“How awful!” said Anthea, with much sympathy.
“Horful indeed, miss, I believe yer,” the burglar rejoined, with deep feeling. “You don’t know her temper when she’s roused. An’ I’m sure I ’ope you never may, neither. And I’d ’ad all my oranges off of ’em. So it came back to me what was wrote on the ongverlope, and I says to myself, ‘Why not, seein’ as I’ve been done myself, and if they keeps two slaveys there must be some pickings?’ An’ so ’ere I am. But them cats, they’ve brought me back to the ways of honestness. Never no more.”
“Look here,” said Cyril, “these cats are very valuable—very indeed. And we will give them all to you, if only you will take them away.”
“I see they’re a breedy lot,” replied the burglar. “But I don’t want no bother with the coppers. Did you come by them honest now? Straight?”
“They are all our very own,” said Anthea, “we wanted them, but the confidement—”
“Consignment,” whispered Cyril.
“—was larger than we wanted, and they’re an awful bother. If you got your barrow, and some sacks or baskets, your brother’s missus would be awfully pleased. My father says Persian cats are worth pounds and pounds each.”
“Well,” said the burglar—and he was certainly moved by her remarks—“I see you’re in a hole—and I don’t mind lending a helping ’and. I don’t ask ’ow you come by them. But I’ve got a pal—’e’s a mark on cats. I’ll fetch him along, and if he thinks they’d fetch anything above their skins I don’t mind doin’ you a kindness.”
“You won’t go away and never come back,” said Jane, “because I don’t think I could bear that.”
The burglar, quite touched by her emotion, swore sentimentally that, alive or dead, he would come back.
Then he went, and Cyril and Robert sent the girls to bed and sat up to wait for his return. It soon seemed absurd to await him in a state of wakefulness, but his stealthy tap on the window awoke them readily enough. For he did return, with the pal and the barrow and the sacks. The pal approved of the cats, now dormant in Persian repletion, and they were bundled into the sacks, and taken away on the barrow—mewing, indeed, but with mews too sleepy to attract public attention.
“I’m a fence—that’s what I am,” said the burglar gloomily. “I never thought I’d come down to this, and all acause er my kind ’eart.”
Cyril knew that a fence is a receiver of stolen goods, and he replied briskly—
“I give you my sacred the cats aren’t stolen. What do you make the time?”
“I ain’t got the time on me,” said the pal—“but it was just about chucking-out time as I come by the Bull and Gate. I shouldn’t wonder if it was nigh upon one now.”
When the cats had been removed, and the boys and the burglar had parted with warm expressions of friendship, there remained only the cow.
“She must stay all night,” said Robert. “Cook’ll have a fit when she sees her.”
“All night?” said Cyril. “Why—it’s tomorrow morning if it’s one. We can have another wish!”
So the carpet was urged, in a hastily written note, to remove the cow to wherever she belonged, and to return to its proper place on the nursery floor. But the cow could not be got to move on to the carpet. So Robert got the clothes line out of the back kitchen, and tied one end very firmly to the cow’s horns, and the other end to a bunched-up corner of the carpet, and said “Fire away.”
And the carpet and cow vanished together, and the boys went to bed, tired out and only too thankful that the evening at last was over.
Next morning the carpet lay calmly in its place, but one corner was very badly torn. It was the corner that the cow had been tied on to.
IX
The Burglar’s Bride
The morning after the adventure of the Persian cats, the muskrats, the common cow, and the uncommon burglar, all the children slept till it was ten o’clock; and then it was only Cyril who woke; but he attended to the others, so that by half past ten everyone was ready to help to get breakfast. It was shivery cold, and there was but little in the house that was really worth eating.
Robert had arranged a thoughtful little surprise for the absent servants. He had made a neat and delightful booby trap over the kitchen door, and as soon as they heard the front door click open and knew the servants had come back, all four children hid in the cupboard under the stairs and listened with delight to the entrance—the tumble, the splash, the scuffle, and the remarks of the servants. They heard the cook say it was a judgement on them for leaving the place to itself; she seemed to think that a booby trap was a kind of plant that was quite likely to grow, all by itself, in a dwelling that was left shut up. But the housemaid, more acute, judged that someone must have been in the house—a view confirmed by the sight of the breakfast things on the nursery table.
The cupboard under the stairs was very tight and paraffiny, however, and a silent struggle for a place on top ended in the door bursting open and discharging Jane, who rolled like a football to the feet of the servants.
“Now,” said Cyril, firmly, when the cook’s hysterics had become quieter, and the housemaid had time to say what she thought of them, “don’t you begin jawing us. We aren’t going to stand it. We know too much. You’ll please make an extra special treacle roley for dinner, and we’ll have a tinned tongue.”
“I daresay,” said the housemaid, indignant, still in her outdoor things and with her hat very much on one side. “Don’t you come a-threatening me, Master Cyril, because I won’t stand
