“Would you really rather be a burglar than anything else?” she inquired, respectfully.
“Well,” said the man, “p’r’aps I’d prefer to be Lord Mayor, or a member o’ the ’Ouse o’ Lords, or heven the Prince o’ Wales, honly for there bein’ hobstacles in the way of it.”
“Oh!” said Editha; “you couldn’t be the Prince of Wales, you know. I meant wouldn’t you rather be in some other profession? My papa is an editor,” she added. “How would you like to be an editor?”
“Well,” said the burglar, “hif yer par ud change with me, or hif he chanced to know hany heditor with a roarin’ trade as ud be so hobligin’ as to ’and it hover, hits wot I’ve allers ’ad a leanin’ to.”
“To think o’ a forgettin’ my card-case,” he said.
“I am sure papa would not like to be a burglar,” said Editha, thoughtfully; “but perhaps he might speak to his friends about you, if you would give me your name and address, and if I were to tell him how obliging you were, and if I told him you really didn’t like being a burglar.”
The burglar put his hand to his pocket and gave a start of great surprise.
“To think o’ me a forgettin’ my card-case,” he said, “an’ a leavin’ it on the pianner when I come hout. I’m sich a bloomin’ forgetful cove. I might hev knowed I’d hev wanted it.”
“It is a pity,” said Editha; “but if you told me your name and your number, I think I could remember it.”