“One night my mother woke my father up with: ‘Thomas, there’s a burglar downstairs, I’m positive. I distinctly heard the kitchen door open.’
“‘Oh, well, the dog’s got him by now, then,’ murmured my father, who had heard nothing, and was sleepy.
“‘Thomas,’ replied my mother severely, ‘I’m not going to lie here while a fellow-creature is being murdered by a savage beast. If you won’t go down and save that man’s life, I will.’
“‘Oh, bother,’ said my father, preparing to get up. ‘You’re always fancying you hear noises. I believe that’s all you women come to bed for—to sit up and listen for burglars.’ Just to satisfy her, however, he pulled on his trousers and socks, and went down.
“Well, sure enough, my mother was right, this time. There was a burglar in the house. The pantry window stood open, and a light was shining in the kitchen. My father crept softly forward, and peeped through the partly open door. There sat the burglar, eating cold beef and pickles, and there, beside him, on the floor, gazing up into his face with a blood-curdling smile of affection, sat that idiot of a dog, wagging his tail.
“My father was so taken aback that he forgot to keep silent.
“‘Well, I’m—,’ and he used a word that I should not care to repeat to you fellows.
“The burglar, hearing him, made a dash, and got clear off by the window; and the dog seemed vexed with my father for having driven him away.
“Next morning we took the dog back to the trainer from whom we had bought it.
“‘What do you think I wanted this dog for?’ asked my father, trying to speak calmly.