BURGLAR HUNTING.
It was an uncanny business wandering about a dark house at night; it
is especially so if it be a strange house and if one knows for certain
that there is a desperate burglar creeping about somewhere in it. Many
a man has shrunk from that task; but the three had been bemoaning
a lack of excitement, and now here it was. So they had no right to
complain.
Mark waited a moment for the others to join him and then side by side
they stood and peered into the darkness. From what they had seen of the
room when the man struck a light it was a dining-room with a flight of
stairs running up from it. Up those stairs the man had gone; and a few
moments later the three cadets were standing hesitatingly at the foot
of them.
“He may have a gun,” whispered Chauncey.
Texas reached around to his hip pocket instinctively at that; he
groaned when he realized his defenseless condition.
“That’s the worst o’ these yere ole Eastern ways,” he muttered. “Ef
a feller had bought these yere pants in Texas more’n likely he’d ’a’
found some guns in ’em.”
Texas had but a few moments more to growl however, for Mark stepped
forward, suddenly and started up the steps.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have it over with. He can’t shoot all of us
at once.”
Slowly they crept up the stairs, pausing at every step to listen. They
reached the top and peering around found a dimly-lit hall without a
sign of life about it.
“Perhaps he’s in one o’ them aire rooms,” whispered Texas. “I----”
“S’h!” muttered Mark.
His exclamation was caused by a slight noise on the floor above, a
faint tread.
“He’s upon the next floor!” gasped the three. “Shall we----”
They did; Mark led the way and with still more trembling caution they
stole on, crouching in the shadow of the banisters, trying to stifle
the very beatings of their hearts and breathing fast with excitement.
Up, up. There were twenty-one stairs to that flight; Mark knew that,
because they stopped a long while on each listening for another clew
to the burglar’s whereabouts, and trembling as they imagined him
peering over at them.
Not a sign of him did they see or hear, however, until they reached
the level of the floor, where they could lean forward and look around
the balustrade. First they heard a sound of heavy breathing, as from
a sleeper. That was in the rear room, and Mark, peering in, saw the
person clearly.
There was a faint light in the room, a light from a dimly-burning gas
jet. The room was apparently deserted except for the sleeper. It was a
woman, for Mark could see her hair upon the pillow. But where was the
burglar?
The answer came with startling suddenness, suddenness that precipitated
a calamity. The room next to the rear one was dark and silent until,
without a moment’s warning, all at once a light flashed out. And there
was the burglar. The reckless villain had lit the gas, so sure was he
of his safety. And he was standing now in the middle of the floor,
stealthily taking off his coat before starting to work.
Naturally that sudden flash of light startled the three; it startled
them so much that Chauncey leaped back with a gasp of alarm; and a
moment later, his heel catching in the end of his huge green overcoat,
he tripped and staggered, clutched wildly at nothing, and with a shriek
of alarm tumbled backward, rolling over and over with a series of
crashes that made the building shake. And then there was fun.
In the first place, as to the burglar; he started back in horror,
realizing his discovery; in the second place, as to the woman; she sat
up in bed with the celerity of a jack-in-the-box, and an instant later
gave vent to a series of screams that awoke the neighborhood.
“Help! Help! Burglars! Murder! Thieves! Fire! Help!”
In the third place, as to the cadets. Their first thought was of
Chauncey, and they turned and bounded down the steps to the bottom.
They found him “rattled” but unhurt, and they picked him up and set him
on his feet. Their second thought was of the burglar, that ruthless
villain who perhaps even now was making his escape by a window. The
thought made them jump.
“Forward!” shouted Mark.
And to a man they sprang up the stairs, two or three steps at a time,
shouting “Burglars!” as they went. They reached the top and bounded
into the room, where they found the man in the very act of rushing out
of the door. Mark sprang at him, seized him by the throat and bore him
to the ground. And the two others plunged upon the pile.
“Hold him! Hold him! Help! Help!” was the cry.
Meanwhile the woman had arisen from the bed, very naturally, and was
now rushing about the hall in typical angelic costume, occasionally
poking her head out of the windows and shrieking for burglars and help,
using a voice that had a very strong Irish brogue.
In response to her stentorian tones help was not slow in arriving. A
crash upon the door was heard; the door gave way, and up the stairs
rushed two men.
“Help us hold him!” roared Texas, who was at this moment trying his
level best to push the criminal’s nose through the carpet. “Help us to
hold him!”
But to his infinite surprise the two newcomers made a savage rush on
him, and in an instant more the true state of affairs flashed over
Texas.
“They’re friends of the burglar!” he cried. “Whoop! Come on, thar!”
The two men were not slow to accept his invitation. They added their
bodies to the already complicated heap of arms and legs that were
writhing about on the floor, and after that the _mêlée_ was even
livelier than ever. Even the woman took a hand; her Irish blood would
not let her stay out of the battle long, and she pitched in with a
broom, whacking everything promiscuously.
What would have been the end of all this riot I do not pretend to say;
I only know that Mark was devoting himself persistently to the task of
holding the burglar underneath him, in spite of all manner of punches
and kicks, and that Texas was dashing back and forth across the room,
plowing his way recklessly through every human being he saw when the
“scrap” was brought to an untimely end by the arrival of one more
person.
This latter was a policeman, a policeman of the fat and unwieldy type
found only in New York. He had plunged up the stairs, club in hand, and
now stood red and panting, menacing the crowd.
“Stop! stop!” he cried. “Yield to the majesty of the la-aw.”
Every one was glad to do that, as it appeared; the battling ceased
abruptly and all parties concerned rose up and glared at each other in
the dim light.
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the “cop.”
If he had realized the terrible consequence of that question he would
never have asked it. For each and every person concerned sprang forward
to answer it.
“There’s the burglar!” cried Mark, pointing excitedly at the original
cause of all the trouble, who was wiping his fevered brow with
diligence. “There’s the burglar! Arrest him!”
“Yes, yes!” roared Texas. “Grab him! I’ll tell you how it was----”
“Howly saints!” shrieked the woman, “don’t let them get away! They’ve
broken me head, in faith! An’ look at me poor husband’s oi!”
“Me a burglar!” roared the person thus alluded to by Mark, shaking one
fist at Mark and the other at the officer. “So it’s a burglar they call
me, is it? So that’s their trick, be jabbers! An’ a foine state of
affairs it is when a man can’t come into his own house without being
called a burglar, bad cess to it. Bridget, git me that flat-iron there
an’ soak the spalpeen! Be the saints!”
During that tirade of incoherent Irish the three cadets had suddenly
collapsed. The situation had flashed over them in all its horror and
awfulness. The “burglar” lived in the house! The woman was his wife!
And they were the burglars!
The three gazed at each other in consternation and sprang back
instinctively. The policeman took that for a move to escape and he
whipped out his revolver with a suddenness that made Texas’ mouth water.
“Stop!” he cried.
His command received even more emphasis from the fact that another
policeman rushed up the stairs at that moment. The three stopped.
“See here, officer,” said Mark, as calmly as he could. “This is all a
mistake. We aren’t burglars; we are perfectly respectable young men----”
“You look like it,” put in the other, incredulously.
Mark’s heart sank within him at that. He glanced at his two companions
and realized how hopeless was their case. New rags and tatters had been
added by the battle. Disheveled hair, and dirt and blood-stained faces
made them about as disreputable specimens as could be found in New
York. Respectable young men! Pooh!
“I could explain it,” groaned Mark. “We thought this man was a burglar
and we followed him in. We aren’t tramps if we do look it. We are----”
And then he stopped abruptly; to tell that they were cadets would be
their ruination anyway.
“You’re a lot of thaves an’ robbers! Sure an’ thot’s what yez are!”
shouted the irate “burglar,” filling in the sentence and at the same
time making a rush at Mark.
“Come,” said the policeman, stopping him. “Enough of this. You fellers
can tell your yarn to the judge to-morrow morning.”
Mark gasped as he realized the full import of that sentence. It was two
o’clock and their train left in an hour or two--their last chance! And
they could tell their story to the judge in the morning!
The policeman jerked a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and stepped
up to Mark. The latter saw that resistance was hopeless and though it
was torture to him he held out his wrists and said nothing. Texas,
having no gun, could do nothing less. Chauncey was the only one who
“kicked,” and he kicked like a steer.
“Bah Jove!” he cried. “This is an insult, a deuced insult! I won’t
stand it, don’t cher know! Stop, I say. I won’t go, bah Jove! I’ll
send for my father and have every man on the blasted police force
fired! I----”
The snap of the handcuffs and the feeling of the cold steel subdued
Chauncey and he subsided into growls. The officer took him by the
arm, saying something as he did so about an “English crook.” And then
the three filed downstairs, the indignant and much-bruised Irishman
following and enlivening the proceedings with healthy anathemas.
That walk to the station house the three will never forget as long as
they live, it was so unspeakably degrading; it was only a short way,
just around the corner, but it was bad enough. Idlers and loafers fell
in behind to jeer at them, scarcely giving them chance to reflect upon
the desperately-horrible situation they were in.
Mark was glad when at last the door of the station house shut upon
them to hide them from curious eyes. There was almost no one in here
to stare at them, but a sleepy sergeant at the desk; he looked up with
interest when they entered, and were marched up before him.
“What’s this?” he inquired.
“Burglars,” said one of the officers, briefly.
Chauncey’s wrath had been pent up for some ten minutes then, and at
that word it boiled over again.
“I’m no burglar!” he roared. “I tell you, you fools, I’m no burglar!
Bah Jove, this is an outrage.”
“Faith an’ yez are a burglar!” shouted the Irishman, likewise
indignant. “An’ faith, Mr. Sergeant, the divils broke into me house and
near broke me head, too, bad cess to ’em. An’ thot, too, whin Oi’d been
to the club an’ were a-thryin’ to git to sleep without wakin’ me wife.
An’ faith she’ll be after me wid a shtick, thot she will, to-morrer!”
“We aren’t burglars, I say!” protested Chauncey. “We thought he was a
burglar. We’re cade----”
Here Mark gave him a nudge that nearly knocked him over; he looked up
and caught sight of a spruce young man with pencil and notebook working
diligently. It was a reporter and Chauncey took the hint and shut up.
“Name?” inquired the sergeant, seeing him quiet at last.
“My name, bah Jove?” exclaimed the other. “Chauncey Van Ren----”
Again Mark gave him a poke.
“Peter Smith,” said Chauncey.
“And yours?”
“John Jones,” said Texas.
“And yours?”
Mark glanced at the others with one last dying trace of a smile.
“Timothy O’Flaherty,” said he. “You understand,” he added, to ease his
conscience, “they’re all fictitious, of course.”
The sergeant nodded as he wrote the names.
“We’ll find the right ones in the Rogues’ Gallery,” he remarked
sarcastically.
That fired Chauncey again, and he went off into another tirade of abuse
and indignation, which was finally closed by the officers offering
to “soak him” if he didn’t shut up. Then they were led off to a
cell--number seven, curiously enough. And as the door shut with a clank
the three gasped and realized that it was the death knell of their
earthly hopes.