see yourself, there's a good deal of furniture you're leaving behind; piano upstairs and all that. I'll play you one game of ten-point seven-up to see whether you take all or nothing. Come, now, as a favour!”
The burglar hesitated. He feared there was a trap in it. Bowlder gave him his word as a goldbug that he made the proffer in all honesty.
“If you win,” said Bowlder, “you can cart the furniture away to-morrow. I'll order you a waggon as I go down, and you can sleep in the house and see that I don't carry off anything or hold out on you.”
“But it ain't worth as much as what I've got,” demurred the burglar.
“Well, see here!” said Bowlder—sober he was now—“to avoid spoiling sport I'll throw in my watch and $30. That's square!”
The burglar admitted that the proposal was fair, but stuck for seven points.
“I like straight seven-up,” he said. “Make it a seven-point game and I'll go you.”
Bowlder produced a deck of cards from the sewing-machine drawer. At the burglar's own suggestion they lighted one gas jet.
“Cut for deal!” said Bowlder.
The burglar cut a ten-spot, Bowlder a deuce. The burglar had the deal.
The king of diamonds was turned as trump.
“Beg!” said Bowlder.
“Take it!” remarked the burglar.
The hands were played. Bowlder had the queen and six-spot of diamonds; the marauder had the ten, nine, and seven of diamonds. Bowlder took high, low and the burglar counted game.
“No jack out!” remarked Bowlder.
“No,” said the other. And then in an abused tone; “Say! you don't beg nor nuthin', do you? The idee of a gent's beggin' in a two-hand game, a-holdin' of the queen and six.”
They played three hands; Jack had been out once. Bowlder was keeping score. It stood:
“Bowl, I I I I I I.”
“Burg, I I I I.”
It was Bowlder's deal. He riffled the cards with the deftness of one who plays often and well.
“Bound to settle it this time!” said the burglar. “The score stands 6 to 4. You bet your life! I'll stand on the bare jack if I get it.”
Bowlder threw the cards around and turned trump with a snap. It was the jack of clubs.
The burglar looked at it wistfully, even sadly.
“That's square, is it?” he said to Bowlder in a tone of half reproach. “You ain't the party to go and turn a jack on a poor crook from the bottom of the deck, and you only one to go?”
Bowlder assured him the transaction was perfectly honest.
“Yes, I guess it was,” said the burglar, rising. “I was watching you, and I guess it was straight. It's just my luck, that's all. Well! I must go; it's getting along towards 4: 30 o'clock.”
“Have a drink!” said Bowlder, “and take another cigar!”
The cracksman took a drink. Then he selected a cigar from Bowlder's proffered case.
“If it's all the same to youse,” said the burglar, “I'll smoke this later on—after breakfast.” And he put the cigar in his pocket.
“Here; let me show you out this way,” said Bowlder, leading the way to the front basement door.
“I hates to ask it of a stranger,” said the burglar, as he hesitated just outside the door, “but the Eight' Avenoo cars'll be runnin' in a little while now, and would you mind lendin' me a nickel? I lives down be the Desbrosses Ferry.”
Of course Bowlder would lend him car-fare. This somewhat raised the burglar's spirits, made sad by seven-up. As he closed the door behind him, the burglar looked back at Bowlder.
“Do you know, pard,” he said, “if it wasn't for my weakness for gamblin', I'd been a rich man a dozen times.”
