INTERVIEWING A BURGLAR.
VICTOR was not a brave boy, and it must be confessed that he felt
dismayed when he saw the burglar, and realized that he was in danger of
serious personal injury, perhaps death. This, however, was not his only
feeling. He felt responsible for the safety of the goods in the store,
having been left on guard. In an emergency one can think rapidly.
Prudence suggested to Victor to lie quite still and counterfeit sleep.
Resistance would of course be futile, for he was rather a delicate boy
of sixteen, and the burglar was nearly six feet in height and looked as
if he might weigh a hundred and eighty pounds.
The burglar, when he had effected his entrance, looked about him to get
his bearings.
His glance fell on Victor.
“Ha! a boy!” he exclaimed, and with one stride he reached the pallet
on which the shop-boy slept.
Stooping over, and flashing the dark lantern into Victor’s face he saw
his eyelids move.
“He is not asleep! He is only shamming,” he decided, and shook him
roughly.
Victor opened his eyes and looked with alarm into the rough, bearded
face and fierce, forbidding eyes of the midnight intruder.
“Well, do you know who I am?” growled the burglar.
“I never saw you before.”
“That isn’t what I mean. Do you know why I am here?”
“To rob the store, I suppose,” answered Victor with a troubled look.
“Right, my chicken! Did you see me get into the window?”
“Yes.”
“And then you closed your eyes and pretended to be asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on to that trick. Do you see this?” and the burglar displayed a
piece of iron which Victor supposed to be a “jimmy.”
“Yes,” answered Victor, gazing at it as if fascinated.
“A little tap on your head with it and you’d be done for. That’s what
I call a hint to you to act sensibly and not interfere with what don’t
concern you. Now where’s the money?”
“I don’t think Mrs. Ferguson leaves any here. I expect she carries all
away with her.”
“You expect!” repeated the burglar frowning. “Don’t you know?”
“How long have you been employed in this store?”
“I only came this afternoon.”
“That accounts for it. Are you sure there is no money here?”
“I don’t think there is.”
“I’ll look about and see. If you know what’s best for yourself you’ll
keep quiet.”
Victor was compelled to look on in helpless anxiety while the burglar
rummaged the store. He managed to find a couple of dollars in small
change, which he pocketed grumblingly. A few small ornamental articles
he also took, and then made his exit from the window after a parting
threat to Victor.
No sooner had he left the store than the latter sprang from the bed,
drew on his pantaloons hurriedly, and running to the outer door
unlocked it, and standing in the doorway looked up and down the street.
By great good luck a policeman was just turning the corner. When he
saw the boy in partial undress at the door of the bookstore he ran up,
apprehending mischief.
“What’s the matter, bub?” he asked.
“The store has just been entered from the rear and the burglar, after
stealing what he thought worth taking, made his escape through the back
yard.”
Instantly the policeman tapped for assistance and three brother
officers made their appearance. After a hurried conference, two went
through the store to the back, while the other two reconnoitered
in front. The chances were in favor of the burglar’s escape, but
apprehending no danger he had made his way into the next yard and
was trying to enter the adjoining store. His imprudence cost him his
liberty.
In five minutes he was brought again through the window with a stout
policeman on each side. He scowled menacingly at Victor.
“You betrayed me, you young scoundrel!” he said.
“Keep your mouth shut!” said one of his captors.
“Answer me, did you call the police?” demanded the burglar, not heeding
the command.
“Yes,” answered Victor.
“I’ll get even with you, for betraying your old pal.”
“What?” ejaculated Victor.
“He’s one of us,” said the burglar, addressing the policemen. “We got
him into the store on purpose to help us. He only got the place this
afternoon.”
Then for the first time Victor fell under suspicion.
“Is this true?” asked one of the officers turning to the boy.
“It is true that I got the place this afternoon.”
“And you know this man!”
“No; I never saw him before in my life.”
“That’s a lie, John Timmins, and you know it,” broke in the burglar
audaciously.
“Is your name John Timmins?” asked the policeman with increased
suspicion.
“No, sir. My name is Victor Wentworth.”
“Good, John. It does credit to your invention,” said the burglar
laughing. “That’s a high-toned name you’ve got now.”
“Is this true that you are saying? Do you know the boy?”
“Of course I do. His father, Dick Timmins, is my pal. I thought we
could trust the boy, but he’s betrayed me, the young rascal, expectin’
a reward for his honesty. Oh, he’s a sly one, John is.”
Victor could hardly believe his ears. He understood at once that this
man was acting from revengeful motives, but he saw also that the story
made an impression on the police.
“You’ll have to go with us,” said one of the officers. “This man has
made a charge against you, and you will have to disprove it.”
Victor was compelled to dress hurriedly and accompany the officers to
the station-house. He was questioned by the sergeant, who recognized
the burglar and suspected his motive.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Victor Wentworth.”
“Do you live in Kansas City?”
“No, sir. I have been stopping here a few days at a boarding-house, but
my money gave out and I was obliged to seek a situation.”
“When did you secure it?”
“This afternoon.”
“Just what I told you,” said the burglar. “It was all fixed that John
should sleep there and open the window for me.”
“What have you to say to this?”
“That it is a lie. This man wants to punish me for calling in the
police.”
“You’re lyin’, John Timmins, and you know it. Your father’ll whack you
for this.”
“Bring him here and let him claim me if he dare!” said Victor angrily.
“Who is your father? Is his name Timmins?”
“No, sir. My father is Bradley Wentworth, of Seneca, Illinois.”
“We have an officer here who came from Seneca. He will tell us whether
your statement is correct. Ah, here he is! Hilton, come here.”
A stout, pleasant-faced policeman entered the station house.
“Well, sir,” he responded, touching his cap.
“Look at this boy and tell me if you recognize him.”
Hilton approached, and as he scanned Victor’s face, said in surprise,
“Why, it’s Squire Wentworth’s son.”
“And he lives in Seneca?”
“Yes; I am surprised to see him here.”
Victor flushed.
“I left school without my father’s knowledge,” he said in
embarrassment.
“He is working in a bookstore here in town,” explained the sergeant.
“This man who has just been caught in the act of burglary declares the
boy to be John Timmins, the son of one of his pals.”
“That isn’t true. I recognize the boy as the son of Mr. Wentworth.”
“That settles the matter. Young man, you are discharged. As for the man
who has testified falsely against you, he will find that he has not
improved his chances by so doing.”
Victor left the station-house, and returning to the store, resumed
his interrupted night’s rest. But the last hour had been so full of
excitement that it was at least two hours before he could compose
himself to sleep.
“I’ve read about burglars,” thought Victor, as he called to mind sundry
dime novels that he had perused in his boarding-school days, “but I
never expected to meet one, or to be suspected of being his accomplice.”
Before Mrs. Ferguson reached the store she had already read in great
excitement an account of how her place had been entered, and gave
Victor high praise for his success in causing the arrest of the
burglar.