Spike uttered a howl in which indignation and self-pity were nicely blended.
"I'll lay for that Swede!" he cried. "I'll soak it to him good! Boss, I've had a raw deal. On de level, I has. Dey's a feller I know, a fat Swede—Ole Larsen his monaker is—an' dis feller an' me started in scrapping last week, an' I puts it all over him, so he had it in for me. But he comes up to me, like as if he's meanin' to be good, an' he says he's got a soft proposition fer me if I'll give him half. So, I says all right, where is it? An' he gives me de number of dis house, an' says dis is where a widder-lady lives all alone, an' has got silver mugs and t'ings to boin, an' dat she's away down Sout', so dere ain't nobody in de house. Gee! I'll soak it to dat Swede! It was a raw deal, boss. He was just hopin' to put me in bad wit' you. Dat's how it was, boss. Honest!"
The big man listened to this sad story of Grecian gifts in silence. Not so the bull-dog, which growled from start to finish.
Spike eyed it uneasily.
"Won't you call off de dawg, boss?" he said.
The other stooped, and grasped the animal's collar, jerking him away.
"The same treatment," suggested Jimmy with approval, "would also do a world of good to this playful and affectionate animal—unless he is a vegetarian. In which case, don't bother."
The big man glowered at him.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"My name," began Jimmy, "is—"
"Say," said Spike, "he's a champion burglar, boss—"
The householder shut the door.
"Eh?" he said.
"He's a champion burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From Lunnon. Gee, he's de guy! Tell him about de bank you opened, an' de jools you swiped from de duchess, an' de what-d'ye-call-it blow-pipe."
It seemed to Jimmy that Spike was showing a certain want of tact. When you are discovered by a householder—with revolver—in his parlor
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