LITMIR.BIZ

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      Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.

      "What's dat?" he said.

      ​"An oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."

      "Search me," said Spike, blankly. "Dat gets past me."

      Jimmy's manner grew more severe.

      "Can you make soup?"

      "Soup, boss?"

      "He doesn't know what soup is," said Jimmy, despairingly. "My good man, I'm afraid you have missed your vocation. You have no business to be trying to burgle. You don't know the first thing about the game."

      Spike was regarding the speaker with disquiet over his glass. Till now, the red-haired one had been very well satisfied with his methods, but criticism was beginning to sap his nerve. He had heard tales of masters of his craft who made use of fearsome implements such as Jimmy had mentioned; burglars who had an airy acquaintanceship, bordering on insolent familiarity, with the marvels of science; men to whom the latest inventions were as familiar as his own jemmy was to himself. Could this be one of that select band? His host began to take on a new aspect in his eyes.

      "Spike," said Jimmy.

      "Huh?"

      "Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics—"

      "On your way, boss!"

      "—toxicology—"

      "Search me!"

      ​"—electricity and microscopy?"

      " … Nine, ten. Dat's de finish. I'm down an' out."

      Jimmy shook his head, sadly.

      "Give up burglary," he said. "It's not in your line. Better try poultry-farming."

      Spike twiddled his glass, abashed.

      "Now, I," said Jimmy airily, "am thinking of breaking into a house to-night."

      "Gee!" exclaimed Spike, his suspicions confirmed at last. "I t'ought youse was in de game, boss. Sure, you're de guy dat's onto all de curves. I t'ought so all along."

      "I should like to hear," said Jimmy amusedly, as one who draws out an intelligent child, "how you would set about burgling one of those up-town villas. My own work has been on a somewhat larger scale and on the other side of the Atlantic."

      "De odder side?"

      "I have done as much in London as anywhere else," said Jimmy. "A great town, London, full of opportunities for the fine worker. Did you hear of the cracking of the New Asiatic Bank in Lombard Street?"

      "No, boss," whispered Spike. "Was dat you?"

      Jimmy laughed.

      "The police would like an answer to the same question," he said, self-consciously. "Perhaps, you heard nothing of the disappearance of the Duchess of Havant's diamonds?"

      ​"Was dat—?"

      "The thief," said Jimmy, flicking a speck of dust from his coat sleeve, "was discovered to have used an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."

      The rapturous intake of Spike's breath was the only sound that broke the silence. Through the smoke, his eyes could be seen slowly widening.

      "But about this villa," said Jimmy. "I am always interested even in the humblest sides of the profession. Now, tell me, supposing you were going to break into a villa, what time of night would you do it?"

      "I always t'inks it's best either late like dis or when de folks is in at supper," said Spike, respectfully.

      Jimmy smiled a faint, patronizing smile, and nodded.

      "Well, and what would you do?"

      "I'd rubber around some to see isn't dere a window open somewheres," said Spike, diffidently.

      "And if there wasn't?"

      "I'd climb up de porch an' into one of de bedrooms," said Spike, almost blushing. He felt like a boy reading his first attempts at original poetry to an established critic. What would this master cracksman, this polished wielder of the oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, this expert in toxicology, microscopy and physics think of his callow outpourings!

      "How would you get into the bedroom?"

      Spike hung his head.

      ​"Bust de catch wit' me jemmy," he whispered, shamefacedly.

      "Burst the catch with your jemmy?"

      "It's de only way I ever learned," pleaded Spike.

      The expert was silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched his face, humbly.

      "How would youse do it, boss?" he ventured timidly, at last.

      "Eh?"

      "How would youse do it?"

      "Why, I'm not sure," said the master, graciously, "whether your way might not do in a case like that. It's crude, of course, but with a few changes it would do."

      "Gee, boss! Is dat right?" queried the astonished disciple.

      "It would do," said the master, frowning thoughtfully; "it would do quite well—quite well!"

      Spike drew a deep breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods should meet with approval from such a mind … !

      "Gee!" he whispered—as who would say, "I and Napoleon."

      ​

      CHAPTER VI

      AN EXHIBITION PERFORMANCE

       Table of Contents

      COLD reason may disapprove of wagers, but without a doubt there is something joyous and lovable in the type of mind that rushes at the least provocation into the making of them, something smacking of the spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays, the spirit seems to have deserted England. When Mr. Asquith became Premier of Great Britain, no earnest forms were to be observed rolling peanuts along the Strand with a toothpick. When Mr. Asquith is dethroned, it is improbable that any Briton will allow his beard to remain unshaved until the Liberal party returns to office. It is in the United States that the wager has found a home. It is characteristic of some minds to dash into a wager with the fearlessness of a soldier in a forlorn hope, and, once in, to regard it almost as a sacred trust. Some men never grow up out of the schoolboy spirit of "daring."

      To this class Jimmy Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the man in the comic opera who proposed to the lady because somebody bet him he wouldn't. There had never been a time when a challenge, a "dare," had not acted as a spur to him. In ​his newspaper days, life had heen one long series of challenges. They had been the essence of the business. A story had not been worth getting unless the getting were difficult.

      With the conclusion of his newspaper life came a certain flatness into the scheme of things. There were times, many times, when Jimmy was bored. He hungered for excitement, and life appeared to have so little to offer! The path of the rich man was so smooth, and it seemed to lead nowhere! This task of burgling a house was like an unexpected treat to a child. With an intensity of purpose that should have touched his sense of humor, but, as a matter of fact, did not appeal to him as ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself to the work. The truth was that Jimmy was one of those men who are charged to the brim with force. Somehow, the force had to find an outlet. If he had undertaken to collect birds' eggs, he would have set about it w r ith the same tense energy.

       Spike was sitting on the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his head still buzzing from the unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his watch. It was nearly three o'clock. A sudden idea struck him. The gods had provided gifts: why not take them?

      "Spike!"

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