“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 guest to a small room off his own, and told him to go to bed.
“By the way, what's your name?” he asked, before he closed the door.
“Turkington—James Turkington, sir,” answered the now respectful robber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.