“This is a fairly good eating house,” observed the would-be victim as they came to an “all-nighter.” They entered and deliberately removed their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even twinkling eyes. “What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, and you may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you like. Pitch in.”
“Say, boss, what's your game?” demanded the crook, suddenly. His sharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a new expression—that of admiration. “I ain't such a rube that I don't like a good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy, dat's right, an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Put me nex' to yer game.”
“Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail, squab, duck—see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, and order.”
“S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach.”
For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching him through half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonous week, and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidity into which it had fallen.
The host at this queer feast was at that time little more than twenty-five years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from a second tour of South America. He was an orphan, coming into a big fortune with his majority, and he had satiated an old desire to travel in lands not visited by all the world. Now he was back in New York to look after the investments his guardian had made, and he found them so ridiculously satisfactory that they cast a shadow of dullness across his mind, always hungry for activity.
“Have you a place to sleep?” he asked, at length.
“I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin' house down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price.”
“Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room. Jackson was my man till yesterday, when I dismissed him for stealing my cigars and drinking my drinks. I won't have anybody about me who steals. Come along.”
Then they walked swiftly back to Quentin's flat. The owner of the apartment directed his puzzled
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