The article read:
“BURGLAR” DEMANDS MILK SHOOTS HOUSEHOLDER IN LEG
It was an unlucky day for Carr Luceman who resides at 1309 Delington Avenue. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when Luceman heard the noise made by a prowler trying to effect an entrance through the back screen door. Luceman sat up in bed to listen. The more he listened, the more certain he became that a prowler was cutting the screen. Luceman, who despite his sixty-five years is a rugged individualist given to direct action, disdained to summon the police. He decided to teach the burglar a lesson he would not soon forget. As Luceman expressed it, “I didn’t intend to try to hit him, but I most certainly did intend to give him the scare of his life.” With this in mind, Luceman took a.38 caliber revolver from his bureau drawer, put on a pair of felt-soled bedroom slippers, and noiselessly tiptoed to the kitchen. As he opened the door from the dining room, he could distinctly hear the sounds of someone cutting through the screen on the back door. Luceman cocked his revolver. The doughty householder crept forward. Bearing in mind the admonition of a general who had exhorted his men to wait until the whites of the eyes were visible, Luceman tiptoed across the kitchen. He saw a dark form silhouetted against the screen of the back door — and promptly deposited his cocked revolver on the kitchen table — for the “burglar” was Luceman’s cat. Luceman had forgotten to give the animal its customary bowl of warm milk. The cat had sought to remind him by jumping to the screen. After hanging there for several seconds, it would drop back to the porch floor, then repeat the maneuver. Luceman opened the back door, unlatched the screen, let in the irate cat, and approached the icebox in the kitchen. He had opened the door and was in the act of taking out a bottle of milk when the cat, purring in expectation of its deferred repast, jumped to the kitchen table and, in true feline manner, rolled over in squirming abandon. The cocked revolver teetered on the edge of the table. Luceman dropped the milk bottle, and tried to catch the weapon before it hit the floor. He was too late. The gun eluded his grasp. The bullet crashed into Luceman’s right thigh, inflicting a painful wound. The cat, frightened by the noise of the explosion, dashed out of the back door, and Luceman, painfully wounded, tried to crawl to the telephone. The shock and pain, however, caused him to lose consciousness, and it was not until nearly four A.M. that he recovered sufficiently to call Dr. L. O. Sawdey who lives in the neighborhood. Luceman will be on the inactive list for several days, but, aside from that, need expect no bad effects, as the bullet missed the principal arteries and only grazed the bone. The “burglar” at latest accounts had not returned. Perhaps it has decided it is less trouble to prowl the alleys in search of nocturnal quadrupeds, and forego its milk diet.
Mason glanced at Della Street, smiled, walked over to the counter, and said, “Could you let me have one of these papers of the fourteenth? I’d like to answer some of the ads in it.” He deposited a nickel on the counter and after a few minutes the girl supplied him with a copy of the paper.
Mason thanked her and escorted Della Street back to the automobile. “We will now have a chat with Dr. Sawdey, who is doubtless back from the hospital by this time,” he said.
Mason rang the bell of Dr. Sawdey’s residence. After several moments, the man they had seen at the hospital opened the door.
“Dr. Sawdey?” Mason asked.
The doctor nodded, looking shrewdly from Mason to Della Street, then down to where the taxicab was waiting. He might have been making a diagnosis. “It’s late,” he said, “and except in matters of extreme emergency...”
Mason said, “I will detain you only a moment, Doctor. But I’m a friend of Carr Luceman. I knew him back East, and thought I’d look him up. I had his address, and drove down there as soon as I...”
Dr. Sawdey said, “He had an accident. He’s at the Parker Memorial Hospital. Unfortunately, he can have no visitors.”